CHAPTER 229: CHAPTER 230: VIRTUE OR SIN

Xavier, the Pope, saw them. Saw them both.

His shadowy eyes peered beneath the golden lattice of the upper sanctuary, where light broke through the stained-glass depiction of the goddess in her hour of birth. It fell on the courtyard like divine judgment—but Xavier’s gaze was anything but holy.

He watched with serene amusement, hands folded in that trademark reverent clasp, as they stood together below: the boy forged from prophecy and ruin—Atlas—and the girl from pain and power—Qin. Two creatures touched by fate, by death, by the very edges of what most men dared not believe.

He only smiled. His dark eyes smirked with his lips, though no muscles moved. For a man regarded as a walking vessel of the goddess’s will, his thoughts would not pass the tests of sainthood.

But still... his heart beat for the praise of the goddess. Still, he prayed. Still, he weaved fate in her name.

And what better tool for ascension than Atlas? A kingdom-level existence, forged in legend, baptized in war. Spreading their religion would be a simpler endeavor with such a figurehead—an icon in flesh. Divine in power. Tangible. Worshiped.

And as he watched the two speak in hushed voices that didn’t belong to strangers, his mind wandered again.

Marry them, he thought.

Not out of love, of course. Love was a weak thread—fragile and ill-suited to politics. But unity? Myth? A royal heir born of a goddess-touched healer and a cursed prince of legend? That was how religions evolved into empires.

He nearly laughed aloud.

"...I greet your holiness," Claire’s voice cut through, sharp as a dagger in silk.

He flinched. Just slightly.

"Oh... Lady Claire. Yes. I greet you with Her Holiness," he replied smoothly, folding into the saintly tone expected of him. His posture straightened. His face became peace.

"A pope turned stalker," she said, her voice honeyed with danger. "The sound of that is... a bit scandalous. You know what I mean?"

Xavier smiled wider. Saintlike. Patient. Unapologetic.

"With the goddess’s blessing, even the sinful stalker can be redeemed," he said, eyes glimmering beneath his robes. "So long as he sings praises loud enough."

Claire stared at him. Something inside her bristled—but it wasn’t fear. It was recognition. She knew the type. Men who smiled too warmly. Who spoke with poetry but wielded blood behind their tongues.

She passed him. Her cloak brushing against the smooth marbled edge of the staircase. She did not look back.

Qin was still with Atlas. Still speaking. And Claire didn’t like it. She didn’t hate Qin—far from it. The girl had held Atlas’s body through the worst of it. Healed him through flame and frost. That kind of loyalty deserved respect.

But closeness was another matter.

"Atlas," Claire said, stepping between them. Her hand touched his. Her fingers laced with his like they belonged there. Like they remembered.

He turned to her. A bit slower than usual. His eyes hazed by fatigue. Something else danced behind his pupils. Not sleep. Not focus. Something fragmented.

"...You up, morning?" she asked, casually.

"Well, no one’s dreaming anymore..." Atlas muttered. "Lack of sleep now doesn’t mean lack of energy."

Claire chuckled—but something prickled against her senses.

A scent.

Subtle. Not strong. Not perfume or sweat. It reminded her of memory—faint, lingering, like candle smoke after a ritual. It clung to his skin like a whisper. And it wasn’t hers.

Her smile faltered for only a breath.

"Atlas... do you have some time after? I want to talk about something..."

Qin’s gaze turned sharply toward her. As if pulled by the same wind. Her green eyes narrowed with an emotion too polite to name, too sharp to ignore.

"Mistress Claire," Qin said, stepping closer. "Are you... alright?"

Claire blinked. "Yeah. Of course.... Thank you for your concern."

But the words rang hollow. Political. Memorized. Like a knife wrapped in courtesy.

Qin tilted her head, concerned. Claire took a half step back—then froze.

Her stomach turned.

Not from poison. Not from fatigue. But from Qin’s presence.

It was a subtle revulsion. A nausea blooming just beneath the ribs, unspoken, primal. As if her body had decided something before her mind had time to catch up.

She acted on instinct. Her hand gripped Atlas’s, firmer now. "Come with me."

He didn’t argue.

They moved through the courtyard, past robed priestesses and silent servants. Down the stone-floored hallway toward the heart of the estate—the Phoenixia estate. Her house. Her blood. Her pride.

The great doors to her office opened with a creak of old hinges and whispered power. She stepped in first, dragging him behind her like a hunter bringing in a wounded beast.

Atlas looked around as the door clicked shut behind them.

The scent hit him instantly.

Not the cold, dustless emptiness of most noble chambers. No—this room lived

. The air was thick with the burn of rosewood candles and something darker. Something faintly sweet, barely detectable but overwhelming once you caught it... Lust?

There were no robes flung across the chairs. No mess. Everything was clean. Polished. Composed.

But he noticed the marks. The tiny stains on the floor’s velvet edge. The faint outline of hands on the desk’s edge, like someone had gripped it too tightly. The kind of traces people tried to hide but never could.

She had been here. She had made herself comfortable here.

’She’s been... using this place differently.’

Atlas lowered himself into the large chair behind the desk—the one carved from ash and obsidian. A throne disguised as furniture. He sprawled with his legs on the table, comfortable. Dominant. But watching.

Claire moved slowly. Like a predator pretending to be human.

"So... are you gonna say it?" he asked.

Claire leaned back against the desk. Her legs crossed at the ankles. "You already saw it. I just need your opinion."

Atlas sighed, waving a lazy hand. "I saw something, yeah. But I still don’t know. What the hell happened to you? You transformed. Something happened while I was half-dead."

She tilted her head. Smiling. But it wasn’t the playful smile he remembered. It was curved in a way that knew something he didn’t.

"You look a bit tired," she said.

"Aren’t we all?"

"No," she said softly, stepping forward. "Everyone’s tired in mind or body. But you—" she leaned in "—you look tired ...somewhere else...."

He blinked.

’Why’s she always so sharp...?’

"Haaa... alright. But first, you tell me. Did you turn into a demon or something? You changed. You feel different. Not just stronger—other

."

Claire smirked. "Changed how?"

Atlas glanced down, then back up with mock offense. "Okay, well... for one, your waist is slimmer. But you’re also more... uh... you filled out—in the right places."

Claire laughed. A low, amused thing that danced with pride.

She stepped forward, grabbed his legs, and pulled them off the table. Gently. Making room for herself.

She sat on the desk, facing him now, her gaze quiet and merciless.

"And?" she asked.

"And I don’t know why," Atlas muttered, voice lower now, "but I can’t stop looking at you. Like your charm doubled overnight. Your smell—it’s... intoxicating. Like your body’s whispering something even your mouth won’t admit."

Claire’s smile curved wider. She could feel it—his breath catching. The way his eyes darkened. She could feel his tension press against her, even through layers.

She leaned forward.

"What else?" she whispered, close enough to taste his air.

Atlas tried to breathe. Tried to steady. But her aura was leaking now—subtle magic like silk threads wrapping around his lungs. Her presence had weight.

"You..." he tried to say. "You—"

KNOCK KNOCK.

"My lady, King Henry calls!" a knight’s voice rang from behind the door.

Silence shattered the atmosphere like dropped glass.

Claire’s body didn’t move—but her eyes did. They stayed on Atlas for a heartbeat longer. Then another. Then she stood, slowly, her fingers grazing his knee as she rose.

"King’s timing," she muttered.

Atlas exhaled through his nose. Half-relieved. Half-regretful. He adjusted his collar, leaned back, but the tension stayed.

Claire walked to the door. Her hand paused on the handle.

She turned her head halfway, not fully facing him.

"We’ll finish this conversation later," she said. Voice flat. Promise hidden under threat. Or maybe longing.

Then she left.

And Atlas was alone. But the scent of her—whatever she was becoming—lingered in the room like smoke from an old fire.