The Guardian had started walking two days ago.

  For Vivian, this should have been the grandest hymn ever sung.

  And yet, as she watched those pale calves—flesh she had caressed countless times—step onto the hard marble, producing sharp, unhesitating clicks...

  Vivian felt no joy. She felt only a sickening, endless vertigo.

  He no longer needs me.

  In the pale morning light, she stood hidden behind the velvet curtains, watching him reach for the crystal cup. That act used to be a sacrament belonging solely to her.

  Before, she would dip her finger in the water, moistening his lips drop by drop. But now? He simply raised a hand, tilted his head. His Adam's apple bobbed. The water slid smoothly down his throat—no coughing, no pleading eyes. He didn't even glance her way.

  The movement was fluid. Efficient. Like a... mortal's.

  In that instant, Vivian felt a phantom severance in her chest, as if the umbilical cord connecting their souls had been violently cut.

  Meanwhile, the countdown to the Lunar Rite ticked in her mind, a constant, grating refrain from the Mother.

  "The Lunar Rite is not a celebration. It is a Passion." Mora sat in her wheelchair, her voice unyielding as iron.

  "The first stage is Asceticism. You must force the flesh to remember pain, for only at the limit of agony can the soul ascend. The second stage is Confession. You must stare directly at your sin, the silt hiding in your blood. The third stage is Faith. When pain strips away the flesh, when sin drowns you, you must grasp the only straw left—absolute submission to the Supreme One."

  Vivian knelt in the Chamber of Penitence.

  Crow stood behind her, a long thorny whip in hand.

  "Mind your breathing rhythm, Your Highness."

  Crack.

  The thorns bit into her back. Protected by the nanites of the Holy Fire, her skin didn't break, nor was the pain unbearable.

  But the Guardian sat in a chair nearby. Today he wore a plain black robe, one Mora had ordered him to change into.

  Is he watching me? Does his heart ache for me?

  Crack.

  Another lash.

  "Heart rate elevating. Control it," Crow’s voice rasped like a fractured bell.

  Vivian adjusted her breath. Not out of obedience, but because she discovered a shameful pleasure blooming from the pain.

  See? I am enduring this for you. I am suffering for you. This flogging isn't just training—it is proof of my devotion, proof of my purity as God’s vessel.

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  However, the Guardian shifted in his seat, his gaze drifting past her, fixated on the artificial sky above.

  He doesn't care. He doesn't even want to look.

  This realization cut her deeper than the thorns ever could.

  Before, in the Holy Coffin, in the wheelchair, his world was that small square of space, and she was its only sun. Now, he had walked out. And she had been reduced to a speck of dust in his periphery.

  ...

  The Privy Council envoy returned.

  "I hear your Sanctum has acquired a new attendant?" the leading Deacon drawled.

  "Yes. He is the Shadow Servant accompanying Her Highness to the Lunar Rite." Mora’s tone was flat, clamping down on further prying. "Does the Privy Council now dictate our staffing choices?"

  "We wouldn't dare. Merely for Her Highness's safety..."

  The Guardian was summoned. They drew his blood, officially registering his genetic signature as a member of the Silver Ring.

  Watching from the high seat, Vivian felt an invisible hand crushing her heart.

  She looked out at the small garden.

  Servant... oh, what a vile word.

  He is the Light. He is the Miracle! He is the Savior sharing the burden of my Holy Fire! He is the heir of the Supreme One; he belongs in the clouds. How dare you use such a word to defile him?

  Injustice. A gross, blasphemous injustice.

  She wanted to stand up and scream, to declare his divine right to the room.

  But she didn't.

  A dark, festering thought slithered up like a viper from the swamp of her mind.

  If he is registered as a servant, he belongs to the Silver Ring. But if... if he were still that Immaculate One sleeping in the Holy Coffin? Sleeping in the wheelchair?

  Then he would belong only to me.

  Suddenly, the Ark implant within her let out a sharp, explosive warning chime.

  Vivian clutched her chest, her face turning deathly pale. A scorching heat rushed from her nose, dripping onto her pristine lunar robes—a dazzling, piercing crimson.

  "Your Highness?" The room erupted in shock.

  "Get them out!" Mora stood abruptly, the silver mechanical armature behind her clicking into combat mode.

  ...

  In Vivian's bedchamber, deep within the Sanctum. Only Mora and Vivian remained.

  "Is it because of the Guardian?"

  Vivian lowered her head. She dared not look into the Mother’s eyes. Inside, she saw a monster blaspheming against God.

  Yes. I was cursing the Guardian. I was longing for him to be broken again. This sin is heavier than greed, filthier than slaughter.

  "No, Mother..." Her voice trembled. "It is The Drop... its efficacy seems to be waning. The Holy Fire... is gnawing at me again."

  Mora fell silent.

  Vivian kept her head down. She lied. The Holy Fire wasn't gnawing at her; what was eating her alive was her own insatiable heart.

  ...

  Night fell. The garden shadows hid countless ghosts.

  Vivian knelt under the oak tree.

  "Oh Supreme One, forgive me... I wanted to break the Guardian's wings, just to lock him in the cage of my selfish desire. I don't want him healthy; I only want him mine."

  "I am a sinner... I am a wretch..."

  Tears soaked the soil. But the void in her heart only expanded, feeding on the sinful thought with a hungry, sucking sound.

  Rustle.

  Footsteps.

  Vivian looked up. Through eyes blurred with tears, she saw that slender silhouette.

  The Guardian stood behind her, wearing the black servant’s uniform. So upright. So distant.

  "Mora said you needed my help?"

  His voice was soft, carrying a strange, fascinating chill.

  He stepped closer.

  Vivian looked at him. She could smell the faint incense on him—the scent she had chosen. But he stood so straight, so steady. He didn't need her support. He didn't need her pity.

  "Can you tell me what's been troubling you? Is it related to your scriptures?"

  Scriptures? No. That is a hollow dialogue across a cold altar. She’d had enough of that. She needed touch. She needed an embrace. She needed to drag this lofty shadow back into the mud, back into her arms.

  If I cannot break his legs, then I will shackle his soul.

  "Yes... I am troubled. I need..." Vivian murmured, rising slowly.

  The Guardian frowned slightly. "Think of me as your therapist. You can speak freely..."

  Before he could finish, Vivian threw herself at him.

  No. You are not a doctor. You are my Master!

  This time, there was no excuse of "service," no ritual of covenant, no holy pretense.

  She locked her arms around his neck, desperate to fuse her very being into his bones and blood.

  the story is fully written.

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