h4Chapter 209: Messanger of Light/h4

    In another part of the arena stood a young woman who could not remain seated, a partial veil shadowing her face.

    Her hair was just as red as Aira’s own, though hers gleamed with a fiercer sheen, and her features were sharper, more pronounced. Her body was slender yet curvy, sculpted in a way that no one could deny her beauty. She carried herself with a poise that hinted at pride, but her expression remained cold and unreadable.

    Yet deep in her eyes burned something darker—something that could only be described as jealousy—as she watched the gathering throngs surround her sister. They bowed low to Aira, calling and crying out, their voices shaking with awe, naming her the Messenger of the God of Light.

    Her fists clenched tight. Nails dug into her palms until the sting became almost unbearable, yet she did not relent. She could not tear her gaze away from the scene, from the image of her blood sister basking in worship that, in her heart, she believed should have been hers. Atst, unable to endure the sight any longer, she rose, the scrape of her chair drowned beneath the chants of the crowd.

    "The ritual worked," she mumbled beneath her breath. The words were bitter, coated with venom, even as her mind reyed the memory of the blinding white light she herself had glimpsed. Aira might have summoned it first, but she knew—knew with certainty—that the same white brilliance could be hers, and more.

    Without hesitation, she turned on her heel and strode out of the arena, her veil brushing against her cheek. She had already decided—she wouldplete the ritual herself.

    Once, hesitation had held her back. She hadcked some of the required materials, and doubt had whispered caution into her ears. But now? Now, she no longer cared. She knew the truth: the only true necessity was a vampire of sufficient strength, one willing—or desperate—enough to bind himself into the ritual with her.

    ’I cannot stand by and allow her to enjoy powers that should also be mine,’ she thought, her jealousy spiraling into hunger. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the reverence in people’s faces, the worship in their eyes when she too revealed divine power.

    Liora still wanted vengeance against Zyren—that thirst had never faded—but beyond revenge, there was a deeper yearning now. She wanted worship. She wanted power. She wanted to see mortals bow at her feet and call her chosen.

    ’I can be a Messenger,’ she decided fiercely, a spark of madness igniting in her chest. ’And when I do, themon people will treat me like their queen.’

    This time, her steps carried urgency. She pushed past the guards she herself had hired, ignoring their surprised greetings, and moved swiftly toward the city. The wealth she had amassed—through investments, through shrewd dealings, through businesses she had carefully seeded—was nothing nowpared to what she intended to gain.

    Reaching her home, she swept through the halls and up to her chamber. There, waiting on her desk, was the book—a collection of every scrap of knowledge she had copied, every secret she had gathered regarding the ritual. She seized it with determined hands, clutching it close to her chest, before turning once more toward the door.

    There would be no rest. She would scour the markets and alleys, gather everyst ingredient she couldy her hands upon, and when the sun fell, she would not hesitate. By crook or by nook, she would perform the ritual. She would im the power she deserved.

    And none would take it from her.

    ******************￡

    Aira, meanwhile, could stand the crowds no longer. Not their endless shouting and chanting, nor the suffocating way they pressed around her, bowing, weeping, calling her holy.

    Her gift was to heal—but not to save the world. Not like this.

    And yet the more she tried to retreat, the more they surged forward. Families carried their sick and dying, thrusting them into her path with desperate hands. Some threw themselves at her feet, pleading with tears that wed at her heart.

    At first, the guards intervened, forming a barrier, but Aira stopped them. Her conscience would not allow her to ignore the frail and the broken who hade to her. So she stretched out her hands, channeled her light, and healed.

    But scarcely had she healed a handful before the flood doubled, then tripled. More came, staggering from the shadows of the city, their cries like a rising storm. She healed one, and two more appeared. She touched another, and five pushed forward, begging as though death itself chased their heels.

    The guards strained to hold the swelling mass, but even they began to falter. The crowd was too great, and desperation had begun to curdle into violence.

    "Please...please , I’m next!"

    "Save my daughter!"

    "Messenger of Light, do not forsake us!"

    Their cries tore at her ears, yet each act of healing left her weaker. The power that flowed from her palms dwindled with frightening speed. Each channel of energy burned her deeper, until she feared there would be nothing left to give.

    And then—terror gripped her. The light, her gift, flickered. For the first time, she felt it threaten to be extinguished altogether.

    Her heart thudded. She raised her gaze, breath caught in her throat—and found Zyren watching her.

    He stood at the edge of the chaos, silent, his crimson eyes glinting with knowing. His arms folded across his chest, his expression almost mocking, as if to say: You are alone in this. Do not expect me to save you.

    The sight enraged her, but rage brought rity.

    Her decision crystallized in an instant.

    She stopped. Her hands fell, withdrawing from the sick child before her. The cries around her turned to fury—pleading twisted into wrath.

    "You cannot ignore your sheep!" one man screamed.

    "The God of Light will despise you if you turn away!" another cried, his voice breaking. A woman hurled her paralyzed child toward Aira’s feet, desperation written in every trembling line of her face.

    Aira froze, stunned at the madness unfurling before her, her thoughts splintering under the weight of their demands. The shouting grew, an overwhelming wave, until she thought it might crush her.

    And then she acted.

    With a swift motion, she raised the bloodied sword she still carried and drove it forward. The de pierced the shoulder of the wailing woman before her.

    Gasps split the air. Silence fell like a hammer. The crowd recoiled in shock, their horror pinning them in ce.

    "Anyone who speaks over me will die," Aira said coldly, her voice cutting through the silence. Her gaze bored into the woman, who had copsed in terror, though her wound was shallow.

    Already, Aira channeled her fading power through the sword, and the flesh began to mend beneath its edge. Healing flowed as easily through the de as it did through her hands, almost as natural as breathing.

    "Go back," shemanded, her tone fierce, her eyes zing. "I will go to the Temple. There, I will heal. But not here. Not like this."

    The air trembled with her authority, sharper than steel. And in her heart, Aira knew: if any dared defy her now, she would cut them down. Mercy had its limits.