CHAPTER 95: RIP, EZRA!

The temple was heavy with the bitter scent of burning incense, the smoke curling through the air like a mourner’s veil. It clung to the cold stone arches, wrapping the sacred space in a suffocating haze. In the centre of the chamber, Ezra’s body lay on a raised stone platform, draped in a simple white cloth. His face was uncovered, serene in death, as if he’d merely drifted into a deep sleep. But the faint bruising on his left cheek told a different story—a story of violence, of a life stolen too soon.

Priests knelt in uneven circles around him, their robes pooling on the polished floor. Some wept openly, their prayers trembling with grief as they clutched prayer beads, murmuring pleas for Ezra’s soul to find peace in the goddess’s embrace. Others sat rigid, their whispers sharp and bitter, their eyes narrowed with judgment.

"He deserved it," one priest muttered, his voice laced with venom. "Harbouring a rogue omega? What did he think would happen? Ezra was a fool to defy the Vortellions."

Another priest, younger, with tear-streaked cheeks, snapped back, "Ezra risked everything to protect the weak! That’s what a true priest does—not bend to power or twist the law for personal gain!"

The argument swelled, voices rising like a storm, each word crackling with tension. The temple, meant to be a place of solace, felt like a battlefield. Fingers pointed, accusations flew, and the air grew thick with resentment. One priest, an older man with a weathered face, leaned toward his neighbour. "If Ezra hadn’t been so reckless, he’d still be alive. He brought this on himself."

"Reckless?" the younger priest shot back, his voice shaking with anger. "He stood up to a monster! The Vortellions think they’re untouchable, but Ezra showed them they’re not above the goddess’s judgment!"

"Enough!" The High Priest’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. He stood at the head of the chamber, his white robes catching the flicker of candlelight, making him seem almost otherworldly. But his face was shadowed, his eyes heavy with grief and something harder—resolve. The room fell silent at once, every priest bowing their heads, though some still trembled with anger or fear.

"Ezra has returned to the embrace of the goddess," the High Priest said, his voice steady but weighted with sorrow. "No more words of condemnation. No more praise. He is beyond our judgments now. What matters is prayer for his soul... and justice for what has been done."

The word justice hung in the air, sharp and dangerous. The priests exchanged uneasy glances, their thoughts unspoken but clear. Justice? Against the Vortellions? Against Lucien Vortellion? The very idea seemed impossible, like challenging a storm with a paper shield. House Vortellion was a titan, its influence sprawling across the empire, its name synonymous with power and fear.

The High Priest’s expression hardened, his jaw set. "This act cannot be ignored," he said, his voice dropping to a low, resolute tone. "The blood of a priest stains their hands. If we let this pass unanswered, our temple’s authority will crumble to ash. Prepare Ezra’s burial... and ready a message. I will go to the capital myself."

Gasps rippled through the room. The capital—the heart of the empire, the seat of House Vortellion’s power. To confront Duke Evan there... was like taking a walk into the lion’s den. The assistant priest, a wiry man with nervous eyes, leaned forward, his hands twisting in his robes. "My lord... the Duke has already departed. He’s likely halfway to the capital by now."

"I know," the High Priest replied, his voice cold as iron. "Let him run. Let him think himself untouchable. I will remind him that no matter how vast his house, there are lines even the Vortellions dare not cross."

The assistant swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "But... my lord, what if the Duke refuses to listen? What if he—"

"Then I will make him listen," the High Priest interrupted, his eyes blazing. "Ezra’s death is not just a loss to us—it’s a wound to the goddess herself. The temple will not bow to a man, no matter his title. Prepare the rites. We leave very soon."

The assistant nodded, his face pale. "Understood, my lord," he said, bowing deeply before hurrying to carry out the orders.

As the priests dispersed to begin their tasks, the High Priest lingered by Ezra’s body. He reached out, his hand hovering over the young priest’s bruised cheek, then pulled back, his fingers curling into a fist. "Rest now, Ezra," he whispered. "Your fight is over. Ours is just beginning."

The road to the capital stretched endlessly, a grey ribbon slicing through the dense, shadowy forest. Carriages rumbled forward, their wheels creaking under the weight of their passengers and the banners of House Vortellion flapping sharply in the wind. The black and silver sigil—a coiled serpent with bared fangs—seemed to glare at the world, a warning to anyone who dared cross its path.

Inside one of the trailing carriages, Lucien sat with his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. His fists, raw and bloodied from punching the stone pillar back at the academy, rested on his knees, the dried blood cracking with every flex of his fingers. Every hoofbeat, every lurch of the carriage, felt like a knife twisting in his chest. He was on his way to the capital, but he was too far behind to catch up with his father’s carriage—the one carrying Rin.

Rin. The thought of him, bound and helpless in Evan’s grasp, made Lucien’s vision blur with rage. His father. That monster. He hadn’t even been allowed to see Rin, to make sure he was still alive, still fighting. The enforcers had barred him from the carriage, their cold eyes and drawn swords making it clear that any resistance would end in blood... his blood.

Lucien’s breath hitched, his hands trembling. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice rough with desperation. "Just wait, Rin. I’ll be with you soon. I swear."

He slammed his clenched hand against the carriage window till it left a crack. The guard following him walked towards the window.

"Is anything bothering you, Young master?"

"Nothing! Just focus on the ride and make it faster. We’re not camping, let’s move!"

"Y..yes, young master," the guard replied and rode away from the window.