The store felt empty without anyone keeping watch. He just kept looking at the masks, but not a single one caught Fyrel's interest, and there wasn't even a shopkeeper around. He thought maybe they ran away because of what happened before. Just a few steps away from leaving the store—
Sariel ve yth, puerion. Quorion yth ve?
(Peace upon you, little one. What guidance do you seek?)
A woman's voice sounded behind Fyrel. He turned to find the source and saw a woman standing at the counter.
A beautiful woman wearing a black dress with a gold belt, her outfit a mix between a belly dancer's costume and lingerie. The way she stood highlighted her striking appearance.
Her dress was adorned with chains, and her attire was accentuated by the gold belt. The whole scene was visually captivating, showcasing the woman's confidence and elegance.
Pheww… Guess I didn't walk into the wrong store after all. That baddie was fine as hell—but what was that language? Never mind, I should just head back to my family…
Did you need something to hide your pain…?
The woman asked a question that sounded like she already knew exactly what he needed.
Fyrel stopped in his tracks—for the second time before leaving the shop. Now this is interesting. How do you know that? I didn't think anyone could tell...
She gestured to a chair in front of the counter. You should sit here first, and we can talk about it.She winked. I'll make some coffee for you in the meantime. Then she walked into the back room.
As she turned away, Fyrel caught a glimpse of her backside—barely covered by thin lingerie straps, her bra and panties tied with delicate strings.
At least wear something that fully covers your damn ass, woman… he muttered under his breath before reluctantly taking a seat.
A moment later, she returned carrying an antique teapot and flower-shaped cups. She set them on the counter in front of Fyrel, pouring the coffee while slightly bending forward—just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the curve between her breasts.
I'm not that stupid, ma'am. Fyrel's voice was sharp. Seems like you can read minds. You even act like you know exactly how my heart feels about you. So tell me, what does it want next?
Suddenly, she reached for the ties of her outfit, as if to undo them.
Fyrel jolted. Stop! That was just a test!
She chuckled, low and knowing. Isn't this what you desire? Your heart already pictured how I'd look without these clothes, didn't it?
He took a quick sip of coffee, his throat suddenly dry. I was testing you. From the start, you've acted like you know exactly what I need. So—who are you?
She hopped onto the counter, leaning in close enough to lift his chin with one finger. I am the Eyes of the God… though you may call me Megan.
Fyrel met her gaze, his voice steady. Let's cut to the chase. What's the price to hide my pain?
Meliorun yth'vael corvael ve yth.
(Bestow your sacred vessel (body) unto me.)
Stop with the angelic bullshit—I'm tired of deciphering your nonsense.
He genuinely had no clue what she wanted.
She dropped herself onto Fyrel's lap, her fingers tracing idle patterns across his chest. Nothing too demanding... not today. I'll claim it later. A sly pause. What do humans call it again...? She tapped her lip, feigning thought. Ah. Debt. Right?
Before he could second-guess, he nodded agreement. Her smile widened—a predator's grin. Then, as if her cleavage were a hidden pocket, she reached between her breasts and produced...
A mask.
Oval-shaped, painted in muted hues, its surface carved with the serene expression of a sleeping face. At its crown gleamed a symbol: ⍟ A glowing crescent moon cradling a star .
In one fluid motion, she slapped it onto Fyrel's face.
Vines—no, roots—burst from the mask. At first, just a tickling sensation as they skittered across his skin... then agony. They pierced his cheeks, drilling inward like needles. The pain was a cruel tease—sharp enough to make him gasp, but nothing compared to what came next.
He felt them squirming inside him.
Beneath his skin, veins bulged grotesquely, dark tendrils slithering through his limbs, coating every blood vessel before suddenly shrinking back. His body returned to normal.
All his pain—gone.
He pinched his arm. Slapped his own face. Nothing. Not even a twinge.
Wow. The mask works. Fyrel exhaled, then glared. But you should've asked about the side effects before stapling it to my goddamn face.
She rose from Fyrel's lap, brushing off her dress. It worked, so no harm done, right? Besides, I needed a test subject for artifacts I've collected. That mask? It's fused into your skin now—your face will look perfectly normal.
Fyrel rubbed the back of his neck, eyes shut—equal parts embarrassed and exhausted. Thanks... for helping me. When he opened his eyes again, she was nose-to-nose with him.
Say. That. Again. Her voice dripped with playful menace, demanding he repeat the words.
Fyrel shoved her back, startled. You heard me the first time. I don't like repeating myself.
Ugh. You're no fun. She pouted, cheeks puffing up in exaggerated annoyance.
He ignored her tantrum but couldn't shake one question. Why did you help me?
Megan flinched. Without answering, she spun on her heel, snatching up the teapot and cups from earlier. Our meeting ends here. I didn't help you. Someone else called in a favor. Her voice turned icy. I still hate humans. But just this once, because of... Godd—She bit off the word. I mean her. A dismissive wave. One last thing: Good luck. That's her message, not mine. Now leave.
Fyrel noted the anger flashing in Megan's eyes at the mention of this mysterious her. Too tired to pry, he stood and walked out without another word.
Once Fyrel was gone, Megan back into the backroom there a white-robed figure stood waiting.
My job's done. Don't contact me again. This was the last favor.
The figure merely nodded and vanished.
Alone, Megan exhaled sharply, then muttered the one name even angels feared to speak:
Goddess...