CHAPTER 158: CHAPTER 158: THE PRIESTESS

The temple loomed like a sleeping relic in the demon realm.

Carved into the jagged cliffs of the palace’s farthest reach, its surface was buried beneath layers of vine, as though the world itself had tried to forget it.

The structure was vast yet strangely silent, its towering spires bending slightly as if bowed beneath the weight of centuries.

No wind stirred here, only the sound of quiet breath—if one listened closely enough, it sounded almost otherworldly.

The stone steps groaned beneath their feet as Cassian and Veyce ascended, torchlight flickering dimly on either side, casting long shadows on the wall.

Cassian said nothing, but he felt very strange, a suffocating feeling gripping his heart, and every step forward felt like walking deeper into a memory he never remembered having.

The air grew heavier the closer they drew to the heart of the temple—rich with incense and something older than incense.

In the inner sanctum, veiled behind walls the color of dried bone and ash, a figure stood in silence.

She was still as a statue carved from the dream—her hair flowed in gentle waves down her back, dark as obsidian, moving faintly though there was no breeze.

Her gown was simple, a woven drape of twilight gray, cinched at the waist with a silver vine. Her eyes, though clearly blind, were fixed forward—glassy, opalescent, and unfocused—and yet, somehow, they seemed to see more than any living soul ever could.

The fire before her was not ordinary. It curled unnaturally, flickering in shades of blue and violet, its rim outlined by a strange, glowing sigil—a forgotten rune that glowed faintly as though it were breathing. She stood unmoving, her hands clasped loosely before her, and a strange, serene smile graced her lips.

Then, quietly—soft as a lullaby lost in wind—she whispered.

"We meet again."

The words lingered like a trail of smoke, not just heard but felt, sinking into the very stones around her, as though the temple itself had been waiting for this moment.

And just then, a pattering of small feet broke the stillness. A young demon child—a girl, no older than eight by human standards—approached timidly, her horns small and barely formed, peeking through a nest of curling auburn hair.

Her eyes, golden and glowing like twin suns dulled by dust, peeked out from beneath a dark hood stitched with moon-thread.

She bowed low, her tiny hands clasped tightly at her chest.

"Master," she said, her voice soft but steady, "the newcomer has arrived. He wishes to see you."

The woman did not move at first.

She simply tilted her head slightly, as though listening not to the child’s voice but to the ripples in the air left behind by his presence.

"Ah..." she murmured, her smile deepening. "So the shadow has returned bearing light."

The girl blinked, not understanding, but did not ask.

With slow grace, the priestess turned away from the flame. Her bare feet made no sound on the stone, and as she walked, the air shifted around her—as though reality thinned around her. Her presence was gentle, but it pressed on the chest like gravity, like the knowledge of something sacred and sorrowful all at once.

In the front hall, where the broken sunbeams filtered through stained glass, Cassian stood—silent, tense, the little white snake still curled protectively along his wrist. Veyce stood just behind him, his coat now fully shrugged back over his shoulders, his expression taut with concern.

And then she entered.

The priestess stepped through the archway, her blind gaze resting somewhere just beyond their faces, and yet Cassian felt the weight of her attention fall directly on him.

"Cassian," she spoke, her voice like silk over shattered mirrors, "you have not changed... and yet you are not the boy I once saw in the thread of the world’s breath."

Cassian’s brows furrowed, but he did not interrupt.

The priestess took one more step forward, her hands folded at her waist. "Your soul was once brilliant. Now, it flickers. Unstable. Fragmented. Not lost, no... but strained, as if too many lifetimes are clashing within your chest."

At that, Lyra stirred against him, her tiny form nuzzling his palm as if to comfort him.

Cassian lowered his voice. "You... know me?"

"I’ve known you since before you knew yourself," the priestess said calmly. "In every life. You always find your way to the crossroads." Her lips curled faintly. "And always with blood on your boots."

Veyce stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "Then you know about the ritual. You told me—if I perform the rite, it’ll harm him. His soul—"

She raised one slender hand.

"No harm comes without invitation," she said cryptically. "But intention can be a knife. The soul is bound to the fate it carries. If you tamper with it before it is ready, the unraveling will not just touch him... but everyone tethered to him."

Cassian felt the words burrow deep into him.

He didn’t believe in fate. He didn’t trust temples or rituals or prophecies spun by blind mouths.

And yet, something in her voice...

It struck the chords of an ancient grief buried somewhere in his bones. He didn’t know why. But he felt as though she was speaking a truth he had forgotten to believe in.

He took a slow step forward.

"Then tell me," he said quietly, "what am I supposed to do?"

The priestess smiled again. "Find the pieces. Remember them. Feel them. The past is not gone—it’s only buried."

Her gaze—or what passed for one—drifted toward the little snake.

"And it seems," she murmured, "your first key has already found you."

Cassian glanced at Lyra. Her tongue flicked the air. She gave a happy, chirping hiss.

The priestess turned, her voice trailing like candle smoke in a storm.

"Come," she said. "The threads are tightening. The hour is not far."

She began to walk deeper into the temple, her form swallowed slowly by shadows.

Cassian exchanged a look with Veyce. Neither of them spoke.

And then, wordlessly, they followed.