I pull the door by the handle, and it feels a bit lighter this time. As soon as it starts creaking open, I hear a yelp from the other side—it’s Laura.

Candle in hand, she clutches her chest with the other. Her face is a mixture of relief and concern. "I thought I lost you," she says, her voice breathy.

"The door slammed shut. I tried to get it open, shouted your name, but you didn’t answer..." she trails off.

"I’m fine, Laura. I spoke with the Goddess," I reassure her.

Her mouth falls open. "Then we must return—you need to tell the high priest everything."

She takes my hand, and we start heading back. Her hand is cold, almost freezing. How long was I in there?

The light at the end of the tunnel grows brighter. Laura blows out the candle and quickens her pace, her grip on my hand tightening.

Her hand is still ice-cold, while mine is sweaty. I wonder if she noticed. Does she think I’m gross?

As we climb the stairs, a mass of priests awaits us, their eyes fixed on us as we emerge from the basement. Laura stops abruptly and quickly lets go of my hand.

The crowd parts, allowing us through. Laura steps ahead, leading the way. Her silence makes me uneasy, but she’s just doing her job—I shouldn’t expect reassurance from her.

We walk for what feels like an hour, with the crowd pressed against the hallway walls wherever we go.

Finally, we arrive at what seems to be our destination. A massive, ornate double door stands closed at the end of the hallway, and the crowd’s whispers grow louder.

The guards, polearms in hand, push the doors open, revealing the majestic interior. I step through and notice that Laura isn’t following me. A gentle smile tugs at her lips as the guards close the doors, leaving me alone.

Turning to face the room, I feel dozens of eyes on me. A fancy-looking crowd sits along the sides, while an important-looking old man occupies a throne at the far end. This must be the high priest.

I step forward, summoning as much confidence as I can muster. The murmurs from the sidelines do little to calm my nerves. The man on the throne, reminiscent of my world’s pope, watches me with an unreadable expression. With his elaborate hat and gem-studded scepter, he exudes authority, his face betraying no hint of emotion.

I barely managed to land an entry-level job; there’s no way I can’t screw this up. Focus, Steponas! Observe carefully and act with purpose. Think of it like a job interview.

"I spoke with the Goddess," I say stoically, suppressing my nervousness.

"So you say… Tell me, great hero, what did she reveal? What gift did she bestow upon you?" he asks, his voice gravelly.

So far, so good. I’m not bowing, and no one seems offended. I glance at the crowd; they appear to be patiently awaiting my response. It seems my theory about the great hero and the high priest having equal status holds true.

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Should I be honest? Or keep pretending I know what I’m doing? I have no idea how the Goddess is characterized in their religion. Her response surprised me, and I worry that if I recite her exact words, it might come across as blasphemy.

Better to keep the description as neutral as possible. "Her words were full of wisdom, and her tone was dignified," I say, holding steady eye contact with the high priest.

The man’s eyes narrow slightly. “And the gift?” he asks, insistent.

The old man isn’t letting this go—seems honesty is the best course of action.

“I was bestowed power by the Goddess,” I say.

The crowd erupts into whispers, and the old man’s eyes light up as his lips curve into a barely visible smile. His priorities are clear, that’s for certain.

"Mind giving us a demonstration?" he asks, and the crowd’s whispers fall dead silent.

This is the moment of truth. Decades of waiting have led to this. They’re all here, waiting for their hopes and expectations to be affirmed. The select few allowed to witness this moment hold their breaths. The ringing in my ears and the pounding of my heart grow louder.

I extend my hand toward the high priest and point at him with my index finger. The man leans forward, his eyes widening even more.

I close my eyes, partly to concentrate but mostly to brace myself for what’s to come. I take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves, though it does little to stop my arm from trembling.

The high priest leans forward even more, now almost rising from his throne. He squints, noticing the tip of my finger beginning to glow.

An opaque, red drop forms at the end of my outstretched finger, like a bead of water, gathering and growing in size. The red liquid coalesces into a droplet and falls to the floor, the high priest’s eyes tracking it all the way down. As soon as it hits, it evaporates into nothingness.

I open my eyes and let my arm fall to my side. The old man blinks a few times, wipes his eyes, then looks at me again. “I appreciate your jests, great hero, but a historic moment such as this should be accompanied by, let’s say, a grander display of the Goddess’s power.”

I take a few more deep breaths, resisting the urge to cover my ears. “I’m afraid this is the extent of the power the Goddess gave me.”

Chaos erupts. The deafening silence of the crowd transforms into wild shouting—a mix of obscenities and what I assume are outraged metaphors. I fight to keep my gaze on the high priest, his expression frozen in stunned disbelief.

The outrage grows louder as the high priest’s face remains frozen.

“Blasphemy!” one man shouts.

“Execute this pretender!” another follows up.

“Lies! This is no power of the Goddess!” And on it goes.

The high priest glances to the side, biting his knuckles. He looks as scared as I feel, and that oddly brings me a sense of relief. But our positions could not be more different—he’s in a seat of power, facing a crisis, while I’m its cause.

The old man composes himself and slams the base of his scepter to the floor, silencing the crowd. “Silence!” he shouts.

Moments pass as a bead of sweat trickles down my temple. “This is a crisis like no other,” he declares. “Everyone! Speak nothing of what transpired here.”

“Your Highness, this is a travesty! Something must be done to mend this,” one man protests.

“The people waited for a hero for decades! Giving them nothing would cause a disaster,” another adds.

“I hear your concerns,” the high priest responds, attempting to console them. “But a matter as delicate as this must be handled carefully.”

“Dare I ask, what happens now?” I interrupt.

All eyes fall on me once more, their gazes full of scorn. The high priest sighs and leans back into his throne.

“Everyone, dismissed! And you—Steponas, was it? You’re not allowed to leave the cathedral. Guards! Escort him to his quarters and don’t let him out of your sight.” He waves his hand dismissively.