Three days after the envoy's departure, the village had settled again into its rhythmic hum of progress. Steam hissed from pipes, the mana lamps glowed with steady confidence, and the laughter of apprentices echoed through the alleys. Yet beneath this harmony, an air of curiosity stirred. Rumors spread faster than light—of a visitor dressed in white, bearing the seal of the Celestial Church.
Lyssara had been the first to sense her approach. Standing at the watchtower, her ears twitched as faint chimes floated from the forest path. "Someone comes," she said, voice calm but alert. "Not a merchant. Her steps are too deliberate."
Keran, adjusting a pair of enchanted spectacles, looked up from his blueprint. "Deliberate steps often bring trouble—or enlightenment. Either way, it's entertaining."
When the traveler finally appeared, the villagers fell silent. She moved like a whisper, her long robe shimmering faintly under the sunlight, adorned with intricate symbols that glowed faintly with divine energy. Her golden hair cascaded beneath a hood, and her pale blue eyes seemed to radiate serenity and authority in equal measure.
"I am Priestess Althaea of the Celestial Synod," she declared, her voice clear and resonant. "I come on behalf of the High Church to… evaluate the nature of your miracles, Lord Keran."
Keran leaned lazily against a wooden railing, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Evaluate? That sounds dangerously close to judgment. Should I prepare my defense, or will divine bureaucracy suffice?"
A faint smile touched Althaea's lips. "Humor, in the face of scrutiny. You are exactly as described."
"Flattered," Keran replied, sweeping a hand toward the village. "Behold, Priestess—the fruits of mortal curiosity and occasional accidents. Feel free to question everything, but beware: answers may not fit into your scriptures."
Lyssara crossed her arms beside him, her tail swaying lightly. "And should her evaluation turn unfavorable?" she asked, tone cold.
"Then," Keran said lightly, "we invite her to dinner."
Althaea studied them both before stepping forward. "The Church has heard troubling reports—machines without divine blessing, people relying on metal and steam instead of prayer. Some say you challenge the gods themselves."
Keran chuckled softly. "Challenge? Hardly. The gods seem quite busy misplacing their paperwork. I'm simply cleaning up the mess."
A ripple of laughter passed through the nearby villagers, though quickly suppressed under Lyssara's stern glance. Althaea, however, seemed unoffended. "You treat divinity lightly, yet you speak with a strange reverence for logic."
"I revere results," Keran answered, his tone steady. "If prayer builds a bridge faster than steel, I shall kneel. But until then, I prefer to hammer."
For the first time, Althaea's composure faltered. Her expression softened, curiosity overcoming formality. "Perhaps I misjudged your intentions. You do not seek to replace faith—only to reinterpret it."
Keran smiled faintly. "Interpretation is the highest form of respect. Even the gods could use a few footnotes."
Lyssara exhaled quietly, torn between admiration and exasperation. "He plays with words as easily as gears," she murmured.
As the day progressed, Althaea toured the village under Keran's guidance. She observed mana wells that powered lights, schools teaching arithmetic alongside basic enchantment, and hospitals where clerics collaborated with engineers. What struck her most was the harmony—faith and innovation working side by side, unthreatened by each other.
In one classroom, children recited hymns while sketching diagrams of wind turbines. Althaea paused, visibly shaken. "You… teach them both?"
Keran nodded. "Belief without understanding breeds obedience. Understanding without belief breeds arrogance. Balance, Priestess. That's the real miracle."
Something in her eyes changed. She had come expecting heresy, but instead found a quiet, unsettling truth. The Church's laws suddenly felt old, brittle—like pages in need of revision.
Later, as twilight descended, Althaea joined Keran and Lyssara at the village's terrace, overlooking the glowing valley. Mana lamps flickered below, like a constellation mirrored upon the earth.
"Lord Keran," she began softly, "you walk a dangerous path. The Synod will not forgive such independence easily."
Keran smiled, resting his chin on his hand. "Then let them send more visitors. The village has good tea, and I do enjoy conversation."
Lyssara's gaze sharpened. "And if conversation turns to confrontation?"
Keran looked at her with quiet resolve. "Then progress will speak louder than fear. It always does."
A silence fell among them, filled only by the hum of machines and the distant chirping of night creatures.
Althaea finally said, "You are… unlike any man I've met. Reckless, yet purposeful. Arrogant, yet strangely devout."
Keran's smirk softened. "Devout? Perhaps. I simply believe that the divine doesn't end at the heavens—it continues in every act of creation."
She smiled faintly, bowing her head. "Then perhaps, Lord Keran, your heresy is a form of worship."
The moment lingered, fragile and charged with quiet understanding. Lyssara watched them both, her instincts torn between distrust and admiration. She could sense that this priestess was not merely a visitor, but a future ally—and perhaps, something more.
As the night deepened, Althaea stood. "Tomorrow, I will write my report. But I will not condemn you. The world must see this place not as defiance, but as evolution."
Keran nodded. "Then you've already modernized more than most kings."
A rare laugh escaped her lips. "Careful, Lord Keran. You make heresy sound tempting."
"Only when practiced responsibly," he replied.
She smiled again before disappearing into the quiet of her guest chamber. Lyssara turned toward Keran, her tone serious. "She could be a spy, you know."
Keran chuckled. "Everyone is, until they understand."
He looked out across the valley, where light and shadow wove patterns of progress, and whispered, almost to himself: "Faith adapts, Lyssara. Or it fades."