The novice’s eyes widened, his breath catching. “You see the truth,” he whispered, then beamed. He leaned in and, before I could stop him, hugged me tightly. “You are a sister.”

  At first, I stood there awkwardly, arms stiff at my sides. But, thanks to all the recent hug practice, my instincts kicked in.

  Hug-master, engage!

  I wrapped my arms around him, giving what I hoped was a confident, medium-pressure hug. Not too stiff. Not too intimate. “I just read the manual,” I explained, voice low. “Blóthqirn va’Guthazen.”

  His breath caught. I could feel it. His entire posture shifted in my arms. Like he wasn’t just seeing a guest anymore. He was seeing a believer. The words rolled off my tongue easily.

  I’d memorized them long ago. There’d been a surge in robot capacity back in the future. Power demand skyrocketed, and blackouts became a daily curse. No VR. No testing Rimelion. No watching Katherine stream. No light, half the time.

  So I read.

  Some madlads transcribed books from Rimelion into reality. And sold hard cover prints, obviously. Most religious ones were boring, glorified fanfic about the new gods doing epic deeds.

  I hated those.

  But this one book was unique. It was about what the old gods were. How they simply existed, quiet, and how to pray to them properly.

  Blóthqirn va’Guthazen.

  “The Hallowed Leaftome of the Elder Kin: Rites Most Veiled, Offerings Untold, and Whispers from the Beyond,” he intoned, each word heavy with reverence. His eyes gleamed now, transformed from bored functionary to someone on the verge of rapture. “Let’s walk, sister. We can talk on the way.”

  He gestured to the dirt path. I followed.

  My heels bit into the ground with every step, not quite sinking, but definitely not made for this terrain. Still, it wasn’t mud. And more importantly, there were no wolves.

  You all shall die, I thought grimly, because apparently I held that grudge forever.

  “Never heard of that full title,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “But I guess ‘the beyond’ means Rimelion? That’s where the book I read is from. I—”

  He stopped in his tracks and turned to me, really looking at my face now. Studying. “Yes…” he murmured, almost to himself. “It is you. Charlie. The Princess.” His voice lifted with recognition. “I saw your fight. Your ice powers were… beautiful.”

  I blinked. Then laughed, awkward and too high-pitched. “Of course, I—”

  My heel hit a pebble, and I slipped.

  Graceful.

  I stumbled forward with a yelp, but his arms snapped out and caught me easily. One hand at my elbow, one steadying my back. I was blushing so hard I could probably melt my own ice build. “See?” I huffed, trying to shake it off with a laugh. “In reality, I stumble like an idiot.”

  “But you weren’t truly in the realm of the gods,” he said, like it explained everything. “You were entering, yes, but leaving your soul behind. Only your will passed through. Your being stayed here. You could only experience part of the gift.”

  We’d begun to descend the path, winding gently down through a meadow bursting with wildflowers. The lighting above still mimicked the sun, but it was too steady, no clouds, no shadows shifting with time.

  Just on.

  Ahead, a narrow wooden bridge arched over a shallow river. On the far side rose low wooden buildings in a layout I knew too well, sloping rooftops, vertical glyphs carved into the beams, even the goat-shaped gate arch.

  I froze.

  “Caldrithen?!” I yelped. My voice cracked. “But… it’s not ruined?”

  The novice startled at my outburst, but quickly smiled. “Indeed!” He was positively glowing now. Across the bridge stood a pristine replica of one of the weirdest cities—well, high level dungeon now—in Rimelion, Caldrithen.

  But here… here it stood.

  Down to the goat-shaped gate. Because, of course, these elder kin weirdos revered goats. Maybe Gatei did too, and that’s why he needed a goat? My mouth stayed open a few seconds too long. “How’s this possible?”

  “All your questions will be answered, sister,” the novice said gently. “But first, we must reach the Meditation Room.”

  “Not Grand Prayer Hall Two?” I asked, glancing around as we walked beneath the goat-shaped gate.

  Familiar memories crept in like shadows.

  The first time I entered this city, it wasn’t peaceful. I’d had to sneak in. The guardians were too strong for a solo run. The quest was meant for a party of five, but I only managed to recruit Lucy. I really should talk to her soon…

  The city of Caldrithen grew around us, all warm wood, polished beams, and intricately carved doorframes. Even the cobbled paths were clean, almost freshly swept.

  There had been a religious reason for the wood construction, something about respecting nature’s gifts and impermanence, but the lore wasn’t what gripped me. As we passed the old well, a flicker of movement near the warehouse, or at least, what I had called the warehouse in my runs, caught my eye.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I lunged to the side and pressed flat behind the well, breath sharp in my throat.

  Reflex.

  Hundreds of battles here had trained that response into my bones.

  In the game, that warehouse had been a deathtrap. The ghostly scepter-wielder always spawned nearby, one-shotting anyone who wasn’t prepared.

  The novice kept walking, unaware. After a few steps, he paused and turned back.

  “Sister?” he called, puzzled. “Where—?” Then he noticed me missing. His brow creased. “What… is going on? Sister?”

  I peeked around the well, my pulse still too fast.

  No ghost.

  Just another priest in gray robes walking calmly past the building. I stood, brushing dirt off my dress awkwardly, and hurried back to the novice. “Sorry. Reflex.”

  His expression softened to understanding, but with a note of curiosity.

  “In Rimelion… in the other version of this place,” I explained, “it’s in ruins. And there’s a ghost. He carries a scepter. It’s a boss.”

  His eyes lit up. “A scepter?” His entire face brightened with excitement. “Is it long, with a handle shaped like a—?”

  “Meditation room?” I reminded him, cutting off his excitement. “I’m the one who needs answers, remember?”

  “Yes, sister.” His tone shifted back to serene compliance.

  He led me a little further into the town, toward what looked like a simple wooden house tucked along the main street. The door had a delicate carving of intertwining vines and leaf motifs. Very familiar.

  Inside was… calm.

  The floor was covered in moss, soft underfoot. It had the faint scent of damp earth and green leaves.

  Soothing, I guess?

  Sunlight, probably simulated, filtered through narrow slats in the wooden walls, casting stripes of gold across the moss floor. Around the room, simple wooden shelves held small bowls of water, polished stones, and carved effigies of the elder gods. Each statue was smoothed with age, as though countless hands had passed over them.

  Most people would’ve called it peaceful.

  I called it what is Rimelion doing here?

  The novice motioned for me to sit. “Normally, we introduce new believers in the prayer halls,” he explained as he lowered himself gracefully onto the moss. “Entering the meditation room is reserved for those on their third or later visit, depending on the individual’s level of faith.”

  “And yet, here I am.” I sat carefully, legs folding awkwardly. My designer dress wasn’t exactly designed for meditative poses.

  I glanced around instinctively. No crow in sight. No Saevrin hiding in the rafters, only a wooden effigy resting in a niche above us. Stylized wings folded, head cocked. Watching.

  I pointed at it. “Feel the gods?” I asked warily. “Like him?”

  “The air in this place is different,” the novice said, closing his eyes. “There is a path between our world and the divine. I will guide you. Close your eyes now.”

  I closed mine.

  “Feel the air,” he whispered. “As if you are grasping the world, asking it for answers. You need to feel it—”

  While he spoke, I didn’t follow his instructions. I followed my own; I did what I always did in Rimelion.

  I reached for mana and it answered.

  Cool energy brushed against my awareness like an icy wind moving through tall grass. I gathered it instinctively, not like in the game, more like a weird combination of warrior energy and mana. It felt familiar, but different.

  But with no runes or intent to channel, the mana slipped through my grasp, dissipating like mist between my fingers.

  What is this? How is this possible?

  “—when you feel the divine—”

  I tuned out his voice completely. Instead, I reached deeper. Not just to gather mana. To command it, I didn’t just wield the frost.

  I was the frost. She gave me the authority. “So listen to me…” I mumbled, more to myself than him. I gathered the mana again, focusing my will, drawing the threads together not with words or gestures, but with intent. As if I was casting free-form magic, but this was different… somehow.

  Cold tingled across my skin. A sharp bite spreading through my fingers.

  I opened my eyes.

  A layer of ice was forming across my hand. Thin and sharp as glass.

  The novice’s eyes flew wide. “Your… your soul, it belongs to Rimelion!” His grin spread, wild and joyous. “That’s, that’s, how, sister?!”

  I let the frost dissipate, and the cold slipped away. “Well, Saevrin told me to come here,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

  The moment the name left my lips, the priest gasped and dropped into a deep bow. “Saevrin!” he cried, hands pressed together. He immediately launched into a prayer I didn’t recognize.

  The sudden devotion startled me.

  Still kneeling, I instinctively shifted back, pushing against the mossy floor to put some distance between us. My dress snagged briefly against the uneven wooden slats, edging the meditation mat. I braced my hand to steady myself.

  The priest stayed bowed, whispering fervent praise.

  Great. This is exactly how people accidentally start religions.

  I rose quickly, edging toward the door. The moss felt strangely slick under my heels. “Uhm… he told me I have to… die? So I’m here to get my options, you know?” I practically yelled over the priest’s muttering.

  That made him stop.

  He straightened, eyes bright with something between awe and fear. “Tvraelyngar Vaedriun,” he whispered, as if the words themselves held power. He watched me intently, searching my face. “Our final goal.”

  “That sounds familiar…” I bit my lip, mind racing. “Who’s performing it?”

  “Sister…” He hesitated. His eyes darted toward the effigy of Saevrin on the wall. “That knowledge is—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “If it’s only for Starwarden Votary, I know the ritual.”

  His breath hitched. “Yes, that’s—Saevrin!” He clapped his hands together and dropped into another prayer, his voice trembling now. “Saevrin has sent her to us!”

  “What are you—” I started.

  Then I felt it. A weight pressing against my shoulders. Sharp and oddly familiar. A pair of claws curled gently at the tops of my shoulder.

  “You again.” I didn’t even turn. “I need answers.”

  Saevrin’s chuckle echoed not in the room, but directly in my mind. That strange, dry amusement like the rustling of old paper or the click of bone against stone.“Are you not awed, mortal?” he purred, voice smooth as obsidian and cold as the void between stars. “This devoted one grants me the reverence I am due. Bow.”

  A surge of power rippled down my spine. Different from the mana I gathered. Heavy. Commanding. A pressure that wasn’t asking. It was forcing.

  I staggered slightly, knees buckling. The priest gasped in delight.

  No.

  I gathered my own mana, the frost answering my call as it always did since meeting her. Cold spread into my core.

  “I don’t bow unless I choose to,” I said and pushed back. The oppressive force broke like brittle ice.

  Saevrin’s presence recoiled with a soft tsk. “Sovereigns meddling with souls… Fortune favored you far beyond your deserts.”

  I smirked. “Luck favors the prepared.” Old quote. Still true. I turned to the priest, who was still kneeling, head bowed so low he was practically trying to merge with the moss. “Uhm. Priest? Can you talk? Or… are you still stuck on the eternal thanks setting?”

  No response. Just fervent whispering.

  “Right. What do you do with people like him?” I asked Saevrin, arching an eyebrow.

  The surrounding pressure shifted. Saevrin’s form shimmered at the edge of vision, dark feathers rippling like silk in an unseen wind. “I am not yet ready,” Saevrin intoned. Each word rolled heavy and deliberate, like a ritual in itself. “All things must unfold at their appointed hour.”

  He paused, the air seeming to hold its breath.

  “The weaving of your new life awaits its destined moment. Perfect for you to suffer. But it is not now.” I swallowed. “I shall require two days. Yet preparation must not be neglected. They, too, must align themselves.”

  “The rite demands precision, lest folly court a final death.” The priest gasped softly at the word death but dared not interrupt. “And I,” Saevrin continued, feathers lifting in a silent ripple, “would not have you perish beyond recall.”

  Then, of course, he laughed. That low, rustling chuckle like dry leaves in autumn.

  I folded my arms, tilting my head. “Well… I don’t wanna die either.”