In a void of darkness, my fingers press against the mirror before me. My brow furrows in discontent at the person staring back at me. Undoubtedly, this is me, and yet, somehow it isn't; the body is petite and slender with a delicate face, but spirit feels mismatched like I am some sort of zombie resurrected with body parts that aren't my own.

“Luminous One.” A lilting voice rumbles like thunder around me. The irresistibly masculine sound ignites my soul, and instantly, my world is scalded in beautiful, golden light. “You say you love me, and yet, you question the beauty of my creation.”

I freeze before turning. There before me is a man who glows like the sun. A man so beautiful it makes my heart ache. His golden hair freely flows like fire and his eyes peer up through it like pools of glistening honey. Despite his gaze's hypnotic beauty, I can't stare away from that chest of his. Every ripple of muscle is so immaculately sculpted that I feel as though I'm looking at a work of art. My cheeks burn as my insides prickle with jealousy before I remember it is rude to stare, but I just can't seem to sever my gaze.

He smirks and lounges back against the edge of the glittering pool like a king on his throne. From the glint in his eye, it's almost as if he wants me to look. Without breaking eye contact, he beckons me with a slow movement of his finger.

“Come here,” he whispers. “I shall give you the love you so desperately crave.

My heart leaps. My whole body reddens like I am some chameleon trying to blend into the sunset behind me. I stutter and stammer, and then I wonder if it would be rude to decline. Admittedly, it doesn't take me long to reach this conclusion, but this is a dream, and he is my God. Or so I hope so anyway, as they tell me my dreams are prophetic. Surely, it can't count as a sin if it isn't real, right?

I swallow and dip my toe in the water, shielding my shameful chest from his eyes with my arms. It's warm. So irresistibly warm; the golden water feels purifying as I steadily wade into the blazing aura of the sun god. As the water rises up by my chest, I feel free, as if there is nothing ugly about me before him. Despite this, I still cannot manage to meet his gaze. Those eyes feel as though they are unraveling my soul.

Just as our chests are about to touch, his body distorts. His torso thins to the tall shape of a rake, and his eyes pale to the most monotonous grey. Those glistening golden locks wither away to nothing and his voice heightens to a nasally wheeze.

I look up and find I am locked in the arms of my pastor.

“Repent vile child!” he thunders.

I awaken screaming from yet another homoerotic dream about my god.

The book that was tucked under my arms flies on its spine as I jolt upward. The sound of it crashing to the floor smacks the sense back into me; I'd fallen asleep with the Lupine book in my arms. No wonder I had such lucrative dreams. I curse as my chest heaves, knowing instantly what was to blame for this—the damned sexy stained-glass window had struck again. That was the only image I had to base such a fiercely masculine form on. I had shielded my eyes every time I passed it, yet still, I had fallen prey; every time I looked up to avoid the gaze of the audience when I was singing, there was Apollo and his stupid sexy abs.

In hindsight, commissioning such an accidentally sexually-charged piece of art was a rather obtuse error for a church that practiced abstinence as a form of worship. So many innocent souls had fallen to that infamously sexy stained glass. Its hypnotic power is so prominent that some even said that it was haunted—that the deviant souls of the countless Lupine slaughtered by the church had flocked there, continuing to seduce the innocent youth even in death.

That was the only natural reason it would continuously weasel its way into my mind, right?

I realise then that the boys hadn't pounded the wall in their dorm like they usually do when I wake up from my nightmares. They must have been sound asleep. The thought of being alone with my thoughts is almost as uncomfortable as the dream itself; I close my thighs and try to ignore the warmth glowing between them. Shame shrouds my features and as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I feel utterly vile. I just can't lie here like this. With each moment that passes, I feel my soul sink deeper and deeper into deviancy.

Thankfully, I have my Priest on speed dial just for this reason.

Although I have been banned from confessions during the night, this does not deter me. This is an emergency. I feel contaminated with every moment that passes.

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I grab the soul-transmitter and press it to my forehead so hard it leaves an imprint, mentally screaming out his name. I'd rather speak to Sister Miranda to weigh out the punishment for a sin like this, but women are not permitted to cleanse sin in Helioistic beliefs. My hesitation is too late, however; I don't realise the transmission has already started. Golden sparks, ignited by my body's aura, surge through the crystal transmitter.

There is no response. As I strain my ears over the sound of rain lashing upon the ceiling, the gentle sound of static leaks in like a centipede wriggling its way into my ear canal. My brow furrows and a strange flutter of unease worms its way inside me. It distorts, growing louder and louder like a choir of rattlesnakes. As thunder suddenly roars, I catch a snippet of something:

What sounds like the tail-end of a gargled choke for help.

My stomach plummets. Nauseating anxiety tickles my insides, but I remind myself to take a moment to process the scenario. Logic tells me that, given that this device transmits from the soul, he could be having a nightmare—it's certainly happened when I've called during the night before. But there is also the possibility that something with a powerful soul-reading could be interfering with the wire. Something like a wretched hellhound.

I swallow. If I wake anyone up during the night and there is no threat, I'll be scolded, if not worse. So I try to tell myself that it's nothing. That it's the usual panicky Lorelei overreacting. But it's no use, I have to repent right now or I am literally going to explode; every second I spend hesitating is a second more my soul is tarnished. I wipe my clammy hands upon my pajamas, reminding myself how many times I've cried wolf before, and I get up, almost forgetting to hide the Lupine book before tucking it under my mattress. I don't even want to think about what would happen if they find out I've been reading about mate bonds in the forbidden section of the library.

Just as my fingers touch the door handle, the sound of music weaves its way into my eardrums. I breathe a sigh of relief. Sister Miranda often plays the piano at unusual times as a form of offering to Apollo. Granted, it was usually early morning when the sun rises, but this nighttime song could be a new ritual as a tribute to Artemis also. I know it's her. I'd recognise the beautiful sound of her playing anywhere—she's sort of like a beacon of light in this dark place. While I'd never admit it aloud, I'm a supporter of her liberal beliefs on religion.

I open the door. The piano peels like the pitter-patter of delicate footsteps. Moonlight glares at my skin as I pass through the panels of it shining through the tall, arched windows. I swallow, always feeling uneasy in the full moon's gaze—it's when the lecherous wolves are at their strongest, after all. But the music makes me feel so at ease that it lulls me into a sense of security like a beautiful siren's song.

As I reach for the handle leading into the main room of the church, the music stops. It is accompanied by a thunderous clatter, the unmistakable screech of the church's ancient doors being pried apart.

“Miranda?” I call, pushing the door open.

There is no response. The room is unbelievably dark. The doors are slightly ajar; whoever was in here has escaped into the night. I hurry to the doorway to attempt to catch a glimpse of them, but as I do so, I trip. Something rolls across the floor as I crash. Liquid splatters across the floor.

I groan, finding my hand plunged into a warm, wet liquid. I stare at my hand; something dark is sticking to my fingertips. Just then, thunder roars like the growl of a rabid wolf. Lightning strobes like its shift, revealing a sleek red coating my palm. Just as my heart sinks, I see it:

A flash of a decapitated head staring soullessly into my eyes.

The blood drains from my face. Ice-cold goosebumps electrocute my spine. I scream, but no sound is coming out. Or perhaps I just cannot hear it, for I am utterly consumed with terror.

There is a corpse before me. There is a corpse before me. THERE IS A CORPSE BEFORE ME!

I don't know what else to do. I scream like I've never screamed in my life. I scream until I can no longer breathe, until I am gagging and hemorrhaging and feel the urge to faint.

Static blows my eardrums apart— it is only when the light switches on that I realise that someone has come. I can't process anything; my heart is pounding so fast I feel suffocated by my own rib cage.

Trembling, I smear blood down my face as I violently clutch myself. I don't want to look but it's like something is telling me I have to. I am a soldier reared to slaughter wolf-shifters. If I cannot handle this gore, I will never prevail at my god-given destiny.

I clench my shaking fists as I look up and, instantly, vomit rises in my mouth. There is Father David's severed corpse splayed before the altar. He is drowned in a pit of black blood pooling upon the marble flooring, and his shattered neck-bone sticks out of him like a pike. I have never seen such ghastly terror in a pair of eyes before—they look as though they are about to burst from their sockets. The position I have forced his head into creates an utterly chilling image where a loose tear continues to roll down his cheeks long after his head has been ripped from his shoulders.

I cover my hand over my mouth and wretch. I know then that that image of his glassy and glittering gaze has been carved into my soul forever. That I will never be the same ever again. I will be haunted by this image for the rest of my life.

The final straw that causes my own tears to well is the defaced image of His Radiance. The statue of Apollo has also been decapitated. His marble toga has been smeared in blood like the killer had thrown handfuls of it in a rabid rage, and blood resides upon his outstretched palms, plummeting like tears onto his broken head below.

Behind him, the words "your god is a liar" are written in blood across the wall