Gold light filtered through the stained glass of the cathedral's central nave, painting the marble floors with hues of crimson and violet. It was midday, and incense clung to the air like old secrets. Beneath towering arches etched with celestial runes, the Church's clergy bickered in hushed tones that carried nonetheless. I stood at the threshold, wrapped in soft velvet, the sigil of my forged emissary crest pinned just above my femboyishly exposed collarbone.
Behind me trailed Hollow, robed and collared, chin tilted down in faux reverence. He looked every inch the repentant devotee, but there was a subtle gleam in his eye, a quiet pride in the way he walked beside me. He was playing his role to perfection.
"This is going to be a slow burn," I murmured under my breath, mostly for Hollow's sake. "A simmering pot of holy soup. And we're the poison stock."
He glanced sideways, his lips twitching. That was as close to a laugh as he'd allow with priests watching.
A cardinal approached, his crimson robes dragging like moss across the marble. "You must be Hollow's primary servant."
I dipped into a curtsy, letting the hem of my skirt flutter just enough to catch his eye.
He sniffed, eyes narrowing at the suggestion of skin. But my seal was legitimate. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded and gestured down the corridor.
"Come with me. The Consistory is preparing for afternoon deliberations."
As we walked through the hallowed halls, I studied the architecture. So dramatic. So utterly overcompensating. Every window was a sermon, every alcove a warning. The Church didn't do subtle. That would be my job.
We were led into a circular chamber beneath a massive dome. The Council of Selection sat at its perimeter, robes heavy, eyes heavier. At the center was a low table surrounded by ceremonial candles.
I took my place near the far end, hands folded primly in my lap, away from the six other candidates who stared intensely at my figure. Hollow sat beside me, silent and radiant. He was perfect for this. Beautiful, obedient, and scandalously underestimated. With his sudden return, they didn't see him as a threat. Yet.
The first round of banter was duller than stale communion bread. Names were suggested, reputations weighed. I made no move to interject. Not yet. I wanted them to get used to me. Comfortable. Receptive.
Time passed. Tea was served. Scrolls were unrolled and re-rolled. The only spark of interest came when one elderly cardinal leaned toward me with a squint.
"You have an air of… foreign insight, emissary. What think you of Brother Hollow's candidacy?"
Thank's for the invitation.
I smiled gently, allowing a blush to kiss my cheeks. "Brother Hollow is devout. Composed. Touched by tragedy but unshaken in his faith. There is something in him the heavens have not yet revealed."
Murmurs followed. A few nods. One skeptical cough. I didn't push further.
The first meeting concluded without a general consensus. Perfect.
Later that evening, Hollow and I returned to the guest sanctum. He sat on the bed, looking tired but energized. I peeled off my outer robes and collapsed into the chair across from him.
"Good performance today," I said. "They're intrigued. Not convinced, but that's fine."
He smiled faintly. "You think they'll choose me?"
"They'll believe it was their idea," I said, stretching languidly. "We're planting seeds. A divine orchard of manipulation."
He leaned forward. "And when I'm chosen?"
"Then you anoint me as your successor. Quietly. Within the bounds of the law. A transfer of stewardship. They'll argue, but if it comes from the High Priest…"
"…It will be divine," he finished, voice soft and strikingly seductive.
I crossed the room, slow and deliberate, sitting beside him. "Exactly."
There was a silence. Tension thick and scented like my perfume. He glanced at my lips.
"Want to practice a blessing?" I whispered.
His cheeks suddenly flushed red. He nodded silently.
I kissed him slowly, reverently, hands finding his waist. The sanctified robes slipped from his shoulders, and he gasped as I pressed him down into the mattress. I straddled him, grinding slowly, the flickering candlelight painting us in sinful gold. Our lips met again, and again, until soft moans melting into the shadows of the room.
Divine pleasure. Blasphemous devotion.
Afterwards, I laid against his chest, breathing in tandem. This wasn't love. This was strategy with benefits I told myself. But in moments like this, I wondered just how far I'd fallen from the tree.
The next morning, I returned to the discussion chamber dressed in shimmering rose silk, thigh high boots echoing with every step. I played the demure assistant, but whispered clever suggestions into the ears of the right bishops. I praised Hollow's discipline, hinted at his past sacrifices, sowed discord around the other candidates.
"Too old." "Too rigid." "Too easily tempted."
Each comment dropped like stones in water. Ripples spreading.
Lysaria sent a note via one of our spies: You're moving fast. Don't burn the stew.
I chuckled as I read it behind my fan. He was right. But I couldn't help myself. The Church was a stage, and I had always been a theatrical creature.
Over the coming days, Hollow's name gained traction. Not overwhelming support, but presence. Clerics began to greet him with bows. A few priests asked for private blessings.
One afternoon, while alone in the confessional chamber, a young acolyte entered, stammering on about guidance or whatever. He couldn't have been older than nineteen, robes slightly oversized, curls falling into his nervous eyes. His voice trembled as he spoke about temptation—about impure dreams and the fear of divine punishment. Adorable.
More practice. And a possible avenue.
I leaned forward through the lattice, voice soft and angelic. "The body is not impure. Only neglected truths are." My fingers ghosted over the confessional divider, letting the magic pulse through—just enough to heighten sensitivity, nothing more. "Would you like… a demonstration of absolution?"
He froze. A sharp breath. Then, a tiny, reluctant nod.
I slipped around the curtain with all the grace of a fallen angel, shutting the wooden partition behind me. His eyes widened as I stepped into full view—femmeform engaged, soft lips, slender waist, glossy curls tumbling around my shoulders. I knelt before him slowly, letting my fingers brush along his thighs, tracing the edge of his robe.
"You've been so good," I whispered, untying the sash at his waist. "Let me reward you."
He whimpered—an actual, trembling whimper—as I kissed along his abdomen, lips teasing but reverent, like each inch of his skin was sacred text. He clutched the edge of the bench, knuckles white, head tipped back against the wood as I took him in hand and showed him just how thorough a "blessing" could be.
His hips bucked. His breath came in desperate, wet gasps. I toyed with him—slow, languid motions designed to unravel him inch by inch. "Still with me, little lamb?" I purred, licking up the length of him as his body shuddered in response.
"I—I—oh f-f-fuck…"
I pressed my lips back down, humming lightly, letting divine vibrations roll through his core. When he came undone, crying out into his robes, I held him through it, gently stroking his cheek with mock-saintly affection.
Afterward, I tucked him back into his robes, kissed his trembling lips, and whispered, "Go in peace, sweet thing. You've been forgiven. And remember who to vote for."
He stumbled out red-faced and dazed, convinced he'd touched divinity.
A maniacal laugh suddenly bursted out from my lips.
I really have gone insane haven't I?
By week's end, Hollow had been invited to deliver a public sermon. A test. A spectacle to elevate his public perception throughout the church.
As he took to the altar in his ivory robes, I stood in the wings, watching. His voice was steady. Soft. When he spoke of redemption, he looked directly at the cardinals. When he invoked faith, he looked at me.
It was enough to spark the beginning of consensus.
Step by step, kiss by kiss, we were climbing.
And I couldn't wait to pull the whole damn thing down from the top.