October of the Sainted Year (Fourth Civil Month)

(Mathias Herves in his 'Slums appearance')

Kirsten's attention drifted until he noticed Sylia approaching Mathias and his group, calm and purposeful.

One of Kirsten's friends nudged him, eyes glued to a flyer.

"Hey, Kirsten. They've got barbecue listed. Cheap too. With free samples! Let's go."

Anoura, Saya's friend, lit up and nodded eagerly.

Duklen, another one of their friends, grinned and stepped up beside them.

"Nah… I bet Kirsten's gonna ditch us again to sit with his family."

He grabbed Kirsten's arm, smirking.

"Say, Kirsten. I heard you finally engrossed the Saintess after all. She had to use a God's blessing to deliver the kid early—and then had it sent away. What was it? During that little orgy you had with Gerald Karazki?"

The reaction was instant.

"What?!"

Kirsten's father and stepmother both shouted in unison.

His mother's face drained of color, panic washing over her.

His pregnant fiancée, Jeany, looked stunned, frozen where she stood.

His sister, Saya, equally pale, reached for her sleeve.

Their aunt opened her mouth to speak but couldn't form the words.

Kirsten stepped forward, livid.

"Who the hell told you that?"

Duklen shrugged, almost casually.

"I heard Masha say it to Pullina who ran off crying. Betty was there too. Thought it was hilarious. You know how she is."

Kirsten cursed under his breath.

"Shit…"

Jeany looked up at him, her voice tight.

"Is that true?"

Dahia, eyes filling with tears, turned to her husband.

"See?! See what I told you? She went after a youngling again. That depraved girl."

But Dunkareh stood his ground.

"Enough, Dahia. He's older than the records say. He's of age. We did worse at his age."

Dahia turned crimson—part rage, part shame.

Duklen, unbothered and as shameless as ever, went on.

"I heard from Da that Gerald Karazki had a kid with her too. A real Saintess, no less. That's the only reason they didn't exile him or strip his title. He secured a Saintess for Damiora Enclave—the Moon Churches are gonna favor him for that alone. Word is, the Count's planning to send a few more of his to that God-blessed Enclave. It's still growing, and now? Gerald Karazki can pretty much do what he wants. Nobody's gonna touch him."

Kirsten's eyes narrowed.

"How would your father even know that?"

Duklen shrugged.

"One of his relatives might be moving to the lands near the Enclave entrance. They're recruiting guards. Da was with her himself a few years back."

Kirsten's face twisted in open disgust.

Duklen continued, as if reciting gossip from a market square.

"He said she was like a Goddess to them. The ones who've been with her? They'll protect her to the end. My ma doesn't like it, though. Thinks Syl Celia's been around too much—but even she has to admit the power she holds now."

He gestured vaguely toward the chapel and the gathering around it.

"She's got influence over the Crafters' Guild with Mathias Herves. And she does have even more influence over the Moon Merchant Guild which was made over a decade ago. I heard Syl Celia's been an occasional lover to the Guildmaster of the Crafters, maybe even to his son, if the rumors are true. She can get apprenticeships, jobs and can decide who gets pulled out of poverty. I might not be from the Slums, but you know how tight it is in our district too."

Dahia's voice snapped in suddenly.

"Wait a moment. Aeshun was involved with her? He always said he couldn't stand her! He told me that himself!"

Kirsten turned toward his stepmother, a flicker of concern passing through his eyes.

Everyone in the Slums knew the truth, even if Aeshun Merkantzer pretended otherwise. He wasn't Dahia's cousin. He was her natural father.

A fact he had never acknowledged.

Aeshun had distanced himself from Dahia early on, blaming the whole affair on foolish youth and Bimal blood. He had long regretted his involvement with a Bimal woman, speaking of it only as a mistake he wished he could erase. Now nearing sixty, the man had kept close to the Slums—not for sentiment, but likely out of guilt, or perhaps a sense of obligation to the handful of relatives who remained trapped there, unable to leave.

His own mother had been cast into the Slums years ago along with her branch of the family. She had since passed, but some kin remained, and he hadn't abandoned them completely.

Aeshun himself had escaped.

Not because of power or cleverness, but because of his father's name. The Merkantzer family had ties deep into merchant circles, even across borders. Their reputation had shielded him, lifting him out of the mud where the rest had been left behind.

And Dahia had never spoken of it.

Glory, Kirsten's aunt, looked visibly shaken, uncertain in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.

She, too, was Aeshun Merkantzer's illegitimate daughter, though the man had shown her far more consideration than he ever had for Dahia. The two women had always known that.

Still, she pressed forward.

She leaned toward Duklen, her voice low and urgent.

"Tell me what's going on."

Duklen gave a half-shrug and lowered his voice.

"Well… you know he's older now. Just turned fifty-six in religious years. That's a decent age. He was real bitter that she sent their kids off to Mardiova, of all places and kept them far from him. Wouldn't let him see them."

Glory's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

Duklen went on, as if sharing tavern gossip.

"But now? Ma's less likely to make trouble, and the old man's more settled. So she's letting him see the youngest. That one's getting sent to Damiora Enclave. Word is, he's gonna settle near the periphery just to stay close. He's winding things down anyway—passing his business off to relatives and old partners. Getting ready to retire."

Duklen paused, lowering his voice further.

"He got the last one during Moon October's Moon Phase. The kid's supposed to be hyped with Magic."

The words struck like a spell.

Glory gasped.

Kirsten's mother froze.

And Dahia, already pale, looked as if she might faint on the spot.

Unnerved, Kirsten started toward the infuriating woman, driven by impulse, anger, and too many unanswered questions.

But he froze mid-step.

A group of Nobles on horseback had arrived, their presence impossible to ignore. Horses gleamed under elaborate tack, and the sound of hooves on stone stilled the crowd around them.

Some of the riders he recognized—names tied to power and land—but many were unfamiliar, their coats finely embroidered and insignias etched in gold and lapis. These were not mere Mednobles or Laynobles.

These were men and women of true high birth—the kind who governed entire Regions and Counties, whose word shaped the law and whose families stretched back to ancestral domains older than the Provinces themselves. A few bore the quiet arrogance of royal administrators, the ones who moved pieces from afar and rarely appeared in person.

At the center of them, Syl Celia beamed.

She stepped forward with ease, her every movement graceful and confident, as if she had known they would come.

She extended her hand to one of them—a tall man whose cloak bore a house crest Kirsten didn't know. The man dismounted in one fluid motion and, with a subtle bow, kissed her hand.

"Marquess." She said warmly.

And with that one word, the truth was clear: not only was he titled, but many in the group were of equal or even greater rank.

Kirsten stood rooted, watching.

He had thought he understood the scale of Sylia's world.

He had been wrong.

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Sylia turned gracefully toward the newly arrived Noble and gestured to the Priest beside her.

"This is Armel," she said, her voice warm and poised, "who will be attending to you, Marquess. Armel, this is Marquess Saragon Sefraz."

Armel nodded with quiet reverence, while the Marquess offered a respectful bow, palms pressed together in the formal salute reserved for high Priests or beings of divine authority.

Then, turning back to Sylia with a brilliant smile, Marquess Saragon Sefraz said. "I believe you already know my brother, Count Teryon Sefraz."

The Count began dismounting with the same easy charm and smile—until Sylia responded.

Still smiling, her tone as light as the breeze, she replied.

"Yes, I must have seen him somewhere. He's one of Kareena's husbands, if I recall. And isn't he also married to that lovely blonde—Lyane, I believe? The one who looks like a curious blend of a luxurious doll and a wild flower."

The Count's smile faltered immediately.

Two of his companions exchanged sharp glances, clearly alarmed by her phrasing. But not far behind them, the woman named Kareena merely shook her head and smiled knowingly, as though she'd expected nothing less.

Mathias Herves, standing at a relaxed distance, was visibly struggling not to laugh.

He raised a hand toward Sylia, adopting a mock-stern tone.

"Syl Celia, we've talked about this. Please stop discriminating against blondes. You've been one yourself."

He pointed a gloved finger at his own temple.

"Even I've been known to turn blond from time to time. Not by choice, mind you."

He smirked, eyes twinkling.

"And if we're drawing comparisons, you are the one who looks like a luxurious doll tangled with a wild flower. Lyane, on the other hand, resembles… an inexpensive trinket from a flea market. The kind that gets left on a dusty shelf and forgotten."

Baron Diams Dersacci shot Mathias Herves a sharp glare.

Mathias, ever unbothered, merely glanced to the side as if admiring the architecture, pretending not to notice.

Then, without missing a beat, he said casually,

"Ah, yes. Perhaps I should avoid jesting. The Sefraz family's from Gamar, after all. They don't laugh much there. Can't, really—not with the King breathing down everyone's neck."

He gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Anyway, they wouldn't understand the reference. It's more for you, me, the Spirits, or maybe a Soul Seer if one's around."

A few nearby Noble shifted awkwardly.

But Marquess Sefraz remained composed, his expression unreadable.

"No, it's fine." he said, politely. "I've known the Lady since I was a boy. She owns the Enclave next to our lands, along with a good share of neighboring territories. She often hosted us—my uncle and I. Very generous hospitality."

Mathias blinked, just once. His expression shifted slightly—not shock, but interest.

The Baron and his nearby companion, however, looked genuinely surprised. Their stiff posture betrayed it, and they were not alone in their reaction.

Then the Marquess tilted his head, expression polite but pointed.

"May I ask, sir, what you meant about Lyane?"

Mathias smiled—slow and deliberate, like a man well aware of the trap but unconcerned by it.

"Oh? About that…"

Mathias shrugged lightly, offering a crooked grin.

"It's just a joke Syl and I share."

The Marquess didn't smile. "Please."

Mathias laughed under his breath, and then his tone shifted—dry, informed, and clinical.

"Well, since you insist… let's talk about how Lyane and her kind were made. They were produced by the Goddess of Light and Green Creations. Unfortunately, the work was… flawed."

He folded his hands behind his back and paced half a step.

"They're half-Souls—bodies animated by a Spiritus or a lesser Spirit. Little personality. Even less free will. They exist to carry bloodlines or to keep tabs on certain houses. They're not people. They're constructs. Beautiful, obedient, fragile."

The air shifted.

"Half-Souls come with risks. Dangerous ones. Children born from them suffer Soul management complications—severe ones. To keep them from collapsing, the Spiritus must anchor them constantly. If not, they shatter. Like cheap glass."

A few Nobles looked visibly uncomfortable. Mathias continued, unbothered.

"The only advantage? They carry little corruption—unless their Spiritus is corrupt. And if he is… then the entire web of half-Souls tied to him gets infected. That Goddess, the one who made them, wasn't exactly known for wisdom. She was dull, arrogant, and ultimately killed. Her lesser servant, paired with another still-roaming Goddess, continues to maintain these… 'things.'"

He glanced at Sylia, not unkindly.

"I imagine she sent many to expedite their disposal. Too many were produced. Too many stockpiled. And now they must be… managed. Merged. Because what they have inside isn't a full Soul. It's residue. Barely a trace. Once their short lifespan—maybe a hundred years—runs out, they're dust. It takes fifty to a hundred of them just to make a new imperfect one."

He gave a wry look.

"Imagine the Soul economy crisis that creates."

Then, more pointedly.

"This one, Lyane, is a reconditioned doll. Her lifespan may already be shortened. Syl Celia, like me, probably noticed how quickly her Soul matter diminishes over time. Because the corruption's too high. The Spiritus, poor fool, has to replenish her from other dolls. That's why her bland personality keeps shifting. It's not hers. It's pieced together."

His tone darkened, almost academic again.

"Those dolls don't learn. Not really. If you want them to 'understand' anything, you teach the Spiritus. Sometimes by beating it out of them. That's the method. Once you do that, they obey. Say what you want, act how you please. It's almost funny."

He offered a sharp smile.

"Syl Celia has dolls too. But hers are Full-Souled. More than that, actually. They don't need a Spiritus to move. They're independent. Whole. Dangerous. These others? They're high maintenance—but for a bored Goddess stripped of duty, maybe that's part of the game."

Mathias tilted his head toward the Marquess.

"Men like these dolls. Foolish men. Arrogant ones. The kind who can't handle a real woman speaking truth. The kind who want a pretty thing that says all the right lines, never argues, never thinks. Just smiles on cue. All fake emotion, cleverly stitched in by a loyal Spiritus."

He let the silence settle before giving one final shrug.

"Personally? I find dolls boring."

The Marquess turned to his brother, whose face had gone ashen.

Beside him, Baron Diams, Lyane's other husband, looked as if he might collapse where he stood.

Mathias laughed, clearly enjoying himself.

"Of course, we found her a use. Syl and I are nothing if not efficient. Her Spiritus—well, it's weak. So Syl sent hers to bully it into submission. It didn't take much."

He gave a casual wave.

"For the past ten years, Lyane's been doing laundry. Not just for herself, mind you—but for the Slums. Piles of it. And no one, not even her husbands, ever asked why she was doing so much of it, or where it was going."

He leaned slightly toward the Marquess.

"One sunny afternoon, Syl and I had her do Kareena's. She managed so well, too. Lovely technique. Personally, I only use her for flower pots. She has an odd talent with those."

Mathias's voice turned colder, almost clinical again.

"Her Goddess owes us, you see. So it's only fair. And if the Spiritus running her falls short again, I already know whom to ask next. And I won't be asking nicely."

He turned slightly, catching Syl Celia's eye.

"Syl, we should get moving. Herve might be on his way, and if he finds us together again, he'll start following. I've kept him in the dark for weeks."

Syl Celia nodded with a faint smile.

"Thank you for the warning. Marquess, you may accompany Mathias with your group. He knows the way already and can guide you through the most dangerous routes without incident."

The Marquess hesitated.

"Wait, Celia… about my brother's wife—"

Syl Celia's voice was softer now, though no less steady.

"Mathias may have been harsh. Even cruel. But Lyane and others like her do have personalities. They feel. They react. But those things depend entirely on the Spiritus that operates them."

She folded her hands in front of her.

"They're beings… perhaps half-beings, since they are less developed than the lesser constructs we Saints sometimes use. Ones built to manage excess Mana, or to—" she paused with meaning, "relieve other needs. Still, it's strange even shameful that a Goddess would have relied on such a flawed creation."

Mathias burst into laughter. A real one.

"Ah, yes—there she is. The sweet, merciful Saint. So considerate. I'm sure there are Minor Gods sobbing somewhere just hearing you speak."

Syl Celia glared at him.

"Please stop."

From the side, Kareena spoke up—quiet, hesitant.

"Were you truly making her do that?"

Syl Celia turned, her tone matter-of-fact.

"We had no choice. Ask Mathias. It was unbearable. Her Spiritus had her reciting these tedious, poorly written dialogues. We endured it for a while… then eventually just beat the thing into silence."

She shrugged.

"We replaced him, but the next one wasn't much better. Later, they both worked double shifts. Mathias threatened to shoot himself if he had to sit through one more dull monologue. So he sent one of his to beat the new one, then rewrote the lines himself."

A pause.

"She's said a few clever things since. Mostly to his benefit."

Kareena looked to her brother.

Diams seemed… small. Folded in on himself.

Syl Celia's tone turned gentler.

"Diams, don't blame yourself. You fell in love with someone who had a beautiful personality. And to you, it was real. That's what matters."

She smiled faintly.

"I know some men who fall for lifeless dolls."

Mathias raised a finger, mock offended.

"Hey! I've known lifeless dolls with more personality. Some of them cracked jokes better than half the Nobles in this circle."

Syl Celia rolled her eyes.

"I didn't mean those. Don't tell me you—"

Mathias looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. A faint blush rose to his cheeks.

"I did. In a past life. I still have some of the skills. I could make one from soil, if I had to. They're much closer to Spiritual beings, really."

Syl Celia rolled her eyes then dipped her head in a graceful bow, the silk of her dress catching the morning light.

"I must apologize." She said gently, eyes moving across the assembled Nobles. "We didn't extend an invitation to Lyane and her siblings. It wasn't out of cruelty—but we couldn't risk her Goddess' interference."

She smiled faintly, almost conspiratorially.

"One of the Spiritus tied to her is actually quite cute. We could've summoned him with a spell… but unfortunately, she's also operated remotely—a secondary tether, directly managed by her Goddess. So, she had been malfunctioning badly as of late."

The meaning hung in the air like a blade.

Diams stared at her, eyes wide, horror creeping slowly across his face.

Teryon, by contrast, stood unnaturally still. His face was unreadable now—too calm, as if a decision had already been made in silence.

Kirsten made his way back to his family, his thoughts a chaotic tangle. He had heard enough to make his head feel ready to explode.

His fiancée, Jeany, looked up at him, concern clear in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but the moment was interrupted by a Priest in light-colored robes who stepped forward and bowed slightly.

"Forgive me. You must be Miss Jeany and Miss Tammy?"

Both women nodded, startled.

"The Lady Syl Celia has arranged for you to be escorted to the new private clinic run jointly by the Greenlight and Moon Churches, designated for Nobles and Noble Gentry. Kirsten is to accompany you, as he is not joining the hunt."

He glanced at Kirsten briefly, then continued.

"Miss Jeany requires assistance. The child you carry is far too low on Mana. And for Miss Tammy, health treatment and medical accommodations have been arranged by Lord Gerald, who is covering a portion of the expenses. Please, follow me. A meal appropriate for your condition has been prepared, and treatment will be administered to ensure both children are safely delivered. As requested by Lady Syl Celia, our Priests will conduct the delivery."

Tammy turned to her mother in hesitation.

Her mother nodded after a pause.

"I wasn't sure they'd manage it… but this is closer than what we'd originally planned. Let's go. I'll come with you, and return for the event afterward."

Tammy thanked the Priest.

He gave a shallow bow, then added, "The Lady has also arranged, after discussions with the grandfather, a modest house for you in the new Gentry sector, close to the Noble quarters. The Mana environment there should be more compatible with the child's father's."

Jeany looked up, wary.

"What about me?"

The Priest turned to her. His expression cooled.

"What would you have us do?" he asked, with the disinterest of someone denying a request from a street beggar.

"Should we take in every by-blow produced in the Slums?"

Before Jeany could respond, he shifted his attention to another group entirely.

"You there—Jimmy. Come along with your parents. You're due for a dental exam in the rear wing."

Jimmy whimpered and clung tightly to his mother's skirt.

His adoptive mother smiled and gently pushed him forward.

"Go on, now. You can't ask Miss Sylia to summon that little fairy butterfly every time you have a toothache."

Pullina nodded encouragingly.

The Priest added with slight amusement, "We are recruiting new staff for the clinic, for now. The Duchess-class operative due to train the others is in charge. She might even give you sweets—ones that help your teeth. Just don't comment on her short dress or you might offend the Goddess who made her… and chose her wardrobe."

Fielsen, Jimmy's older brother, stepped in.

"I'll take him. Dad, you can rest."

His father gave him a dark glare, but said nothing. The man's wife shrugged.

"We're all going." she said. "Miss Sylia said to have the other kids' teeth checked too."

The Priest nodded.

"Yes. The temporary wing for training dental health staff is housed in the adjacent building. You can reach it through the portal door past the back hall."

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