Seeds of Devotion

Martin was a little flustered when he heard Ethan, he thought to himself

'Yes, they've already gone so far, what will they do next? What can I do?'

Ethan knew he was gaining momentum, but it still wasn't enough, so he said

"Lord Martin, let's go check on Elara, if what I thought and said is true then there should be some results by now"

Martin snapped out of his thoughts and nodded, quickly leading Ethan back to Elara's bedroom. Unlike before, Ethan didn't stop him from entering. In fact, he gestured for Martin to step inside, as if urging him to see for himself.

Elara lay peacefully on the bed, her frail body no longer trembling, her breathing steady and calm. For the first time in months, she looked as if she was truly at rest. Martin's breath caught in his throat—gone was the restless torment that had plagued her nights. His daughter, who had spent weeks writhing in agony, was now sleeping soundly.

"Can you check her fever and let me know, that's the most serious symptom after all"

Martin nodded and cautiously placed his palm on Elara's forehead, holding his breath as if afraid to confirm the truth. But the moment his skin met hers, his eyes widened—her fever was gone. The relentless heat that had clung to her for months had vanished.

His heart pounded as the realization set in. She was truly cured.

The weight of months of helplessness and failed treatments crashed over him. He had watched renowned physicians try everything—bleeding her dry with leeches, forcing down foul concoctions, and attempting rituals that yielded nothing but false hope. Yet none had made a difference.

But now, after just a single day under Prophet Ethan's care, his daughter was finally free from the wretched curse. Martin felt no doubt in his heart—this was nothing short of a miracle, a blessing from the god Mandal himself. His chest swelled with gratitude, and he turned to Ethan, ready to express his overwhelming thanks.

Before he could speak, Ethan raised a hand, his voice calm yet firm. "Martin, I understand. I feel the same relief as you do. But let her rest—she needs it. We'll continue this discussion in your study."

Martin was so moved by the Prophet's compassion and wisdom that he failed to notice a subtle shift—Ethan no longer addressed him as "sir" or "lord." And perhaps, from this moment forward, such formalities would never be needed again.

With a newfound sense of respect, Martin led Ethan back to his study. This time, the air between them was lighter, free from the weight of despair. As soon as they sat down, Martin, unable to contain his emotions, spoke with unrestrained enthusiasm.

"Prophet! You have truly performed a miracle! Now, I truly understand the might of Lord Mandal! Even a curse from such a temple is nothing before his grace! I am forever indebted to you."

Ethan smiled gracefully, his voice calm yet firm. "Mandal's kindness knows no bounds. There is nothing in my hands—it is all his will."

He could see the excitement in Martin's eyes, but now was the time to guide him carefully.

"But Martin," Ethan continued, his tone lowering slightly, "as I mentioned before, Elara must come to the temple once every week for a few months. This curse is insidious—it lingers, waiting for an opening. There are only two ways to remove it completely.

One is if the Flame Atronach Temple ceases their wicked practice—a thing that, to my knowledge, has never happened." He let the weight of those words sink in before delivering the alternative.

"The other… is to seek refuge in a higher power, to cleanse the taint through unwavering faith and the holy water of Mandal—until not even a trace of their corruption remains."

Martin felt as if he had just been jolted awake from a dream. His expression darkened as a chilling realization settled in.

"Those damn heretics! So they won't stop cursing my daughter until she dies?!"

His fists clenched, but he quickly composed himself. Taking a deep breath, he bowed slightly and spoke with conviction.

"Lord Prophet, thank you again for your help. I—no, the entire Hart family—will attend your temple's weekly prayers from now on. I only pray that Lord Mandal will accept us into his grace."

Ethan merely smiled and nodded. No more words were needed. Faith, after all, was not built in a day—it was nurtured over time, through gratitude, fear, and devotion.

Martin, his heart still swelling with gratitude, continued.

"Prophet, for saving my daughter and uncovering the true cause of her affliction, I wish to offer you 20,000 gold coins and 20 acres of my finest land. Please, do not refuse—this is but a small token of my gratitude."

Ethan straightened slightly, his expression turning firm.

"Martin, please don't speak of this again. I did not come here for gold or land—I came because Mandal guided me. Your daughter was healed because Mandal blessed the holy water. I am merely his humble instrument."

Martin hesitated, taken aback by the Prophet's refusal. He insisted, but Ethan remained steadfast.

Finally, Martin asked, puzzled, "Prophet, why refuse such generosity?"

Ethan paused. Then, with a knowing smile, he lifted his gaze—not to Martin, but beyond, as if speaking to this novel's readers.

"Because Mandal's grace cannot grow through gold or land… only through faith. And perhaps, even yours."