An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

But now the question was... who was going to officiate the awakening?

Usually, from what he had observed during the mass awakenings.

Carried out by the temple and the academies, they would prepare ceremonies that would catalyze the awakening process.

Of course, this applied only to the temple and the academy that conducted awakenings for those unable to access aether. But as you can tell, it was not a free-for-all; there were certain conditions that had to be met for one to qualify for the awakening; otherwise, everyone from the commoners to the peasants and beggars would have otherwise become pathwalkers, which was not something the hierarchy would like to see.

Most noble houses, however, kept their awakenings private—and who could blame them? These were sacred secrets, never meant to be revealed to the world at large.

From what the ravings had long told him, certain specific rituals were required to ensure a proper awakening—especially for those with bloodline inheritance and ancient lineages.

If not done properly, and according to the precise rules, even though the awakening and gate-opening might succeed, a part of the person's existence could remain missing—perhaps never to be found, unless by extraordinary luck.

That is why nobles insisted on carrying out awakenings without outside interference. It was how they ensured control over power, as their awakenings were readily available and tailored to their bloodlines.

It didn't mean only those of noble lineage could undergo the specified rituals of various houses—but doing so meant surrendering control of one's legacy to the bloodlines from which they had awakened.

And unless one was desperate, they would never do that. It was tantamount to becoming a vassal—bound beneath that house.

What the academies did, however, was develop their own method: a formula designed to minimize influence over a student's legacy. It was a means of helping those unable to awaken on their own, and this is why many chose to send their children to academies instead of noble houses—which, in truth, was akin to slavery.

This had sparked obvious tensions between three factions: the academies, the noble houses, and the temple.

Each had its own agenda—and none could be trusted.

Yet in all awakenings, one element remained constant: a priest presided over the ritual, guiding aether, taming its volatility, and chanting specific incantations to stimulate the connection between realities.

A priest, however, did not necessarily mean someone ordained by faith—though the similarities existed. It simply referred to one who had awakened, obtained, or been gifted the priest class—a class so attuned to aether, the spiritual, the divine, and the beyond that no other in creation could be a comparison; there were other classes that mirrored the priest class, but they were not as flexible as it was.

A pathwalker with the priest class was a being sought after by all. Once they chose a side, they could never leave—too many secrets would die with them.

But now, as a mere count, he had no family priest. The Maestas had no secret awakening rituals—they had all awakened at the academies.

Even though they had a family bloodline, it was not so ancient; like other noble houses, it was what Krael would call a sapling.

A bloodline that made cultivation so much easier, anything related to farming, nurturing, and even animal care, was what their simple bloodline entailed.

But Adler hadn't gone to an academy. So how did he awaken?

The count didn't know, and he had never cared to ask. His ego was so inflated, he wouldn't have asked even if he hadn't been who he was.

To him, Adler would reveal it of his own accord—eventually.

Which led to this sudden dilemma: he needed a priest immediately. But he didn't have one. And while Adler seemed to be a man of many trades, being a priest was not among them.

So how were they going to carry out a ceremony without a priest?

Just as panic began to take root—

He heard the entity's voice whisper in his ear, sending a jolt down his spine. He had almost forgotten his own predicament, distracting himself with entertainment that was the agony of the young girl. But now he was reminded—he too was on a leash. A pet. Entertainment for one so deranged.

And the entity didn't let him spiral.

"Don't worry your little head, little Pride… I've always been interested in 'your pet,' so I sent you a helper. He won't fight your battles, but for any ceremonies you'll need in the future, he'll be the perfect priest."

"I suppose I should also warn you. Should you choose defiance—should you entrust such intimate moments to another—I can't imagine how much torment you'll endure in the pits I'll design for your eternity."

"Take this as a simple gift for bringing me so much 'entertainment.' Though the girl didn't need you, it's better this way. At least now, I can be assured."

The voice, playful as always, now held something else beneath it—a cold, unyielding darkness. An authority that dared him to challenge it. That waited for defiance, just to prove how pathetic disobedience could be.

He swallowed—silently—and nearly raged at his body's subconscious fear. He feared no one. Not an entity that only whispered, that never revealed its power. Nothing!

Yet his heart decided to accept the gift.

He didn't want to die… not yet.

Krael and Adler, holding the unconscious girl, made haste toward the estate. Adler's command over reality seemed to fold space itself. Before the Count could react, they stood in the underground chambers.

Just one level beneath the dungeons—where they kept aberrations and monstrosities from the surge.

This place had not always existed. Once, the young count desired a space hidden from all but himself. Adler created it. How he did so without destroying the estate's roots, Krael never questioned.

He had what he wanted. And now, it would serve for its first ceremony.

The Maesta family, or what was left of it, would be holding their first awakening.

Maybe, one day, it would serve his awakening too.

Though he seemed calm and accepting, envy stirred within him—a peasant girl awakening before him, and much younger at that. How could he be content?

Yet pride refused to let him be envious of a mere peasant.

He would watch. That's where his curiosity lay—not in envy.

While Krael was lost in envy and denial, something else occurred—just after they had left.

The sky shattered—fractured like molten glass. Reality itself seemed torn, displaced, to make way for a being who transcended mortality—and perhaps even the divine.

Above the estate, the night split like veils, revealing a swirling maelstrom of midnight and moonlight. Winds heavy with violets and lavender, incense, and ash descended upon the land—carrying a silence too perfect as if Astrea itself dared not breathe.

Yet no one noticed. It felt natural—like the drifting clouds. So mundane, yet it clearly was not.

From the sky's fissure, a figure descended—not falling, but gliding like a whisper, untouched by mortal law. The air bore the weight of his existence, burdened by his might.

His wings—three pairs—unfurled with otherworldly grace, so vast that they seemed to have their own axis on which gravity was born, blotting out the skies on a scale that many would never hope to understand; they were feathered in impossible shades: silver, mauve, and midnight violet, with tips tinged in liquid mercury. They shimmered, blending with Astrea's waning light. He belonged with beauty.

They would flap around his form with grace and sanctity that belied all his splendor.

Nothing about him said the mortal world deserved his splendor.

His form radiated beauty and majesty that ignited desire—a deep, dark longing that could leave even the divine breathless. A desire to witness… and to worship.

Yet his form was hidden, veiled so completely it was a miracle one could even tell he was a man.

A heavy hooded robe—violet so deep it became black—adorned with flickers of rosen-pink flower vines, adding gentleness to the mystery. It concealed him head to toe. Even his hands remained hidden.

Only subtle flickers defied concealment—mauve and mercury, shifting like living fire beneath the hood. Eyes? Ornaments? Something else? None could tell. The hood devoured detail, leaving only an impression and longing.

His wings extended as they pushed away the veil of reality to create a zone where he alone stood untouched.

When he touched the ground, not a sound stirred.

The bloodstained cobblestones glowed faintly beneath him—as if recognizing his authority. Around him, the air thickened. Lesser beings fell silent, instincts seized by ancient fear—yet drawn by an irresistible pull. To kneel. To offer. To submit.

He gazed upon the silent, bloodied slope—and smiled. Memories of long-lost days stirred.

His ears twitched.

He heard rustling—someone, thinking they had escaped unseen. But they underestimated the monster in the skin of a man.

He did nothing. Perhaps he understood—the count had let them live for a reason.

"Ahhhh… the beauty of youth, Pride… how long must I wait?" the figure murmured to himself.

But the voice was soundless. A whisper never meant to be. Even the words were erased from reality—leaving only air, a scent of roses soaked in desire, agony, and divine command.

A voice that could not be remembered—only felt—like the memory of a dream lost to time.