Page 101 of A Sweet Destruction

He’d clearly already been looking in my general direction. I knew he was skeptical of me—and Ford.

Breaking eye contact with him, I let my eyes wander up to the ceiling.

I hadn’t expected the temple to be covered in ornate designs, but the simplicity of it still surprised me. Maybe it was the location, the town far from any major metropolitan area.

Or so we were told, and in light of recent events, I didn’t know if we could trust that.

Even then, the temple looked like it was entirely carved from that same pink marble that adorned the outside, and decorated only from necessity. Where those decorations were present, the craftsmanship looked exquisite. The torches dotting the walls seemed to be made of solid gold, encrusted with a few stones that winked at you as they caught the light of the flame.

It was common on Vir to have a painted ceiling in a temple, often of some sort of religious lore. Here, the ceiling was left plain, save for a few circular skylights that cast beams of light down on the floor.

I had only a second to focus on the painting behind the altar, an abstract made of soft colors that would take care to understand, before my attention was drawn back to Caspian.

Beside him and Elijah stood a priest, wearing simple robes of a soft orange. There was a scarf, made of a richer orange and carved through with gold stitching, that was tied around his neck and folded over the left side of his body.

Elijah and Caspian seemed more formidable all of the sudden, their respective heights notwithstanding. Even Caspian’s lean build seemed muscular compared to the slightness of the priest’s form.

“This is Brother Stevenson,” Caspian introduced. The Brother in question was stoic, but you could see a tension in his demeanor. Surely it was because the Prince stood right next to him, addressing him by name. My mind wondered if it was because of nerves, trying to remember every detail of the lie he was about to spin.

Brother Stevenson greeted us with a slight bow, keeping his hands folded in front of him. “Hello, and welcome. His Grace has told me much about you.”

“Thank you for welcoming us into your temple,” Bellamy said, reaching out to grab the hand extended to her. Brother Stevenson shook her hand with a practiced simplicity, but there was no mistaking the interest in his eyes. One of pure fascination.

I couldn’t tell where on the spectrum of religious zeal he fell, but I didn’t think any member of the brotherhood would have been unaffected at the chance to meet someone from the world their God warded over.

“I’m sure Prince Silverthorn told you, but to formally introduce myself, my name is Princess Bellamy Edelstenne.” Bellamy stepped aside, motioning to Soren. “This is Prince Soren Rystrom, my paranima.”

Soren shook Brother Stevenson’s hand, bowing slightly and incredibly regally.

Ford and I shared a secret look at Soren’s show of royal haughtiness. We’d only ever known Bellamy as a princess, but Soren’s newfound acceptance of his station was still amusing.

Introductions turned to the rest of the group, Brother Stevenson taking time to greet all of us individually. His eyes brightened with interest when Ford introduced me as his paranima. That expression deepened even further when Freya simply identified Arthur as her Match.

It may well of been my mind playing tricks on me, looking for confirmation of my theory and finding it where I shouldn’t have.

What I certainly didn’t mistake, backed by the brush of Ford’s hand against my own, was the look that Elijah and Freya shared. He’d been looking—no, staring—at her as she introduced herself and Arthur to Brother Stevenson. After she was done, her eyes bounced to his, sticking, before she dropped them to the ground.

His interest in her was clear, had been for a while.

Freya and I had an honest conversation not twenty minutes ago about myself, maybe it was high time I asked her. If negotiations went well, it wouldn’t be totally out of bounds for her to pursue a relationship with someone on Muli.

Vir and Muli soldiers had certainly done the same, even for a night, over the years.

“I’m pleased to have you all here,” Brother Stevenson said. “And I must admit, I’m rife with questions.”

Bellamy chuckled lightly. “We share that in common. Is there a place we might sit?”

“Oh, yes!” Brother Stevenson led us to the side of the altar, tucked right out of the path of one of the skylights, to two marble benches, curved together in a circle. “We like to keep the temple clear when we aren’t holding services,” he explained. “But this is my personal favorite place to take a moment of rest when the pews are not set out.”

In the middle of the circle, rested a small stool, stacked with a few religious texts. “May I?” I asked, nodding at the books. I bit the inside of my cheek to force some color to my face, knowing it would appear like a blush.

“Oh, of course!” Brother Stevenson’s voice was cheery, either with excitement or nerves. Probably both.

I nodded my thanks, reaching forward to pick up the books as Bellamy picked up conversation. Within seconds, Brother Stevenson was engaging everyone in a lively discussion about the structure of their services.

I began flipping through the books as my mind distantly took in what they were saying. Services were held, of course, on Fridays—the day most sacred to the Goddess. Though the priests were stewards of God’s will on Muli, they understood that to honor the Goddess was to honor God as well.

Saturdays were a day reserved for individual counseling, which was why the temple appeared quieter. We should expect to see a few of his brothers walking around with some patrons. Sundays were for the brotherhood, taking time to commune with God.