The shrine of Alinande stood solemn and silent in the aftermath of the autumn storm. Crimson leaves that had been clinging desperately to the skeletal branches of the surrounding oaks, now lay scattered like drops of blood across the damp earth. Michail himself had chosen this secluded corner of the garden as the site for the shrine, and he had helped Magister Cornelius to build it. Now, having gathered enough strength to walk outside for fresh air, he made his way to the shrine with slow and deliberate steps. He knelt before the finely carved stone figurine that represented his beloved goddess, seeking solace and absolution in this holy refuge.

As Michail prayed forgiveness for taking part in the tavern brawl that had brought shame to him and his family, his heart swelled with gratitude towards Alinande for healing his wounds with such divine grace. “Merciful mother, please forgive my sins,” he whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of his transgressions. “Guide me on the path of righteousness and grant me wisdom to resist temptation. Help me to bring my uncle’s murderer to justice, so that his soul can rest in peace with you. I will be your humble servant till the end of my days, and beyond.”

As he lingered in prayer, a chill descended upon the hallowed ground. He heard silent footsteps approaching. A shadow, long and foreboding, crept across the moss-covered flagstones, eclipsing the goddess's light. Michail's breath hitched, a cold draft kissing the nape of his neck as Joram's presence announced itself.

Joram, as unpredictable as the storm that had just passed, stood beside him, casting an ominous silhouette upon the shrine. Michail felt a quiver run through him, a mixture of dread and an inexplicable thrill that always accompanied Joram's proximity. He could feel Joram's gaze upon him, piercing and sharp as thorns, yet he dared not turn to meet it.

“Praying, are we?” Joram's voice slithered through the air like a snake, cold and calculating. Michail felt a surge of unease wash over him. He struggled to maintain his composure, but he could feel his pulse quickening and a cold sweat beginning to form on his brow.

“J-Joram,” Michail stammered, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Merely observing,” Joram replied. “It's fascinating to see the desperate measures one will take to escape the reality.”

Michail felt the weight of Joram's presence bearing down on him like a suffocating shroud. He wanted to stand up, to confront the servant who had ensnared him in this twisted game, but he found himself unable to move, paralyzed by the conflicting emotions churning within him.

“Leave me be, Joram,” Michail whispered, his voice barely audible as he fought to regain control of himself. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“Is that so?” Joram's voice was a cold whisper in his ear, “Then tell me why you have ventured here without my permission.”

Michail swallowed hard, as he sought to steady himself against the overwhelming presence of the man before him. He wondered if Joram could sense his fear. “I... I used to come here with Magister Cornelius,” he said softly, unable to meet Joram's gaze. “I needed guidance.”

“Guidance? From a goddess who has abandoned you, and with an imaginary mentor that is equally absent?” Joram scoffed. “Allow me to offer you some guidance of my own.”

Joram moved closer to the altar. He displayed a perverse satisfaction, an unholy glee, his fingers working deftly to undo his trousers. Michail watched in horror, unable to look away from the impending sacrilege.

“What are you doing?” Michail choked out, feeling his heart hammering wildly in his chest.

“Proving a point,” Joram replied, as he nonchalantly took his member out of his pants.

With a twisted smirk, Joram began to relieve himself upon the shrine, the golden liquid spattering against the delicate figurine of the Merciful Mother. The sharp, acerbic stench filled the air, mingling with the lingering scent of damp earth and autumn leaves. Michail’s heart clenched as if gripped by an icy fist, his body trembling with a mixture of fear and revulsion. He could scarcely comprehend what he was witnessing.

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“Never again forget who holds power over you,” Joram warned, as the last droplets fell upon the defiled statuette. “Your prayers are but whispers in the wind.”

Michail, torn between outrage and fear, stared at the desecrated shrine, eyes wide with horror. Alinande would curse him for this. She would curse them both.

“B-blasphemer!” he cried out, stumbling back and pointing a finger at Joram. “You have defiled this holy place, you… Khmeledian!”

Joram's eyes flashed with anger. “Take back your words,” he growled, looming over Michail. “Beg your Magister's forgiveness, or you will suffer!”

Michail shook his head, choking back a sob. He had already betrayed the goddess by bringing Joram to this sacred place. He would not degrade himself further by groveling at that monster's feet.

Joram's hand lashed out, cracking across Michail's cheek. His head snapped back, pain exploding behind his eyes. His body shook with silent sobs, yet now the hatred had taken over his fear and pain.

“You are as good as gone, servant,” Michail hissed from the ground. “As soon as I tell my mother about this...”

“So now you want your mommy?” Joram interrupted, his voice dripping with condescension. “Well guess what, little lordling?” He paused dramatically before continuing, “She isn't here.”

Michail’s heart skipped a beat before the revelation struck him. “But...but...” he stammered, confusion clouding his already distraught state. Joram chuckled evilly under his breath, obviously enjoying every moment of Michail's misery.

“Your precious mother,” Joram drawled out each word slowly, savoring their effect on Michail, “has given me complete control of the house as your Magister, while she goes gallivanting off on her errands.”

A sickening feeling settled deep into Michail's gut. Panic began to set in as questions swirled around in his mind. Where did she go? Why hadn't anyone told him sooner? How could she leave without telling him – just like his father had done years ago? If his mother truly did give Joram free rein, then what chance did he stand against someone who wielded such power?

“When will she be back?” he managed to choke out.

Joram smirked cruelly. “None of your concern, pup,” he retorted callously. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Besides, the fact that she didn’t bother to inform you – speaks volumes, don’t you think? Even your mother doesn’t think you are man enough to take charge!”

Hearing those words cut deeper than any knife ever could have. For a moment, Michail just sat there, frozen in horror, his eyes locked on Joram's gaze. He had run out of arguments. There was nothing left to be said.

With a sudden, vicious movement, Joram seized Michail's blond curls in his cruel grasp and yanked him to his feet. The pain shot through his scalp like lightning, yet it paled in comparison to the anguish that tore through his heart. He clawed at Joram's wrist, struggling in vain. Michail was tall and strong, a skilled rider and swordsman, but Joram held him as easily as a child. Weakness suffused his limbs, as if his strength had been siphoned away. All he could do was to stumble forward as Joram began to drag him back towards the mansion.

With every passing second, the weight of helplessness grew heavier upon his shoulders. He wanted to scream, to cry out loud, but somehow he knew it would make things even worse. So, he bit down hard on his lip till blood oozed out, tasting metallic saliva mixed with bitter defeat.

As they neared the mansion, the servants scattered about the grounds paused in their tasks to watch the humiliating spectacle unfold. No one dared to intervene – it was evident that they recognized Joram’s new authority. Their eyes bore into Michail, filled with pity, shock, and perhaps even a hint of disgust. The knowledge that they witnessed his degradation only served to amplify his torment, feeding the fires of shame that burned his cheeks.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible amidst the anguished sobs that wracked his body. “Please, just let me go.”

“Your pleas fall on deaf ears,” Joram replied coldly, dragging Michail through the imposing double doors of the mansion and into the dimly lit entrance hall. “You are mine now, to mold and shape as I see fit. And you will learn obedience, even if it breaks you.”

With those words still echoing in Michail's ears, they reached the entrance to the mansion's basement, the door looming before them like the gaping maw of some monstrous beast. Joram released Michail's hair at last, only to shove him roughly towards the stairs leading into the abyss below.

“Down,” he ordered. “Your lesson awaits.”

As they descended into the darkness, Michail's resistance crumbled, his spirit buckling under the weight of his pain and humiliation. He allowed himself to be led like a lamb to the slaughter, knowing that there would be no escape – that he could do nothing but submit to the twisted will of his new Magister and pray for salvation that might never come.