After a while of loitering through the festival, the three of them found a quieter corner near the edge of the square. A low stone bench sat beneath a cloth awning, shaded from the noon sun. The priestess remained with them, hands folded, quietly observing the flow of people.
"This world" Grey murmured, leaning back, voice kept low, "for all its magic… I haven't seen anyone with the abilities."
"Yeah," Tolstoy added, glancing around. "Me neither. I haven't sensed anyone remotely magical."
The priestess, seated with her hands folded in her lap, smiled faintly. "That's because you're looking for display."
Before either of them could ask what she meant, a shadow fell across their table.
"Well," a voice said, warm and amused, "that's a rude thing to say within earshot."
They looked up.
The woman standing there was… hard to miss.
She was tall, with a presence that bent attention without effort. Dark hair spilled down her back in loose waves, catching the sunlight in a way that felt intentional even if it wasn't. Her dress was practical it was festival-worn, sleeveless, but cut in a way that did her no favours in subtlety. Full, unapologetic curves, a generous bust held just firmly enough to draw the eye before the mind could intervene. She moved like someone completely aware of it, and completely unconcerned.
Tolstoy blinked once. Then smiled. "I stand corrected."
Grey frowned. "We didn't sense you approach."
She pulled out a chair and sat without asking, crossing one leg over the other. The motion was unhurried. Deliberate. The kind of movement that made space feel smaller.
"That" she said, "is because I didn't approach as a magician."
Faker studied her closely now. "And what are you approaching as?"
She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table. The shift drew attention she made no effort to deflect. Her eyes, however, were sharp...old, even.
"A storyteller" she said. "A brewer. A dancer, sometimes. Depends on the day."
The priestess inclined her head. "Marina."
The woman, Marina just smiled wider. "You make it sound so formal."
Grey's gaze sharpened. "You're blessed."
"Mm." Marina tilted her head. "Very."
Tolstoy chuckled. "Funny. We didn't feel anything."
Marina laughed softly, the sound low and pleasant. "Of course you didn't. Faith doesn't flare unless you pull on it. And I've learned not to pull unless necessary."
She tapped the table lightly with one finger.
For just a heartbeat, the air shifted.
Not due to pressure. Not with power.
It was Recognition.
Grey felt it then, something vast, perfectly restrained, folded so tightly it barely touched the world. Faker's expression went still. Tolstoy's grin faded, replaced by something closer to respect.
"You're hiding" Grey said quietly.
Marina's eyes danced. "So are you."
She leaned back again, reclaiming her easy posture, the moment gone as if it had never existed. Around them, the festival noise continued uninterrupted.
"You haven't seen many spell-slingers because we don't need them here in a peaceful city" she said. "These places are cradles of faith. It helps those on the destroyed side."
Faker exhaled slowly. "And if belief falters?"
Marina shrugged, her dress shifting with the motion. "Then people like me step in. Smile. Tell stories. Pour drinks. Remind the world it's still worth trusting."
Tolstoy at this point had his mouth hung. "That's one hell of a job description."
She leaned closer to him, close enough that he could smell something warm and floral. "I do my best work unnoticed."
Her gaze slid back to Faker, suddenly heavier. "But you three?" she said softly. "You don't belong unnoticed."
She stood, smoothing her dress, curves settling back into place like a challenge the world had learned not to answer.
"Enjoy the festival" Marina said. "We'll talk more… before you make any irreversible choices."
She turned and melted back into the crowd, laughter and colour swallowing her whole.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Tolstoy finally broke the silence. "So."
Grey nodded slowly, eyes still on the place she'd vanished from. "Yeah," he said. "There's your magician."
Faker was still thinking something . Still deep in thought, "She had something more about her."
"Yeah her figure." Tolstoy replied practically drooling.
...
The temple was closed to the town that night.
No bells tolling. No witnesses. Just the inner sanctum lit by a low, circular pool set into the stone floor. The water within it did not reflect faces, it looked bottomless.
"This is not a ritual of accepting a faith" the priestess said softly, standing at the edge of the pool. "It is alignment with the rules of this world. Nothing will be taken from you. No religious rules will be imposed"
Grey stepped forward first. Habit again.
"You will enter one by one" she continued. "What you will see is not Maria as she is, but as your faith allows her to be."
Tolstoy muttered, "That's comforting."
Faker said nothing.
When Grey stepped into the water, it didn't ripple.
It accepted him. The temple vanished.
He stood on a battlefield he had sworn he would forget. Ash underfoot. Orders echoing that no longer had meaning. He felt the weight o an prophet on his shoulders, of seeing people die and choosing who to let die for the best possible outcome.
A woman stood opposite him.
She did not look radiant. She was not crowned.
She looked… solid. Present.
"You believe in structure," she said calmly. "In systems that hold when people fail."
Grey clenched his fists. "Belief doesn't save anyone."
"No," she agreed. "But it tells you where to stand when saving is impossible."
Light traced itself along his spine—not power, but permission. Channels forming, steady and restrained.
"You may anchor yourself to duty," she said. "The stronger your loyalty towards your duty, the more powerful you will become. "
Grey swallowed. "I believe… someone has to hold the line."
"We also believe that. But that does not mean, you can't rely on others." The goddess said as she disappeared.
After that Grey flew up from the water, gasping for air. "That was fun"
Priestess just smiled at Grey. She then signalled Tolstoy to get into the water.
Tolstoy entered laughing.
The world tilted sideways.
He stood in a place of chaos there were broken cities, laughter amid fire, his own blood drying on his hands while he grinned at something that should have killed him. He felt the thrill. The defiance. His world falling apart, the moons crashing into his home world.
A woman reclined casually nearby, watching him with amused eyes.
"You don't believe in order" she said. "You believe in momentum."
Tolstoy cracked his neck. "I believe in not stopping."
She smiled. "Then don't."
Magicules flooded him like a challenge accepted. Wild, but shaped. Free of restraints, channelling wildly in his body.
"You may bind yourself to free will" she said. "To defiance. To joy in survival."
Tolstoy laughed, breathless. "That sounds about right."