Chapter 10
Celeste's POV
The plaza's chaos rose like a tide, drowning me completely.
I stood on the high platform, my knuckles white from the force—I gripped the hem of my white robe so tightly, as if that small scrap of fabric were my last anchor.
Those who'd lost loved ones surged to the front. A woman stumbled on the steps, got up and kept coming, her voice hoarse as a worn file, repeating only one phrase: "My son, my son—"
Another man raised his fist high, his whole body crying—not the crying of weakness, but of rage, of having nowhere left to turn.
Their voices drove into my skull like countless needles spinning all at once.
Why did you lie to us!
You're not a god at all!
My people are dead!
On the other side were the fanatics, shouting "Do not blaspheme the goddess!" desperately trying to hold back the questioners. The crowd collided, shoving and cursing, the entire plaza tilting toward something irretrievable.
Then Quillan approached.
His steps were quick, his face carrying that usual composure, but I'd known him too long—I knew what lay beneath that calm. He leaned close, his voice for my ears alone.
"The streets are in chaos and you still won't act?" His voice dropped low, like a blade drawn lightly across stone. "What about the dead? Where is your divinity?"
"This isn't my fault," I heard myself say, my voice shaking badly. "I already—I already did my best."
He laughed softly. That laugh was uglier than any anger.
"Who do you think you are?" he said. "Without me, you'd still be on that orphanage floor fighting over moldy bread. I gave you food, gave you shelter. Now it's time you repaid that." He paused, his voice dropping lower yet somehow clearer. "If you don't cooperate, I'll tell everyone right here—there's no goddess, just an ordinary girl I picked up from an orphanage. Then I'll throw you back on the streets."
I looked into his eyes.
Everything was there except the love he claimed to have.
Orphanage.
That word landed on my chest heavier than any whip. I remembered the smell—mildew, urine, rotting straw.
Five years. I'd lived there five years, every day wondering if I'd simply die in that place.
Maybe this really was my responsibility. Maybe only I could calm this chaos.
My prophecy had harmed people—those ships at sea, those who never came back. Shouldn't I bear that burden?
Quillan's words pressed down layer by layer, guilt and fear twisting together, slowly crushing my resistance.
I took a deep breath.
Then I turned to face the hundreds, thousands of eyes in the plaza.
"Please, be quiet."
I didn't know where my voice came from. It wasn't loud, yet it cut through the plaza's din, reaching even the farthest corners. The crowd slowly quieted, all eyes falling on me.
"Last night's storm," I said, "was indeed my failure to predict correctly." The words came out like shattered glass, piece by piece from my throat. "I am willing to accept responsibility, to endure the lash, to console the departed souls."
A pause.
"Please execute it, President. This is the punishment I deserve."
The plaza fell into an eerie silence.
Even the woman who'd lost her son froze, tears still on her face, mouth open, unable to speak. Those who'd been cursing also froze—no one had expected the goddess to voluntarily request punishment.
This was in no one's script.
I felt the crowd's emotion shift, like wind changing direction, from boiling rage to something more complex—shock, uncertainty, some beginning to weep softly.
Quillan stepped forward, panic and reluctance showing on his face as he waved his hands. "You are the goddess, how could I—this can't be—"
"Please execute it," I said. "President."
He finally accepted the vine whip from an attendant's hand.
The entire plaza held its breath.
When the first lash fell, I made no sound. Pain spread from my back, the white robe tearing, and I felt blood's warmth. I clenched my teeth, my body trembling violently, but I stood. I didn't move.
The second lash. The third.
Each one landed precisely—back, shoulders, arms—the sound of tearing skin and the burning sensation of spreading blood mingling together.
My mind began to drift, like a drowning person seeing light underwater, beginning to think of unrelated things.
The orphanage floor's coldness. Quillan's gentleness when he first appeared, how he'd looked saying "Come with me, I'll take care of you."
To avoid being cast out, I'd agreed again and again, nodded again and again, put on this white robe again and again to stand in the plaza and tell those who looked up at me—today is safe, tomorrow is calm, the goddess loves you.
I am the goddess. I am hope. I cannot return to that hell.
When the fifth lash fell, my legs finally gave out.
I collapsed on the high platform.
The plaza erupted in wave-like sound—some crying, some shouting "The goddess is merciful," some kneeling again to pray, their chanting merging into a deafening roar.
I raised my head, looking at those faces.
Fanatical. Sorrowful. Satisfied. Released.
A mother buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with sobs, as if something had finally found an outlet. Beside her a man knelt, murmuring, his face showing strange peace.
They weren't crying for me, nor for those who'd died—they were crying for their own faith, that faith which had been teetering and was now propped up again.
They didn't care if I was truly divine.
They only needed a symbol that could carry hope and guilt, something that let them ask "why" and receive an answer.
And I happened to be the vessel for that answer.
Quillan threw down the whip, turned to face the crowd, his voice booming:
"The goddess has proven her mercy and divinity through her sacrifice! Let us pray for her, pray for the departed!"
The crowd knelt again, prayers rising in waves like the sea.
I collapsed on the platform, blood soaking through the white robe, my face pressed against cold stone.
I thought, if someone came close now to look at my face, they'd probably think I was weeping—but I couldn't cry. My eyes were dry, drier even than this blood-soaked white robe.
I was just tired.
Too tired to even have much anger left.