Act II Part 2 Chapter 1 – Autumn Festival (Part 1)

October of the Sainted Year (Fourth Civil Month)

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Autumn had come that year with its familiar brownish-red hues, painting the City’s rooftops and narrow lanes in slow, smoldering color. However, even that felt different now. The leaves had begun to fall, yet the air carried no urgency. As if the trees themselves knew the season would stretch far beyond its time.

It was the Sainted Year.

A time chosen by the Gods to unravel the usual rhythms of the world. The months of the religious calendar—the only calendar that mattered in a land governed by temples and divine law—would now flow at the whim of higher will. This October had finally arrived after an unusually long September, and no one knew how long this new year would last. Perhaps twenty months. Perhaps twenty-four. Time during a Sainted Year couldn’t be measured in days—it followed divine intent, not human reckoning.

And for Kirsten, that meant his age remained blocked.

Though Kirsten had been legally recognized as a responsible adult man for seven religious months, his apprenticeship contracts remained suspended—caught in the delays caused by the Sainted Year’s distorted timeline. With time itself stretched by divine will, nothing moved as it should, and no contract could proceed until the necessary thresholds were acknowledged by the religious calendar.

Of course, he had already lived more than the records showed.

He had spent long periods with his brother Agram, deep in the folds of an Enclave where time moved differently—where hours could stretch into weeks, and seasons could pass in silence. The time he spent there had matured him. He had returned with knowledge, training, and burdens. But none of that showed on paper.

After his return from the Enclave, his adoptive father and stepmother had wasted no time. They insisted it was time for him to marry. He had grown older while away, even if the religious calendar had not caught up with him. They wanted him settled, stable, and far from what his stepmother still called “the tricks of a demonic woman.”

The woman they feared most stood only a short distance away.

Sylia. No—he corrected himself. Today, she was Syl Celia. He had always known Sylia could temporarily merge with her Divisions, but this display was vivid proof of it.

She stood at the edge of a new square, one that had not existed the night before. The residents of the Slums had always gathered in the wide, muddy space near the northern gate for celebrations and seasonal prayers. The place was close to the main roads, but merchants seldom stopped. They passed through, bound for the Capital or richer Provinces, barely giving this City a second glance.

But now, something had changed.

A part of the square that had existed before now stood fully reshaped, as if completed overnight. Beyond it, an even larger space had manifested, stretching out along the peripheral streets of the main avenue. That was where Kirsten and his family had gathered.

The difference was immediate.

The Mana in this area was unlike what one found elsewhere in the Slums. It couldn’t be drained by the spells the Nobles and Provincial authorities used to funnel Mana into their own lands. Here, the usual leeching effect on his body had lessened. His internal restrictions ever-present in the City had eased, if only slightly. He felt refilled, as if the Mana was not only resisting extraction but quietly replenishing him.

For the first time in the Slums, he felt more power within himself than ever before.

At the center of this altered space stood a new chapel—small, but magnificent, and visibly strange. The air around it shimmered faintly. It looked as though space itself had bent to hide its true scale, cloaked in a spell field that distorted its dimensions.

The guards outside had made it clear. This was a chapel for Nobles and Noble Gentry only. Commoners were not to enter.

Not even children with strong Mana.

Kirsten watched his younger neighbors from the corner of his eye. A few had come along with his family. Among them, Jimmy, a seven-year-old boy from a nearby household, stood quietly holding his sister Fenilia’s hand. His eyes were wide, fixed on the chapel’s white door, and his mouth had drawn into a thin line of silent disappointment.

Next to him, Pullina, Kirsten’s adoptive younger sister, leaned in and whispered something softly to the boy. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him the kind of look only someone familiar with rejection could offer. Jimmy nodded but didn’t speak.

Kirsten had almost smiled, ready to tease him about his worn boots or how no chapel in the world would admit him in that patched tunic. Then he stopped himself.

Jimmy was the cleanest of his family.

And that, sadly, said everything.

The Slums had long suffered from poor hygiene and neglect. Many children had died in the last decades before someone took the matter into her own hands.

That someone was Sylia.

She had introduced public baths, distributed waste crystals, and established systems for sanitation in experimental areas without waiting on the Lord’s approval. Some officials tried to twist her work, using her gifts for profit or bringing in waste from other districts but they couldn’t undo what she had done.

Now she was back again. Watching. Waiting.

The new chapel was unlike any the Slums had seen. It was designed by the Moon and the Sun-Moon Churches. Kirsten had expected to see only stiff-robed Nobles and Noblemen’s wives in the Church’s courtyard.

But instead, he saw his own relatives.

There they were drinking vodka, pouring tea into wooden cups, sipping coffee and wine under the thin light of morning. Laughter rippled from their group, as if the place had always belonged to them.

Kirsten blinked.

A voice beside him broke the moment.

“Kirsten.”

He turned.

His friend Derek Valanadi stood next to him, nodding toward the small gathering. “Aren’t those your relatives?” he asked. “I think I even saw some of your siblings over there.”

Kirsten gave a slow nod. He didn’t speak.

He felt the gentle weight of his fiancée’s hand resting on his arm. She was nearing her term. It could be any day now. Strangely, her belly hadn’t grown as large as expected. That worried him.

The birth might be difficult.

He had done what he could—used Mana he had stored in crystals during his time in the Enclave, prepared protective spells, gathered every resource he could. But doubt clung to him like smoke.

His gaze drifted toward the edge of the square again.

There stood his stepmother, arms crossed, her jaw clenched. His adoptive father stood beside her, frowning.

Neither had said a word, but their disapproval radiated from them like a curse.

Kirsten wondered if their mood had to do with Masha being frozen in a time closet along with Betty. Sylia hadn’t wanted them interfering that day. The way they were looking at her now, sharp with resentment and barely concealed anger, made it clear they hadn’t forgiven her for it.

Kirsten looked away.

There was too much to untangle today. Too many strange threads weaving around this square. The shift in the land. The sacred chapel.

And Sylia—watching it all and standing at the center of the attention.

Sylia, as Syl Celia, stood just beyond the columned archway, sunlight warming the edges of her hair like strands of ink-drenched silk. Her dress was simpler than the divine silks he had seen her in before, but somehow that only made her more disarming. The bodice hugged her waist with just enough formality to betray its Craftersmanship, while the red floral skirt swayed gently with every subtle movement, patterned in gold that shimmered like sunlit dust. A small satchel clung to her hip, practical and earthy like she could vanish into the street or summon a City with the same ease.

Her shoulders were bare beneath the tied sleeves, warm with color and framed by soft lace. The ribbon at her throat matched the delicate embroidery on her sleeves—everything coordinated with a grace that seemed natural, never forced.

But it was her face, those eyes, that always struck him hardest.

Green, alive, filled with old knowledge and quiet rebellion. The kind of eyes that judged without cruelty and forgave without promise. A flower tucked behind her ear softened her, but it didn’t fool him. Not anymore.

She looked like a spring spirit walking among mortals. Kirsten had seen her kindness, her cruelty, and the immense burden she carried—always pretending it cost her nothing.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Even now, dressed like a village girl, Sylia seemed no less powerful.

If anything, she looked more celestial, yet still unnervingly real.

Today, she looked like a Goddess.

Their Goddess of Autumn.

Many stared in silence, captivated not by the Sainted Priestess Candidate they had once known, but by the one who now stood before them as the chosen voice of the Goddess of Autumn, Hunt, and Moons.

Everyone had gone quiet.

Syl Celia hadn’t spoken yet, but the stillness said enough. People leaned forward, eyes fixed on her as if a single word might reshape the ground beneath them. She stood calm, patient, waiting—for what, Kirsten couldn’t tell.

His attention shifted when he noticed movement near the chapel’s newly built platform.

Gerald Karazki, relaxed and unbothered, was waving lazily at Saya, Kirsten’s sister, from a stool positioned near the chapel steps. He held a shallow cup in one hand—rice wine, by the look of it, and in the morning no less. He sat among his peers, surrounded by well-dressed Gentry men and soft-spoken servants, as though the sacred gathering were just another stop in his daily routine.

Their mother smiled, but it was a nervous, fleeting gesture—half politeness, half dread.

Beside her, Saya’s expression soured.

Anoura, Saya’s closest friend and one of Kirsten’s former lovers leaned in, her voice low and edged with curiosity.

“Is that the Count? With his whole family? And isn’t that Saya’s adoptive father? I thought he was off traveling.”

Before Saya could answer, Kirsten’s stepmother Dahia Bimal cut in sharply.

“They’re here for her. She’s snatched them all.”

Her husband tried to quiet her with a raised hand, but she pushed past him. The frustration in her voice had sharpened into something deeper—resentment that had lingered too long.

Saya turned. “Mother, should I go speak to him?”

Two voices answered at once.

“No!” their mother and aunt cried in unison.

Their mother pressed on quickly, voice tight.

“Please, don’t. Not after last time. He’s with his kind now. He won’t want you near—not when he’s trying to dissolve the adoption and hand you over to Kerrick instead.”

Saya recoiled.

“Not Baron Kerrick.”

Her voice was full of quiet hatred. She couldn’t stand the man or his daughters.

Kirsten’s stepmother Dahia Bimal gave a helpless shrug.

“It wouldn’t change anything. She got to him too. She tries with everyone. She even tried with my man.”

That turned heads.

Kirsten’s father Dunkareh Krevoski frowned. “How many times do I have to tell you that she never once considered me. Whoever saw her with someone mistook Dehersegel for me. They don’t know him well. From behind, we look alike.”

Dahia looked far from convinced.

Kirsten interjected, calm but firm. “Mother, Father’s right.”

But his father wasn’t done. “Or maybe it was Dio. He still sees her and he’s utterly under her spell.”

That made the stepmother blink.

Kirsten turned sharply. “What?”

His father exhaled. “Who do you think is the mother of his baby girl?”

“She’s adopted.” His stepmother said automatically.

“No,” his father replied. “We just pretend she is. He’s too old, and you know how she lies about her age. Always shaving off a decade or two. Kerrick and his cousin have been tied to her for years. Gerald may be recent, but the rest—they’re from her old crowd. That’s why they’re here. Her Goddesses are… strange. Every time that woman spreads her legs, one of them grants a blessing to the man involved.”

Kirsten stiffened.

His father went on. “Some of my siblings got plenty of blessings, considering how long they stayed in her bed. I always hated that kind of thing. I got my blessings through Masha, from her Goddesses without having to defile myself.”

Kirsten almost choked.

Kirsten glared at his adoptive father, Dunkareh.

Fool.

The man had just made Syl Celia a target for every pair of eyes in earshot. As if she weren’t already chased enough—the most beautiful, most powerful woman most of these men would ever see. It didn’t matter how she altered her appearance; men flocked to her like flies to honey. She could dress in rags or royalty, and they would still find her.

Kirsten was pulled from his thoughts by a hand on his arm.

Tammy, his sister, stood beside him, her grip firm, her eyes trained on Gerald and the group near the chapel. There was a flicker of fear in her expression not for herself, but for the man who had fathered her child.

She leaned in and asked softly, “Should I go greet them? He waved at us…”

Before Kirsten could answer, their mother cut in sharply.

“No. He wasn’t waving at you. He was motioning for us just to get closer so he can keep watch. Do not go near the Count.”

Her voice was clipped, dangerously calm. “Gerald just received his Count title. He can’t afford a scandal. And certainly not one that involves you.”

Tammy’s voice trembled. “But, Mother—”

Their mother’s eyes closed for a breath. When she spoke again, her tone was brittle, cutting.

“I’ve known the Count for many years. He used to visit, long before he settled here a few years ago. He has children in this City. If he’s sent Gerald to Syl Celia, it’s because he was desperate to get you out of his sight.”

The words landed like a slap.

Tammy’s face paled. Saya, Kirsten, and even their aunt gasped aloud. All eyes turned to the man and his family in stunned silence.

Their mother wasn’t finished.

“I’ve heard he’s a third cousin to the King of Korsiova, and first cousin to the King of Kirsova. Sylia spent holidays there, you know. Took a few of her close friends with her. That’s how Mariana ended up there.”

Kirsten blinked.

He turned to her slowly, confused. “What do you mean?”

His mother didn’t answer.

Mariana—his twin sister.

He had been told she lived with distant relatives. That she’d been sent away for health. A quiet arrangement. Not once had anyone mentioned palaces. Royal courts. Holidays with Sylia.

He opened his mouth to ask again, but the weight of what he’d just heard was still settling in his chest.

His mother continued, her tone firm and without apology.

“Mariana has a good life there. She writes to me often. She’s very happy to have been sent away, and she might even secure a good position. For now, she helps Sylia and the King’s youngest son—the one who wasn’t named heir because he’s considered illegitimate.”

Kirsten stared. “A King?”

His mother didn’t flinch.

“What did you expect? Sylia still finds it in her heart to spend time here but also in royal castles, where she’s received with all the honor due to her status. Your father often visits Mariana there, thanks to Sylia. None of us want to jeopardize her situation.”

Tammy’s voice cracked, tears rising in her eyes.

“So I’m sacrificed for Mariana’s sake.”

Tammy blinked, wounded.

Her mother continued, more sharply this time.

“Gerald is a young Noble. He knew the game, just like so many others do. He usually wears charms, but they didn’t work so well in the Slums. I’m sure they’re already remaking them.”

Saya spoke up, her tone clipped.

“What about my father? How long has he been involved?”

Their mother answered without hesitation.

“For the longest time. I was just a girl back then, and he was already older—even then. He’s even older now, and likely glad he’s kept that woman in his bed for two decades.”

Kirsten inhaled sharply.

“Impossible.”

His mother didn’t look at him.

“Kirsten, she’s a true Saint—educated in the world of Spirits, not that nonsense pushed by that all-but-fake Saintess candidate, Masha. I heard she was already mature just four months after her birth. Many of the men standing over there have been with her since then. Mathias Herves and your uncles are said to have known her the longest. He is… like her in a way.”

She glanced around, then lowered her voice slightly.

“We don’t speak of it outside the family, but I remember it clearly. He was full-grown when I was just a girl. Now? He’s younger than me. Only twenty-eight. Back then, he used to fly in on a whim, always chasing some wild adventure.”

Kirsten’s voice was barely a whisper.

“What?”

Saya frowned. “He’s not Noble.”

Their mother gave a dry laugh.

“No. He’s worse. Much worse. If your uncles are to be believed, he’s a reincarnated Celestial. Sylia was lucky to have his help. He’s the only reason the Province Lord’s men haven’t closed in.”

Silence fell again as Sylia stepped forward and began to speak. Her voice, calm and resonant, carried through the hushed square like a breeze before a storm.

She welcomed them all—citizens, visitors, and Nobles alike—to the Hunt Event of the Year, hosted under the divine auspices of the newly risen Goddess of Autumn, Hunt, and Moon, within the freshly created Enclave dedicated to the season’s wild bounty and sacred harvest.

“Children are not allowed in the hunt itself." Sylia stated plainly. “Those deemed worthy may instead enter the Springelia Enclave or rather, the Semi-Enclave created by my Goddess’ Subordinate, the Goddess of Spring and Autumn, Springelia. The rest of you will remain in the hunting lodges’ Semi-Enclave near the entrance, from which the main Enclaves may be accessed.”

She continued, her tone practical.

“Anyone not participating in the hunt is welcome to join the harvest teams, either with my own people or with the forces of Mathias Herves. It’s a good time to gather rice for the winter, collect preserves, and prepare salted meat from previous hunts. These activities will be held in both the Autumn, Hunt, and Moon Enclave and in Springelia’s territories.”

There was a pause before her tone shifted—sharp and clear.

“As always, access to the hunt requires a tribute in blood and bounty. How much you can take depends on your Mana level and status. Priests and guards will assess you at the gates.”

She turned her gaze, deadpan and direct, toward a figure standing near the front of the crowd. Mathias Herves, clothed for the hunt in leathers and linen, a crossbow resting lightly in one hand, grinned broadly under her stare.

Sylia didn’t blink.

“I’m just saying this for the benefit of anyone who thinks it’s acceptable to shoot down thousands of birds with a single arrow for a personal feast.” Her tone was light, her smile sharp. “Also, no tuned crossbows even if someone’s generous family had it custom-made for them. You want to hunt? Make your own. With branches. Or better yet,” she added with exaggerated thoughtfulness, “use your own hands. Scratch that. On second thought, that might be even worse…”

She let the words linger.

Then, smiling, she added, “Of course, this doesn’t concern most of you. The person it does concern will know who they are.”

Laughter rippled lightly through the crowd.

“No exceptions for his adorable, starving children either.” she added dryly. “They’ll be limited. You, on the other hand,” Her eyes locked onto Mathias. “will be entering with handicaps. You’re fattened up enough.”

Mathias blinked, feigning surprise. He looked around, as if trying to identify the offender she referred to—until her eyes stayed locked on him again.

He pointed at himself, incredulous, and gestured at his waistline as if to say, Look how slim I am!

Sylia rolled her eyes toward the sky, as though appealing to higher powers for patience.

Finally, she sighed. “Fine. But no more than ten thousand birds, and only in the deepest areas. And as for the children of that person—if they want bounty rights, they’ll have to chase down the chubby rabbits and catch them with their hands.”

Mathias nodded solemnly—though the twinkle in his eye remained—and glanced at one of his children, who now looked thoroughly terrified.

With her announcement complete, Sylia stepped aside, allowing the Head Priest of the Autumn, Hunt, and Moon Sub-Church to take the floor. Alongside his subordinates, he began outlining the event’s finer details—rules, activities, and boundaries—speaking with the solemnity of divine ordinance.

Around the square, a few Faithwardens from various churches moved through the crowd, handing out scrolls and folded flyers. Pullina, catching a brief glance from Sylia in the direction of the Moon and Greenlights Church Priests, nodded at once and hurried to assist them.