Chapter 9
Ella's POV
The morning sea breeze carried a salty dampness across my face. I stood at the window of the oceanfront suite, staring at the scene outside, my heart clenching violently.
Last night's storm had left shocking devastation in its wake—several fishing boats overturned at the docks, their hulls split open, wood splinters scattered everywhere. Some of the coastal houses had their roofs torn off, tiles shattered across the ground. Several thick palm trees had been snapped in half, their trunks lying across the middle of the street.
I remembered what that goddess had said yesterday—"The seas will remain calm today, all vessels may depart safely!"
But the reality? The reality was a storm that had nearly torn Free Haven apart.
"What's wrong?" Julian's voice came from behind me.
He moved to my side, following my gaze out the window, his brow furrowing. "This storm..."
"She said yesterday would be calm," I said quietly. "But look outside."
Julian fell silent for a moment, then said, "Perhaps she simply misjudged."
"Misjudged?" I turned to look at him. "Someone an entire city worships as divine would make such a basic error?"
Julian didn't answer, only gripped my hand.
That goddess is problematic, Ignis said in my mind. I can sense it. She doesn't carry the power a true deity should have.
"You think she's a fraud?" I asked internally.
Not a fraud, Ignis said. But not a true god either. More like... a puppet.
I thought of the white-robed woman I'd glimpsed from afar in the plaza yesterday, thought of the crowd's devotion and fervor.
If all of this was truly a lie, then the foundation of this city's faith would be...
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in," Julian said.
Brian pushed the door open, his expression grave.
"Your Highness, President Quillan sent word that today's midday ceremony will proceed as scheduled. He'll send a convoy to collect you and the Luna."
Julian nodded. "Understood."
After Brian left, Julian turned to me. "Do you still want to go?"
"Of course," I said without hesitation. "I'm even more curious to see how that goddess will face questions under these circumstances."
---
Julian and I changed into appropriate clothing. I chose a deep blue gown, while Julian wore an impeccably tailored gray suit.
Before leaving, I walked to the table and carefully placed the Orta Crown into a velvet box.
At noon, Quillan's convoy arrived right on time.
Brian, Gregory, and Zachary remained at the oceanfront suite while Julian and I boarded the carriage.
As the carriage rolled through Free Haven's streets, I gazed out the window. Traces of last night's storm were everywhere—collapsed walls, shattered signs, merchant stalls blown to pieces.
But more than that were the people—rushing in the same direction with urgency and unease in their eyes.
"All heading to the ceremony," Julian said quietly.
The carriage finally stopped at the plaza beneath the Wind Lighthouse. I took Julian's hand as I stepped down, and the sight before me made me hold my breath.
The plaza was packed with kneeling people. Hundreds of believers, perhaps thousands, hands clasped together, murmuring prayers. The air hung thick with a suppressed, fervent atmosphere that made it almost impossible to breathe.
On the high platform, Quillan wore elaborate priestly robes, holding a gem-encrusted staff.
His voice, amplified through some kind of horn device, echoed across the entire plaza:
"O Wind Goddess, you are the guardian of the seas, the protector of Free Haven. We beg your forgiveness, we beg your blessing..."
His voice rose and fell with a hypnotic rhythm.
The crowd's chanting swelled in response, like waves crashing one after another.
Then, light blazed from the top of the lighthouse.
It was a soft silver-white radiance, cascading down from the tower's peak, coalescing into a human silhouette in the center of the plaza. The crowd's chanting surged to a deafening pitch, nearly rupturing eardrums.
The goddess had appeared.
She wore a pure white robe, golden hair falling to her waist, her features refined as a sculpture. Even from this distance, I could sense the unreal perfection emanating from her—as if she weren't flesh and blood, but woven from light and wind.
But when her gaze swept across the crowd, I saw what lay in her eyes.
Not the transcendence and majesty a deity should possess.
It was exhaustion.
Fear.
A desperation of being trapped in a cage.
She's afraid, Ignis said. She fears these people.
I stared at the white-robed woman, a strange resonance rising in my chest. That feeling was familiar—like back in the West Wing, when I'd served Kane in constant terror, afraid that one misstep would trigger his rage.
She was the same.
She was performing.
Playing a role she fundamentally wasn't.
Just as the ceremony reached its midpoint, a heart-wrenching cry suddenly tore through the crowd.
"Why?!"
A middle-aged woman in ragged clothes broke through the crowd, stumbling toward the platform. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes swollen red, her voice hoarse to the point of breaking:
"Why did it rain yesterday?! You said the seas would be calm! My son! My son was swallowed by the storm!"
Her words detonated like a bomb through the crowd.
"My husband too!" Another woman stood up, her voice trembling. "He went to sea yesterday! He still hasn't come back!"
"My boat was destroyed! Completely destroyed!" a fisherman roared. "You said it was safe! But my boat was wrecked in last night's storm!"
Questions erupted one after another, flooding toward the platform like a broken dam.
But simultaneously, another faction of believers also rose—shouting "Do not blaspheme the goddess!" "This is an affront to the divine!"—trying to stop the questioners.
Two forces clashed violently in the plaza, the scene spiraling toward chaos.
I stood at the edge of the crowd, my heart pounding. Julian pulled me behind him, vigilantly observing the surrounding movements.
In the midst of the chaos, I saw—
Quillan strode quickly to Celeste's side, whispering something in her ear. I saw Celeste's body visibly tremble, her face growing even paler. Her lips moved, seeming to say "no," but Quillan said something more, and she finally nodded.
A barely perceptible satisfaction flashed across Quillan's face, then he stepped back.
Celeste took a deep breath and suddenly raised both hands.
"Please, quiet."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable force. The plaza gradually fell silent, all eyes focusing on her.
Celeste's voice was clear and steady, but I could hear the tremor beneath it:
"Last night's storm... was indeed my failure to predict accurately. I am willing to accept responsibility, to endure the lash, to console the souls of the departed."
Various sounds erupted across the plaza—some shocked, some moved, some still angry.
The woman who'd lost her son stood frozen, tears streaming down her face.
Celeste turned to Quillan, saying calmly, "Please execute it, President."
Panic appeared on Quillan's face as he waved his hands repeatedly. "How could I? You are the goddess, how could I—"
"Please," Celeste interrupted him, her voice carrying a certain finality. "This is the punishment I deserve."
Quillan seemed to hesitate for a moment, then slowly accepted the whip an attendant handed him. It was a long, slender vine whip, not particularly heavy-looking, but I knew it would hurt terribly when it struck flesh.
With everyone watching, the plaza fell into a deathly silence.
Quillan raised the whip, then—
Crack!
The first lash fell.
Celeste's body jerked violently, but she made no sound. She only bit her lip, clenched her fists, and allowed the whip to fall again and again across her back.
I watched that white-robed woman, watched her body tremble under the lashing, an indescribable emotion rising in my chest.
She wasn't a god.
She was just a pitiful person trapped inside a myth.
Just like I once was.