A Cellar of Secrets and Revelations

Wall-mounted candle lamps cast a dim, jaundiced glow.

The floorboards, slick with a greasy grime, groaned underfoot, while the raucous clamor of patrons filled the air, punctuated now and then by the explicit moans of men and women.

The Redwater Tavern, it appeared, remained largely unchanged.

As Saranya reached the staircase leading to the second floor, her fingers absently traced the cracked wooden banister, her melancholic thoughts still firmly entangled with her master.

She had, this time, unequivocally incurred Kaelan’s wrath.

“Good afternoon, Sa— Miss Haia.”

“Indeed, good afternoon.”

Phillo’s figure emerged from the corridor, accompanied by several Temple Guards.

Dressed in simple linen attire, their faces were etched with gloom, casting a palpable pall over the atmosphere.

Understandably, with the Church’s power severely diminished, these divine guards had been abruptly displaced from their opulent Temple, now relegated to a squalid, cheap tavern.

It would be astonishing if their spirits weren’t utterly dampened by the grimy surroundings.

“It might be presumptuous of me to ask, but would you perhaps consider visiting Miss Paresha? She’s in her guest room…”

Saranya’s expression froze.

“Paresha, how fares she?”

“She… is not faring well.

Perhaps your presence, even for a moment, could offer her some solace.”

Phillo’s face was drawn and haggard, his fiery red hair, a wild tangle, hung unkemptly about his shoulders.

Sensing the profound weight in his tone, Saranya bit down on her lower lip, a wave of hesitation washing over her.

While she had been transformed into a Shadowbound Demon by her master, her intellect temporarily dimmed, she still retained vivid memories of the harrowing events that had transpired within the Temple.

Paresha had personally administered the poison Mejga had swapped, condemning her brother Westir to a horrific transformation into a monstrous creature, neither wholly human nor beast.

She had even been forced to witness him savagely devour their own father’s head.

For a girl barely out of her teens to endure such trauma, a complete mental collapse seemed almost a merciful outcome.

Yet, the true orchestrator of this tragedy was Mejga—her own brother.

Mejga’s sole objective had been to reclaim his sister, and in that relentless pursuit, Westir’s torment and Doron’s demise were, to a significant extent, inextricably linked to her.

She had inadvertently brought ruin upon the Greystone family.

Saranya found herself utterly at a loss as to how she could possibly face Paresha.

‘My brother turned your brother into a lapdog, I’m truly sorry…’

Could she truly stand before Paresha and utter such words?

It was an impossibility.

Until she could conceive of a way to make amends, the thought of encountering Paresha again filled her with dread.

“Forgive… forgive me, my master awaits me downstairs.

I’m truly sorry…”

“Hey! Wait—”

Saranya sniffed, then abruptly spun away from Phillo, hurrying down the stairs with a swift pace.

To Paresha, she was not merely an inadequate role model, but the most deplorable of companions.

‘I’m sorry…’

She murmured the apology, gently rubbing her still-swollen cheeks.

“Have you repented sufficiently? If so, descend to the cellar and join me.”

Kaelan’s voice abruptly materialized in her mind, and the sorrow that had been festering within Saranya’s heart was instantly supplanted by a surge of panic.

She shivered, her gaze darting frantically across the tavern’s first-floor common room.

She observed tables laden with patrons, busy tavern maids bustling to and fro, and members of the Silver Hand Gospel Society standing guard outside the VIP booths; Kaelan’s figure, however, was conspicuously absent.

“Master… how did you know I was…”

“If I so desire, I can observe you thus, perpetually, demon s*ave.”

‘There’s no distance limit to such a thing, then…’

‘Oh, no.

To be perpetually scrutinized by my master… that’s far too unsettling.’

“Do you intend to remain standing there, inundating your master with incessant questions?”

“No, I wouldn’t dare… I’m descending at once!”

Saranya hastily wove her way through a throng of porters laden with goods, then sidestepped several masons departing with their tools, before finally navigating a descending flight of steps that led her to the cellar door.

From the depths of the cellar, she heard the rhythmic clang of excavation.

The moment she pushed open the partition door at the entrance, a substantial cloud of white dust surged forth, assaulting her senses and eliciting a fit of coughing.

“Hmph…”

Only then did the true meaning of her master’s cryptic remark about “the tavern’s changes” truly dawn on her.

Compared to its former state, the space and layout here had been utterly transformed.

The original cellar had been a singular, square space, its various sections allocated for wine, provisions, daily necessities, furniture, equipment, and a robust safe for monetary assets.

Naturally, Aquilis’s crystal prison had also occupied a corner.

Now, however, artisans were in the midst of a comprehensive renovation of this initial chamber.

They were meticulously polishing walls, laying gleaming marble floor tiles, constructing ventilation shafts, and installing additional oil lamps and braziers for enhanced illumination.

Furthermore, opulent furnishings such as fur rugs, plush sofas, and elaborate paintings had been brought in, clearly indicating an intent to transform this area into a lavish antechamber.

Moreover, three of this grand hall’s walls were being aggressively excavated.

Workers were simultaneously tunneling in three distinct directions, shoring up newly exposed areas with load-bearing pillars, and thus carving out entirely new, empty chambers.

“Turn right.

There’s a small, temporary room there; enter and find me.”

Kaelan’s voice, devoid of warmth, issued the command.

Saranya complied, pushing aside the dust-laden curtain to her right, revealing a brightly illuminated, empty chamber.

The room was entirely devoid of furnishings, its walls rough and uneven, clearly awaiting further excavation by the laborers.

With the cacophony of the ongoing construction outside providing ample cover, this clandestine space seemed an ideal spot for a private discussion.

“Good.

Everyone is present.”

Before them, Kaelan clapped her hands, and the several figures within the room simultaneously shifted.

“Does anyone still require an introduction?”

“I hardly think that’s necessary!”

A burly man instantly retorted, his voice a gravelly rasp, as though he had swallowed a mouthful of sand.

Saranya’s gaze swept across the room, identifying each of the figures in turn.

Including herself, seven individuals were assembled.

Of these, Kaelan, Aivy, and Cecilia were the most familiar to her.

The man who had just spoken was Grondel of the Iron Crown Guild, with whom she had exchanged a brief glance during a privateer meeting of the Bloodsail Alliance.

The Iron Crown Guild, much like the Bloodsail Alliance, stood as one of Vero City’s preeminent powers, commanding a formidable monopoly within its industry.

Ostensibly, every blacksmith in Vero City fell under the Iron Crown Guild’s dominion.

The metalcraft of a smith, after all, remained an indispensable skill in any locale.

As the Guild’s influence steadily expanded, other artisans—leatherworkers, masons, and jewelers alike—were gradually drawn into their orbit.

Naturally, the majority of these artisans joined under duress.

The Guild’s ultimate objective was to monopolize both specialized techniques and client channels, enabling them to levy exorbitant prices on external customers while simultaneously extracting hefty intermediary fees from their own craftsmen, thus bleeding both ends dry.

“Hold your horses, Old Grondel.

A distinguished lady of the Church still awaits her proper introduction.”

Nazareth of the Shadowscale Gang, standing at the furthest remove from Kaelan, folded his arms across his chest.

His scarred, disfigured face twitched, contorting into what might charitably be called a smile.

The individual Nazareth referred to was a middle-aged woman.

The faint lines at the corners of her eyes suggested a certain maturity, yet her skin remained remarkably well-preserved.

She must have been a striking beauty in her youth, and even with the advance of years, a palpable allure still clung to her.

“I am… Kalima Morrigan, the sole surviving Bishop of the Pedomar Faction.

Some of you here have already encountered me during the divine officer selection.”

Kalima’s expression remained placid, yet her slender fingers, hidden from view, trembled incessantly, betraying a profound nervousness.

“Saint Pedomar, as you are undoubtedly aware, advocated for fecundity, compassion, and forgiveness during his earthly life.

We are all his devoted followers.”

“And then? Madam Morrigan, this is hardly the moment for reticence.

Perhaps you could elaborate on your relationship with the current divine officer, Miss Paresha?”

“There’s no need for… for everyone here to know, is there?”

Confronted by Nazareth’s persistent inquiry, Kalima’s brow furrowed, a flicker of displeasure crossing her features.

“Hmph.”

Kaelan let out a soft, knowing chuckle, her tone laden with subtle implication.

“Speak your truth, Bishop.

Even if you remain silent, I daresay everyone here possesses the means to unearth your little secret…”

“You all…”

Kalima clasped her fingers tightly together, and after a tense silence of several seconds, she finally spoke, her voice measured.

“That child, Paresha… she is my daughter.”