Caelion sat alone in the silent chamber of the Moon Goddess' temple. The cultists had been dragged away. Justice, swift and terrifying, had been passed with a voice not entirely his own. The goddess had spoken through him—again. He didn't know if it was a blessing or a cruel trick.
The scent of incense still lingered in the air. The marble floors gleamed under moonlight filtering through the stained-glass skylight, painting halos around him. But he was tired. Drained from divine judgment. Sick of prophecy. Exhausted of being a Salvador.
So he slouched where the devotees usually knelt, back against the cold stone bench. He removed his gauntlets, closed his eyes, and muttered under his breath, "You made me do that again. Are you satisfied now, my Lady?"
Silence.
Then sleep claimed him.
But it was not the kind of sleep that offered rest.
It was memory. No—echo.
It wasn't his body.
The scent of jasmine and sweat. The heat of a fire not kindled by any torch. He was Azarios now. The Betrayer. The Original Salvador. The man who once touched divinity—and defied it.
A woman beneath him, cloaked in moonlight and shadow. Hair like rivers of night. Eyes that stared at him not with fear, but hunger. Her skin was bronze kissed by celestial fire, and her lips shaped his name like a spell.
"Azarios…"
His hands moved with instinct, reverence wrapped in desperation. The dream-memory was vivid, unbearably so—her thighs around his waist, her nails dragging lines of red down his back, her moans like hymns to forgotten stars.
"You said we were cursed," she whispered into his ear, voice shaking with pleasure and defiance, "Then let this be blasphemy."
Their rhythm became like a ritual. Her cries echoed like prayers. Her body worshipped his, and his burned for her like a star collapsing into itself. He didn't know where she ended and he began. Just that he never wanted to leave.
As climax tore through the dream—raw, bright, divine—Caelion gasped and woke violently.
He was panting, drenched in sweat, trousers unbearably tight.
His breath fogged the cold air of the temple. Moonlight now directly above him, casting an ethereal spotlight on the very bench he laid upon.
Caelion wiped his face and muttered, "You cruel, smug witch."
And somewhere in the vastness of the heavens, he could feel it.
His goddess was laughing.
Caelion Salvador hadn't meant to fall asleep again.
But sleep had snuck up on him like a lover in the dark, coaxing him into surrender.
He should've gone back to the barracks after last night's storm. Should've never wandered into the temple again with that ache in his chest. But something called him here—something ancient. Something intimate.
So when he slumped into one of the pews reserved for the faithful, head tilted back against the smooth stone pillar, he didn't expect the soft hum of moonlight to kiss his skin like her hands used to do.
And then—
He was back.
Back inside the dream.
No. Not a dream.
A memory.
A fevered ghost of a life once lived—of her.
She was beneath him, writhing with sweat-slicked skin and trembling thighs, clinging to him like she would shatter without his weight. His name tumbled from her lips in whimpers. Her nails carved worship into his back. And gods, he was relentless.
Thrusting into her like the war itself lived in his hips. No retreat. No mercy. No pauses between moans.
"Azarios —p-please… I—can't—"
"You can," he growled against her throat. "You will."
She tried to push him back, but he grabbed both her wrists and pinned them above her head, body crashing into hers again. The way her cunt clenched around him, like her body didn't want to let go, betrayed her cries.
She wanted rest, but her body wanted him more.
And he gave it. Over and over.
Until she was soaked, shaking, stuffed full of his pulsing release, her voice broken from the chorus of his name.
"Such a good girl," he murmured, kissing her forehead as if he hadn't just ruined her. "My brave little lamb."
She whimpered, cheeks wet with overwhelmed tears.
So he kissed her again—fiercer this time.
"You talk too much," he whispered against her lips. "Let me remind you what silence tastes like."
He kissed her again.
Hard.
And then—
DING. DING. DING. DING.
The temple bells.
He was awake.
But his mind was still halfway inside her.
He gasped, shooting upright, panting like a madman. His tunic was wrinkled. His face, flushed. His lap—well, that was a mess that didn't need the Goddess' holy insight.
Still breathless, he shouted, "Why now?! You witch! You timing-obsessed celestial menace!"
Heads turned.
Whispers erupted.
It was morning. Mass day. The entire left wing of the temple was filled with devotees. Priests lined the altar, preparing incense.
And here was Caelion Salvador, Commander of the Paladins, standing up on the holy pew, looking like he had just fucked a stormcloud and lost.
Acolytes froze.
An old woman dropped her beads.
One priest scrambled toward him, whispering urgent prayers of protection.
But Caelion didn't stop.
"I was so close! You saw it! You watched! Is this your idea of mercy, Eclaria?! Is this divine punishment for daring to remember her touch?!"
Gasps.
He was talking to the Moon Goddess like she was a drinking buddy who spilled his wine.
He turned to the statue above the altar, raising a defiant finger at the glowing stone form of Eclaria, robes flowing like mist, eyes carved in serene judgement.
"You could've waited five minutes! Five! Why would you wake me up right when I was about to kiss her again?!"
A younger priest grabbed his shoulder.
"My lord Caelion, please," he hissed. "The temple—"
"Do not touch me while I'm scolding the divine, boy."
The poor acolyte flinched.
Caelion turned again to the heavens, hair tousled, lips still swollen from the phantom kiss in his dream. His golden eyes burned.
"She was begging me to stop, you know. 'Caelion, please, I need to breathe,'" he mimicked in a falsetto, smirking like a bastard. "And do you know what I said? You can. You will."
The old women in the front row nearly fainted.
And then—
He heard it.
A laugh.
Feminine. Taunting. Soft like bells but laced with unholy amusement.
It wasn't from the crowd.
It wasn't even in his ears.
It was in his mind.
"You're a mess, Caelion."
Her voice.
Not the goddess. Hers.
The woman in his dream. His beloved. The one Eclaria refused to name. The one who wasn't of the heavens—but still clung to his soul like perfume after battle.
He staggered back, eyes wide.
"...No. No, don't laugh at me. You felt that too!"
She laughed harder in his head."You were smiling in your sleep, you idiot. Like a boy. With a mouth full of honey. Don't tell me you've gone soft."
He nearly growled.
"I'm not soft."
"You were." She giggled again. "Especially when you kissed me like that."
His fists clenched.
At this point, his fellow paladins had entered the temple.
Felkin and Sir Leor exchanged glances before motioning to Kion and Joel, who quietly approached their Commander and gently—very gently—dragged him by the arms.
"Come, my lord," Leor whispered like he was taming a wild wolf. "Let's get you back to your chambers before the High Priest has a stroke."
"But she laughed at me," Caelion insisted as they tugged him down the aisle. "Right in the middle of the temple."
"Yes, my lord," said Uno.
"My goddess —she saw everything," Caelion added.
"Of course she did, Commander," Lynx muttered, hiding a smirk.
"She wanted more, you know. I could feel it in her thighs."
"We're all very proud," Felkin muttered through his teeth. "Now let's go."
And all the while, Caelion Salvador—the Blue Paladin, the Empress' Sword, and holy warlord of the realm—was being escorted out of the temple by his own men like a mad prophet shouting about moans and thighs and betrayal.
The Moon Goddess remained silent.
But deep in his mind?
She laughed again.
And this time…
So did he.
| ☾ |
"Only the blood of Salvador may dare speak to Her without fear—and still be answered with laughter."
—Entry sealed by the Ivory Scribes, Temple of Eclaria, Year 0 of the Cursed Line
The story spread by nightfall.
The scandal of Caelion Salvador—Paladin Commander, saint-son of the Empire—arguing with the Moon Goddess like a bitter ex-lover in the middle of a sacred mass was, by now, being recited by children in alleyways and whispered behind fans at noble banquets.
"She laughed at him."
"He said she ruined the best part."
"He was dreaming of a woman. And he talked back to a goddess."
"He said blasphemies. To her face."
"And the goddess laughed."
It wasn't the first time.
That's what made it dangerous.
Because somewhere, in the back of every elder priest's memory, the tale surfaced again: The Salvador Curse.
It had happened with Azarios.
It had happened with Sera, the daughter who bore a moon-mark on her chest and disappeared into the Veil.
It had happened with Lord Thallian, who screamed during a lunar eclipse and claimed the goddess covers his mouth to silence him—and left him blind.
And now, Caelion.
The Empress heard the tale over her morning tea.
She did not choke, nor flinch. She simply lifted her cup, took a quiet sip, and muttered, "Ah. It begins."
The head of the Nobles Council stood across from her, pale and stiff-backed.
"Your Majesty. The Temple Council demands his repentance."
"They may demand the stars fall into their laps, as well," she said calmly. "But I doubt either request will bear fruit."
"He called the Moon Goddess a smug witch, and claimed she ruined his dream by waking him up."
"Did he really?"
"With passion, Your Majesty."
A slow smile crept onto her lips.
"Well then," she said, standing. "Perhaps the blood sings true, after all."
Caelion was silent the rest of the day.
Not from shame. But because he knew what was coming.
He knew what the dreams meant.
He knew it wasn't just his imagination. Not this time. Not when her voice followed him out of sleep. Not when her laughter curved like crescent blades inside his skull, even hours later.
And most of all—not when the dreams weren't his.
Azarios had loved her first.
And now Caelion lived the echoes of that sin. Over and over again.
Even now, as he lay in his chambers—cold, clean, punished by silence—7he could still hear the teasing voice of his goddess echo in his mind like perfume smoke curling between his ribs.
"You sound jealous, little Paladin. Do you not like seeing what your blood did before you?"
"Wasn't I kind? Didn't I let you taste her again?"
He clenched his jaw. "You torment me."
"I gift you memory. You call it torment."
"You were hard in your sleep. You begged for her. You whispered her name like prayer."
"I am not Azarios."
"No. But you love like him."
There was a scroll in the deepest chamber of the temple vaults. One only the Salvador heir could read. Only Caelion's blood unlocked the seal.
He went there after midnight.
Unarmed. Alone.
And when the glyphs flared gold under his touch, the scroll unrolled itself.
Inside, written in ink that glimmered like liquid moonlight, were the forgotten words of Azarios Salvador, last written before his fall:
"I defied the gods because she smiled when she touched me. And my goddess—Eclaria—watched. She did not strike me down. She laughed. Like the heavens had never entertained her more."
"I told her I would burn every altar if it meant I could kiss my love again."
"And she said, 'Then burn, my darling. But make it beautiful.'"
Caelion closed the scroll.
He leaned back against the cold stone wall and breathed deep into the silence.
He had thought it madness. He had thought himself cursed. But maybe—just maybe—it wasn't madness at all.
Maybe every Salvador heir was doomed not because they disrespected the heavens.
But because the heavens were in love with them, and in their divine cruelty, they let them fall in love with mortals instead.
And that was the scandal. That was the unbearable sin.
To make a god laugh, to make her want you—and still choose someone else.
Somewhere beyond the Veil, the Moon Goddess smiled. Her eyes shimmered with stars. And her voice echoed once more,
"She will break you, my precious little Paladin. But oh, what a lovely sound it will make."