Selvaria, Land of Religion

Morning fog cloaked the cobblestone road leading to Selvaria’s main gate. From afar, the city walls looked like those of a colossal cathedral—pale white, adorned with carvings of winged angels raising swords to the sky. Tower spires pierced the horizon beyond the walls, and a massive bell tolled at every change of the hour.

Lyselle pulled her hood tighter, hiding her silver hair. Caelan walked beside her, his steps steady, though his gaze constantly swept their surroundings.

“This city… is too clean,” Lyselle whispered, noticing the path free of mud despite last night’s rain. “Even the air feels different.”

“That’s intentional,” Caelan replied quietly. “A religious city must give off a heavenly impression. But the more perfect something looks, the greater the chance something is being hidden.”

They arrived at the massive gate guarded by four soldiers clad in white-silver armor, their helmets engraved with the symbol of a winged eye. Longswords hung at their hips, each holding a silver-tipped spear that gleamed in the morning light.

One guard stepped forward. “Your names and your purpose,” he said firmly, his tone like a memorized phrase.

Caelan offered a polite smile. “We’re traveling merchants from the north. We bring embroidery and spices.”

The guard’s gaze shifted between them, lingering slightly longer on Lyselle.

“Keep your head down,” Caelan murmured under his smile.

Lyselle obeyed, letting the hood’s shadow hide her face. The guard gave a slight nod, then gestured for them to pass.

Once through the gate, Lyselle froze for a moment.

Before them stretched a broad main street, flanked by tall marble buildings. Every wall was covered with reliefs depicting angels and saints, their colors still vibrant as if freshly carved. The street bustled with neatly dressed citizens—women in pastel-colored gowns, men in white vests and cloaks. No one shouted or laughed loudly; everyone moved with a calm, almost measured rhythm.

Yet one detail made Lyselle’s skin prickle: almost every person wore a necklace bearing the same winged eye symbol as the guards’ armor.

“Everyone…” Lyselle murmured, “…is wearing that symbol.”

“The cult isn’t just present here,” Caelan replied. “It’s part of everyday life.”

At the far end of the main street loomed a massive cathedral with stained-glass windows in vivid colors. In front of it, a fountain shaped like an angel holding a sword poured crystal-clear water into a marble basin. Children played nearby while white-robed clerics handed out bread to passersby.

From the outside, the scene was peaceful—soothing, even. But Lyselle couldn’t ignore the way the clerics’ eyes seemed to judge every person who passed.

“We need a safe place first,” Caelan said.

“Then we can start finding out who controls all of this.”

Lyselle nodded, though her gaze kept scanning the crowd. Something about this place was beautiful, yet… dangerous.

The bell tolled three times as Lyselle and Caelan moved into narrower side streets branching from the main road. These lanes were quieter, lined with small but spotless houses, their white-painted walls and wooden doors carved with the winged eye. The smell of fresh bread wafted from a shop at the corner, making Lyselle’s stomach tighten.

“Should we look for an inn here?” Lyselle asked, glancing at a weathered sign of a key and bed.

Caelan surveyed the area. “Too close to the cleric district. We need somewhere… neutral. If we stay too close, we’ll always be watched.”

They walked on. At the mouth of an alley, a small boy ran past carrying a basket of apples. His clothes were worn—unlike the other citizens. When he saw Lyselle and Caelan, he stopped for a moment, as if about to say something, then hurried away.

Lyselle frowned. “That boy… he’s not like the others.”

Caelan only watched the direction the boy ran. “Keep it in mind. He might be part of something people don’t want seen.”

A few blocks later, they found a small inn called The Quiet Bell. Its signboard was metal, slightly rusted, and unlike the other buildings, it wasn’t perfectly kept. The scent of aged wood greeted them as they stepped inside.

A middle-aged woman with neatly tied hair greeted them. “Welcome. Need a room?”

“Two nights,” Caelan replied, handing her a few coins.

She glanced at the coins, then at them. “You’re not from here.” Her tone was not suspicious, more like stating a fact.

“We’re merchants from the north,” Lyselle said softly. “First time in Selvaria.”

The woman smiled faintly, but her eyes flicked toward the door. “In that case, be careful. Here, everyone’s friendly… as long as you follow their rules.”

Caelan leaned forward. “Rules?”

She hesitated, as if weighing her words. “You’ll find out soon enough. But never speak ill of the Eye That Watches. And don’t ask too many questions to the clerics.”

Heavy footsteps sounded outside, followed by the clink of metal. A white-silver armored soldier passed the inn’s entrance, glancing briefly inside. The woman straightened her skirt and smiled as if nothing had happened.

“Your room’s upstairs. Number four,” she said quickly, then turned away.

Lyselle and Caelan exchanged a look as they climbed the creaking wooden stairs. Once inside the room, Lyselle shut the door firmly.

“She knows something,” Lyselle said. “And she’s afraid.”

“In a city like this, fear might be the only thing keeping people alive,” Caelan replied, setting down his bag.

They discussed their next move. Caelan suggested visiting the central market tomorrow—where merchants gathered and, most likely, informants as well. Lyselle agreed, but she also wanted to find the boy they’d seen earlier.

“He seemed like the only one not bound by the rules,” Lyselle said.

Caelan gave her a long look, then a faint smile. “Or he’s the most dangerous, because he has nothing to lose.”

Night fell over Selvaria. From their window, Lyselle saw torchlight line the streets and heard chants echo from the cathedral. Everything looked peaceful… too peaceful.

---

The road to Selvaria’s central market was shadowed by towering church spires, like stone spears piercing the sky. Each time Lyselle stepped forward, the afternoon sun broke in fragments across the carved angels watching from above. But what unsettled her wasn’t the architecture—it was the people’s stares.

Not just looking, but judging. Measuring. As if every unfamiliar face had to be weighed before being granted the right to breathe in this city.

Caelan walked half a step ahead, masking his alertness with a relaxed demeanor. “They’re watching us,” he murmured, barely moving his lips.

“I’ve counted—nine on the left, seven on the right, two behind. All wearing the same pendant,” Lyselle replied quietly, fingers brushing the folded note in her pocket with the morning’s observations.

“The broken wing symbol… must be the cult’s emblem.”

Selvaria’s central market sprawled like a grand stage. Blood-red and gold tents stood close together, leaving narrow aisles filled with the scents of spices, perfumes, and something fainter—thick incense that clung to the back of the throat.

A fruit seller approached, his face wrinkled but his smile too wide to be genuine.

“First time in our city?” he asked, offering a shiny apple.

Lyselle nodded slightly. “Just passing through. We heard this market is famous.”

“Oh, famous indeed… All great things happen here. Even soul cleansing.” His voice dipped on the last two words, though his eyes locked on theirs, gauging their reaction.

Caelan took the apple, turning it in his hand. “And all souls need cleansing?” His tone was light, but the edge at the end carried a subtle challenge.

The man chuckled, but it was dry. “Only the dirty ones, of course.” He gave a small gesture toward a wooden stage at the market’s western edge. Two white-robed men stood there, leading a crowd in a monotonous hymn.

Lyselle noticed a metal box in the center of the stage. Through a slit, she glimpsed the pale face of a child—eyes shut, body too still. Her breath caught, but she kept walking.

“Don’t move too quickly,” Caelan whispered, catching up. “They’ll know we’re interested.”

A sudden shout from a nearby alley broke the market’s noise. Two masked men were dragging an old man, his hands bound. The crowd didn’t help; some even whispered with eager anticipation, as if it were a routine spectacle.

“What are they doing?” Lyselle asked, feigning ignorance.

A woman selling wooden pendants whispered, “He’ll probably be tried at the Grand Temple. If he’s lucky, just branded. If not… well, you know.” She nodded toward the temple spire bathed in the setting sun.

The pieces they had gathered since arriving began to form a pattern. This cult wasn’t just a fanatic sect—it ran the city. From the market to the temple to the courts, everything moved under the broken wing symbol.

“Lys,” Caelan murmured, “look at the east corner balcony.”

On the second floor of a stone building stood a woman in a white gown with a red sash over her shoulder. Her hair was jet black, skin pale, and her eyes… far too sharp for a mere onlooker. She didn’t blink. Not once since Lyselle first spotted her.

“She’s watching us?” Lyselle asked.

“Not watching,” Caelan corrected. “Judging whether we’re worth inviting… or cleansing.”

As if to answer his words, the woman slightly raised her hand—and from the market’s edges, several robed men began to move, slowly but surely closing in.

“We need an exit without looking panicked,” Lyselle said, scanning the narrow lanes between stalls.

“And while doing that, we need to know who she is,” Caelan replied.

The once-busy market had become a maze of eyes. Every passerby seemed to carry a piece of this puzzle—some offered blessings, others murmured words they couldn’t understand.

Lyselle decided to stop at a small tea stall, sitting at a window table where she could watch both the stage and the balcony. Caelan sat across from her, holding a cup without drinking.

“They’re letting us see… this performance,” Lyselle murmured.

“Yes. And usually, if there’s a performance, the lead actor will appear soon,” Caelan said, eyes never leaving the balcony.

Outside, the crowd on the stage parted. Two white-robed figures wheeled out a large wooden chair—bound with iron chains and carved with broken wings. A middle-aged man, hands and feet bound, was forced into it.

On the balcony, the red-sashed woman finally smiled—a thin curve that seemed to thin the very air.

“She just gave the signal,” Caelan whispered.

Lyselle’s eyes narrowed. “And I think… this isn’t just an execution. It’s an invitation.”

The market’s air vibrated with louder hymns. Some knelt, others bowed their heads, though their eyes kept searching.

“We decide now,” Caelan leaned forward. “Infiltrate deeper through the invitation… or vanish before the trap closes.”

Lyselle looked once more at the balcony. “Sometimes, to burn a nest… you have to walk into the center.”

A heavy bell tolled, and the woman pointed at Lyselle—then at the stage.

---

Lyselle knew that look—not just a command, but a choice. The red-sashed woman gestured again, and the dense crowd seemed to part, forming a path toward the stage.

“We’re being summoned,” Caelan muttered, his tone flat but tense.

“If we back out now, we’ll lose our chance to get to their core,” Lyselle said sharply.

“But if we go forward… we walk into a predator’s nest.”

“Not lions,” Caelan corrected, “a raptor’s nest. And they’ve already locked their talons.”

Their steps toward the stage were accompanied by the monotone hymn growing louder. People on either side watched with expectant eyes, as if this were a sacred ritual. Some whispered prayers, others smiled faintly as if awaiting their favorite punishment.

At the stage, Lyselle felt an unnatural chill—not from the evening wind. In the chained chair, the bound man trembled, eyes wild. Two white-robed guards bowed toward the balcony woman, then turned to Lyselle and Caelan.

“Foreigners,” one guard’s deep voice rang out, “Sister Elaria invites you to witness the Holy Judgment.”

The name—Sister Elaria—echoed in Lyselle’s mind. A cult leader, one mentioned in secret reports they’d obtained in Drezhen.

They were ushered onto the stage, giving Lyselle a full view of the crowd. Thousands of eyes fixed on them. On the other side, a large wooden door swung open… and from it emerged a tall figure in black robes, half his face hidden by a silver mask etched with flames.

“Inquisitor Bellos,” Caelan breathed so softly it was barely audible.

The man walked slowly, each step heavy, echoing across the stage. The once-noisy market fell into tense silence. He stopped beside the chained chair, staring at the bound man without emotion.

“Crime: Concealing forbidden scripture and refusing soul cleansing,” Bellos’s deep voice cracked like breaking stone.

The crowd murmured, some shouting for immediate execution.

Sister Elaria—now descending the balcony steps—approached with graceful strides, her white gown billowing in the breeze. Her face was beautiful but severe, her black eyes holding fanatic conviction.

“Foreigners,” she said, her voice clear yet carrying an authority that cut deep. “You are honored to witness the truth. The truth that saves this city from decay.”

She glanced at Lyselle, then at Caelan. “And perhaps… one day, you will be part of it.”

Lyselle realized this was not merely an invitation; it was a test of worth.

Bellos raised his hand, and a burst of red energy appeared from the air, coiling around the bound man. His scream split the silence, yet no one in the crowd showed pity.

Caelan shifted half a step, ready to act if this turned into open combat. Lyselle held herself back, eyes fixed. They needed information—not a fight here.

But something in the way Sister Elaria looked at her… convinced Lyselle this meeting was only the beginning.

Bellos lowered his hand, the man now slumped and gasping. Below the stage, two cult followers raised the broken wing symbol, and the crowd roared as if they’d witnessed a great victory.

Elaria inclined her head toward Lyselle.

“Tomorrow, at the Grand Temple. You will see what true salvation means. Come… or let this city swallow you whole.”

Lyselle smiled faintly, masking all emotion. “We’ll consider it.”

Elaria only smiled in return, then turned toward the stage door, Bellos following. White-robed guards cleared the way for Lyselle and Caelan to leave.

Before fully stepping away, Lyselle glanced back—and found Elaria’s gaze still fixed on her, like a promise waiting to be kept.

In the narrow alley beyond the market, Caelan exhaled. “We’re marked.”

Lyselle nodded. “And tomorrow… we go deeper. We’ll see, Cael… whether they truly cleanse… or are the ones who stain everything.”

In the distance, the temple bell tolled—and with each chime, a shadow seemed to take shape: a judgment that would test not only faith… but their lives.