Tower of Affliction.
"You took your time," Leir exclaimed. "It is ill-mannered to keep an acolyte waiting."
Eros tilted her head faintly. "You speak of manners in a place such as this? How quaint."
"And that scent…" Leir's gaze sharpened.
"What of it?" she replied, amusement threading her voice.
"Blood," he said. "What became of the others?"
A soft smile curved her lips as she shifted, reclining languidly upon her perch.
"Your fellow acolytes?" she murmured. "Who knows?"
Silence settled between them. She had saved him for last.
The Tower of Affliction had already rendered its judgment—measuring the worth of every soul that entered its domain. And before arriving here, she had passed through the others.
Each encounter had ended the same way, sealed by imminent death.
Sigrid alone survived. Eros had forged a pact with the seventh leader of the elven tribe that saved all elves from her bloodlust. Breach of this covenant would bring instant death to anyone who defied it.
Yet the goddess revealed none of these truths to Leir. To her, a god owed no explanation to a mortal, even though she didn't consider him a mere one. Still, Leir, ever perceptive, understood that the final curtain had been drawn upon the others, even if the details remained shrouded.
"So… they are all dead. Aren't you supposed to be the living incarnation of love? Your actions betray your role," Leir asked, his voice steady.
"My role?" Eros's voice cut through the air, memories flashing like fire across her mind—visions of her pleading mortals, desperate for aid when she had been at her lowest, yet never a single hand extended in her favour.
"Mortals are not worth loving," her glare darkened, sharp as obsidian. "And who are you, to put my role in question? You are of a different breed—I concede that. You have torn yourself free from my influence. For this, I shall grant you grace: choose how you wish to die, and I shall mercifully grant you eternal rest."
"I do not intend to die before reaching my full potential. I must obtain magic first," Leir replied, fearless.
"Magic is a gift predestined by birth. To claim it without that birthright demands one transcend mortal bounds, rising toward godhood. Such a path is scarcely open to mortals," Eros countered.
"I know that very well," he said.
"You do? Then why did you come here knowing… wait, do not tell me…. "Her eyes widened with fleeting surprise.
"Yes, I knew," he admitted softly, a hint of remorse in his tone. "I knew this ceremony was a masquerade. Believing that magic could be obtained at random is nothing but folklore. My years as a mage's apprentice taught me this. I could not reveal the truth to the others; after the first trial, I understood that numbers were needed to reach you. To expose the trick would have caused panic—and perhaps ruining everything."
"Are you saying… You watched them walk to their deaths?" Eros's lips curved into a deranged smile, equal parts shock and twisted with amusement.
"Unfortunately for them… yes." Remorse shadowed his eyes as he turned away. "But fortunately for me… also yes." He shifted his stance, meeting the goddess's gaze with unflinching resolve.
"This has nothing to do with good or evil. Judging from their hunger for magic, I would wager they would have crushed me to fulfil their ambitions. I bear no blame for their demise—ignorance alone condemned them."
Eros' laughter rang out, cruel and melodic, tinged with both sadistic delight and genuine amusement.
"What a fascinating philosophy," she mused with a smile. "Then tell me, mortal… why are you here at all, knowing very well that the ceremony was a farce?"
"In contrast to them, I was born different," he replied, stepping forward deliberately.
"My master revealed that mana flows deep within me, at the very core of my being. But awakening it has always been my challenge, hindered by overthinking and self-doubt. I came here because I believed it possible that a being such as you could awaken my latent power. That is my sole purpose here."
"Your purpose… is no concern of mine. Why grant you magic when I could simply devour you at my whim?" she asked, her gaze sharp and menacing.
"You cannot—and you know it well enough," Leir said, letting out a calm sigh as he seated himself. Eros's expression flickered with curiosity and faint confusion, but she gave nothing away. She knew, even in this brief exchange, that he was quick-witted and discerning.
"The allegory of that archaic gate reveals one undeniable truth," Leir continued, his eyes burning with quiet defiance. "You cannot violate our free will."
Eros' visage hardened in silent acknowledgment.
"The illusions are but a means to compel us into surrendering a fragment of our very existence, thereby granting you dominion over our lives—and with it, the right to end them. One might deem such a scheme excessive and ask oneself, 'Why labour so meticulously to slay a foe, when it could be done in a single stroke?' That is precisely where the doctrine of the Magic Guide, Andokys Endoval, on covenants and forbidden pacts, finds its relevance. It teaches that while such bindings impose constraints upon the caster, they yield far greater returns when fulfilled. Your own words betray you—" He paused.
"You do not merely kill, you devour. Soul, essence… perhaps even mana. In your case, it would have been far simpler to annihilate us all, yet such ease would yield you little profit, thereby diminishing the worth of your prey. But through a carefully wrought pact, the value of a soul is magnified beyond measure when it is offered willingly, upon a silver platter. That is why you chose this method. As things stand, to claim my soul without my consent would invoke penalties proportionate to the pact that binds you. In short, if I remain here, yielding you nothing, you could not so much as lay a hand on me."
Eros' expression exuded frustration. She glared down at him with unrestrained ire, knowing him to be impeccably correct. Yet what stung most was the brilliance of this mortal—an intellect capable of piercing the very heart of her designs.
"So, here is my offer," Leir continued, his voice unflinching. "Aid me in awakening my magic, and I shall grant you free rein to devour me. As I have said, reaching my full potential is my sole purpose. What is your response, goddess?"
"So… you are willing to throw your life away so easily?" Eros asked, her gaze piercing.
"I am not throwing it away," Leir replied firmly, hand pressed to his chest. "I am fulfilling it."
A wry, scheming smile immediately tugged Eros's lips.
"A ruse, no doubt. He seeks to defy me with his newly awakened power to secure his survival. But whence comes such confidence? Can he truly perceive my weakness? Does he aim to exploit it? Even so, what can a rabbit hope to accomplish before a starving wolf? Inexperience alone should be enough to end him with a single strike… and yet, to do so would be wasteful. Were it not for his gender as a man, and for being unsuited to the balance of harmony, he might have made a suitable vessel." Her thoughts simmered, controlled yet lethal, before she spoke aloud.
"State your name, mortal?"
"Leir Nevron," he answered without hesitation.
"Leir…" she breathed, almost at ease—before her mana surged violently. A smile of excitement stretched across her lips, while a bloodlust-laden aura spread from her, pressing upon him like a physical weight.
"You have earned my attention. I shall grace you with magic… and in return, I shall devour your soul. Deal?!"
The sheer presence of the fallen goddess was suffocating, overwhelming, a terror that sank deep into his bones. Yet Leir did not falter. Steeling himself, he met her gaze and nodded.
"Then we have a deal," he said, an almost defiant smile tugging at his lips, sweat sliding down his face.
***
Before the cave.
The invading mist thinned beneath the cruelty of the night, and a lone figure emerged astride a dark horse, his form cloaked entirely in black, an aged hat casting a shadow over his face.
With the unhurried ease of one unbound by time, he dismounted his beast and retrieved his satchel.
"Who is that man?" Dolores whispered.
"Don't be stupid. I know no more than you," Pritish murmured in return.
The Agape cult received him in silence around the fire. He alone was given a seat, while the others stood in quiet deference. Even Lestrude, whose tongue seldom knew restraint, remained wordless.
From his case, the man unfurled a vast, timeworn scroll of felon hide, its surface dense with bizarre writings. Drawn by curiosity, Dolores and Pritish edged closer, careful and deliberate, until his features came into view.
For a single heartbeat, they faltered—as though confronted by an apparition.
His face bore no life within it. No warmth. No presence.
It was not merely that he seemed devoid of emotion—
but that he resembled a corpse that had forgotten to decay.
The man before them was Sir Maimor Ezgovin—a name famously known across Utopia, most often in the forsaken reaches of Astroth, where grief lingered longer than the living.
His pallor was unnatural, his gaze hollow to the point of unease. It was said that one who lingered too long among the dead would, in time, resemble them—and so the rumour took root, spreading as such tales often do, until it hardened into something resembling truth.
But rumours are rarely born of understanding.
Sir Ezgovin was no bridge between worlds, no sanctified medium. He was a man who trafficked in sorrow, feeding upon the regrets of those who could not let go of the departed.
As for his corpse-like appearance, it owed nothing to death's embrace. It was the mark of an illness—an incurable malady known as the ghost-taint syndrome. A sickness that drained the body of vitality, leaving skin pale as ash and breath chilled like winter's whisper.
Most who fell to it did not survive a week. Yet he endured.
A miracle sustained by his craft—for as a mage, he reinforced his failing body with mana, prolonging a life that should have long since been claimed.
As the campfire's glow flickered within his empty gaze, Ezgovin slowly closed his eyes and began to chant.
The incantation bore no tongue known to the newcomers, yet its cadence carried a strange, lilting rhythm—almost like a forgotten hymn.
Minutes passed. Then, without warning, he fell silent.
The abruptness stirred no reaction among the cult, who remained as still as statues. Only Dolores and Pritish exchanged a glance, unease tightening between them.
When Sir Ezgovin opened his eyes once more, they seemed… absent. As though something had hollowed them out, leaving only a depthless darkness behind.
In the next instant, that darkness manifested elsewhere.
Vast, spectral eyes—formed of mana—unfurled within the chamber that housed the Tower of Affliction, drifting through its expanse with silent precision, observing every corner, every hidden recess.
When at last they receded, he spoke.
"Three survivors. One yet to be devoured, one left aside… and one before the goddess."
Such was the gift that had built his reputation—the sight to perceive what lay beyond mortal reach, to unveil the concealed and the distant alike.
Yet this time, something gave him pause.
Leir. Standing apart. Speaking with Eros.
Then, the goddess moved. A flame, strange in nature, was bestowed upon the young man.
A faint crease touched Ezgovin's brow.
"What is she doing? Is she helping him? Has her heart softened?"
His confusion was justified.
Having long consorted with the Agape cult, Ezgovin had, through his craft, borne witness to the goddess's true nature—if such a being could still be called that. He had seen her revel in acts too grotesque to name, indulgences that stripped away any illusion of compassion she was crafted to represent.
In his mind, the entity within that cave was no incarnation of love, nor even a fragment of light—but something far removed from both.
Thus, to behold her now, bestowing what resembled a blessing upon a mortal, unsettled him in a way he did not outwardly show.
Ezgovin was not a man given to needless interference. He spoke nothing of it.
Such revelations lay beyond the terms of his arrangement, and he was not one to offer more than what he was owed. A servant of Mamon in all but name, he had long since abandoned any inclination toward charity where profit was absent.
For all his vices, however, he possessed one virtue the dead often came to regret lacking in life—he knew when to mind his own affairs.
***
Back within the Tower of Affliction.
"Azaroff!"
A green flame erupted into the air, illuminating the deities' ruins, its radiance bathing every corner of Leir's being. It was Eros' spell. Calm as a lull, the viridian blaze set him alight.
The heat brought no pain—only profound peace, unlike anything he had ever felt. The flames did not burn his flesh; they consumed the mental, spiritual, and physical limitations he had unconsciously imposed upon himself.
"Ah…" he exhaled softly. "I can feel it coursing through all the compartments of my being. Yes… I finally possess it… magic." Relief and satisfaction flooded him as he spread his arms wide, eyes closed, embracing the world as if for the first time.
But fleeting fulfilment was shattered. Phosphenes danced across his vision, and when he opened his eyes, sparks of light floated before him.
Eros smiled, sadistic and poised, her four arms crossed in harmony. She had respected her part of the bargain—but he, in turn, had to honour his.
Before he could react, the sparkles flared into blinding radiance, then exploded cataclysmically.