Splitting from the others, Asuma made his way toward the grand cathedral at the heart of Talagra—an imposing structure carved into the mountainside, with spires that reached like fingers toward the heavens. This was the spiritual stronghold that had locked horns with the city's officials, the center of faith now embroiled in political unrest.
A small crowd had gathered at the stone steps outside, where a silver-robed preacher stood beneath the arch of the temple gates, his voice booming like a war drum.
"The Garden is sacred!" he cried, hands raised to the heavens. "Saint Arlette's tears still water the roots, and the Goddess herself watches over its petals! Blasphemers wish to desecrate what is holy! Shall we stand idle?"
A chorus of "No!" rang out from the flock—peasants, elderly worshippers, even children—all eyes glazed with fervor. It wasn't just faith that held them here. It was something deeper. Something dangerously close to fanaticism.
Asuma stood at the edge of the crowd, watching. The man's words stirred something in these people, but they rang hollow in Asuma's ears—loud, yet empty. More like a man clinging to belief than preaching it.
Soon, the city's armored guards arrived, shouting for order. They pushed through the restless mob, dispersing the crowd as tensions simmered. As the commotion broke apart, Asuma slipped away toward the cathedral's doors, just as the preacher vanished inside.
Inside, the church was dimly lit, candles flickering before massive stained-glass murals of saints and gods. Incense floated through the air like mist, curling around the marble statues of divine figures that stood in silent judgment.
At the foot of a towering statue of the Water Goddess, knelt the same preacher, now stripped of his performative voice. He whispered prayers in a trembling voice, his fingers curled tightly around a silver amulet.
"Let the garden be cleansed… let the afflicted be healed… let this curse pass us by."
Asuma stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
"So you do believe the garden is poisoned."
The preacher didn't turn.
"Are you one of them? Another official come to ridicule our faith?"
"No," Asuma replied. "I'm with the Guild."
Now the man turned—slowly. His face was older than his voice let on. Sacred markings in the form of flowing script were tattooed down his temples and neck, glowing faintly with divine enchantment. But his eyes… they were haunted. The kind of gaze carved only by guilt and decades of silence.
"Then why does the Guild meddle in divine matters?"
"Because the dead don't care whether their killers are divine or demonic," Asuma said calmly. "And whatever's poisoning that garden is killing people. Isn't it?"
The preacher exhaled slowly.
"This church has worshipped that soil for generations. That garden was our proof that the Goddess once walked among us. And now it rots."
"So you knew."
"We suspected. Strange illnesses. Sickness that clung to the lungs. But how could we condemn the holiest place in Talagra without damning the church itself?" he whispered, his voice cracked with bitterness.
Asuma narrowed his eyes. "If that's true, then why haven't you warned anyone?"
The priest met his gaze, defiant but desperate.
"Because if the people lose the garden, they lose hope. And when hope dies in Talagra… so does the church. So does everything."
Asuma folded his arms. "You'd let people die to protect a lie?"
"No." The priest's voice faltered. "I've been praying for an answer. Hoping the goddess would cleanse it herself. But now…" He hesitated. "Tell me… how did you know the poison was there? No common magic user could sense it."
Asuma smirked.
"I could ask you the same. Seems like we're both seeing more than we should."
Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors of the cathedral burst open, the echo booming through the sacred halls like thunder. A tall, commanding figure strode in, her presence fierce and unyielding.
It was her—the same woman who had clashed with the clergy during their first arrival in Talagra. Draped in a deep crimson cloak embroidered with the insignia of Talagra's Council, her boots echoed defiantly against the stone floor as she approached the altar.
"Santanios!" she barked, her voice like fire through frost. "I heard you gave yet another sermon glorifying that sickened garden of yours. I swear, if this continues, I'll burn the whole cursed place to ash myself."
The clergyman, Santanios, stood tall, his prayer interrupted, his face darkening with fury.
"Zyra," he growled, "how dare you speak of desecrating the Garden of Saint Arlette in the house of the Goddess? That garden is holy! You defile this place with every breath!"
"Holy?" Zyra spat, crossing her arms. "When our people are coughing blood? When children are dying in their beds? You call that holy?"
The temperature in the room seemed to shift, the air itself trembling with animosity.
"Why are you so obsessed with destroying the garden?" Santanios shot back, stepping down from the altar. "Is it because of that project? The one your council keeps in the shadows? You officials are so blinded by gold, you'd sell your mother's bones if it meant another vault full of coin!"
"At least I'm not letting citizens die in the name of outdated myths and miracles!" Zyra snapped.
Asuma stood still, watching this clash unfold, absorbing every word.
This wasn't just a disagreement. It was a full-blown ideological war.
The clergy worshipped the garden, despite its creeping death. The city wanted to uproot it—yet not just to save lives, but perhaps for something else entirely.
He could see it now. The truth was buried somewhere between fanaticism and corruption. Both sides were hiding something. And caught in the middle were the people of Talagra, suffering for secrets not their own.
As the tension flared and voices rose again, Asuma quietly stepped back into the shadows of the nave, his mind racing.
What is really happening in this city?
Why does the garden matter so much—to both sides?
And who is lying more?