“Which ones? The god of fire or the goddess of flesh?” I jab.
He smirks. “Depends on which temple you visit.”
We pass beneath the marble archway marking the Avenue of Faith. I look to the right and see theTemple of the Eternal Flame, where priests in crimson robes are chanting before a roaring pyre. The heat ripples across my skin as we pass. Petitioners kneel, tossing handfuls of oil and incense into the pit as they whisper prayers toDrakonis, the god of flame and judgment.
The priests call him the Creator and the Judge, but I remember the old stories, how he was once a dragon who swallowed the sun and fell in love with a mortal queen. His worshipers burn petitions in his fire and believe that pain is proof of purity. They say pain purifies, that fire makes souls clean, but I’ve been burned enough to know better.
Across the square stands its sister temple, the Shrine of Liraen, goddess of the moon and mercy, patroness of the dead. Its roof is silver, its doors always open. The brides destined for the Rite come here to pray for safe passage into whatever lies beyond the fire and mist. Her followers wear white, in contrast to Drakonis’s crimson-clad disciples.
Next comes theTemple of the Pink Rose, dedicated toElarene, goddess of desire and devotion. Once it was a refuge for widows and the broken; now it’s little more than a perfumed brothel veiled in roses. Silken curtains ripple in the wind, giving us a glimpse of laughing priestesses arrayed in blush and gold.
“Still making your donations there, Aaron?” I ask, nodding toward the temple.
“Of course. I am a charitable man, after all.” His grin doesn’t fade, but his eyes flicker guiltily.
“‘Charitable’ isoneword for it,” I say, my eyes not leaving the temple.
“You can’t expect men to live like monks, Selene.”
I scoff. “Funny how the laws of purity don’t apply to you.”
“Ah, but we men were made in the dragon’s image,” he replies. “Free and unbound.”
“And women?”
“The gods’ gifts. To be protected,” he says with a wink.
“You meanowned.”
Aaron laughs uneasily. One of Elarene’s priestesses catches his eye through a veil of roses andwinks back.His cheeks color, betraying him, and I roll my eyes.
“I see you’re still as charming as ever,” he says, casting me a sidelong glance. “You never did make peace with the temples.”
“Hard to make peace with the place that burned you,” I mutter.
He frowns. “You mean your year of atonement.”
“That’s what they called it,” I answer, gesturing back to the row of marble arcades standing tall in gilded corruption disguised as piety. “Atonement for blasphemy. For claiming to have seen what no one wanted to believe.”
“You were gone a whole year. What was it like in there?” he asks, gesturing toward the towering white façade of theTemple of the Sun, dedicated toVareth, god of law, light, and oaths.Its steps gleam gold in the morning light, carved with Vareth’s sacred scales. “Don’t tell me you prayed every day.”
“Oh, come now,” I say. “Don’t tell me you’ve only ever visited the Temple of Elarene.”
Aaron chuckles. “What other goddess is worth visiting? Elarene’s priestesses know how to keep a man humble. And entertained.”
I arch a brow. “Typical. You adore the goddess of flesh and ignore the rest.”
“And you revere none,” he retorts. “Or do you still pray to that god your mother used to speak of, the one her ancestors believed in? Those monotheistic zealots… What was his name? Rex?”
“Rexen,” I whisper.
His grin returns, teasing. “Yes, that’s it! Rexen.”
I shush him sharply, whipping my head around to make sure no one heard him.
“Oh, relax. No one’s listening to us.” He pauses. “Well, do you?”
To admit I prayed to him only this morning would be an act of treason.
