THE DIRTIER THE STAIN ON ONE'S HANDS, the more devoted their fingers became in kneading each other and falling to prayer

The more desperate they became to scrub the dirt underneath their nailbeds and the blood ( do they even remember whose? ) from their palms. The manier the layers they put on themselves to shield their misgivings from public scrutiny.

Illyria supposed it must be some law of nature, programmed in their codons ( what an odd thought, considering Corellians did not tamper with their human's genes the way Kherena does theirs ), and yet this intrinsic, instinctual act seemed to be engrained on the Council's minds.

A voice croaked above her, "Alderakh, god of gods, true of might. Heed my prayer, grant me justice."

If the gods were real, could they sense the corrosion in these politician's moon-pale bones? Could their all-knowing eyes see beyond the gold-robed bodies and cloud-soft skin ( sheltered from labour, from all hardship ) to reveal the eroding tendons underneath, weary from carrying the weight of all the atrocities they've inflicted upon others?

That was the only explanation Illyria could conjure to justify how the Corellian Council were living well into their sixties when Alderakh ( the Allfather, the God of Justice and the Skies and whatever his title constituted of — a bit greedy, really, to be the god of so many things and failing at every single one of his tasks ) clearly dictated in his age-worn scriptures that all those who committed injustice shall experience heinous deaths. So, Illyria liked to imagine them rotting from the inside out, starting from their rusting bones to their blood-red sinews to compensate for all their crimes against the smallfolk.

A bit of wishful thinking never harmed anyone.

"Meniria, goddess divine, beacon of verity. Heed my plea, abscond me of my sins."

Sometimes, they hid it well. But, at particular moments, Illyria would catch them slipping. The burden of their guilt would grow too heavy, or perhaps their fear of death, for many still dreaded Alderakh's righteous sentence upon them all, cutting their lifespan in half.

And so, they visited the Temple. They'd go to the confessional chambers, bend their knees, and spew out all their sins, hoping for forgiveness, praying for salvation, begging for mercy, trying to evade Alderakh's timely judgement.

This was one of those days.

Unfortunately for them, it would not only be the phantomesque gods and the statue of the Vidatauri with them, listening to their tar-black, poisonous confessions. Illyria would be there, ears wide open. And unlike the gods, she could truly exact vengeance upon them.

The fun part? No one would ever know.

"Vidatauri, Archangel of Confessors, bearer of our words. Heed my profession, purify my soul."

See, the Council ( and all faithful Corellians — which made up ninety percent of the population ) believed that the confessional room was untouchable. Unimpeachable. Sanctified and holy. They grew too comfortable within the box of those four wood-brown walls, thinking it was safe because no transmissions could pass through and from the room, and the chamber was scanned after every person to ensure that no espionage devices were planted.

They were none the wiser that, underneath the finely carpeted floorboards, a perfect hole had been carved, allowing all those with access free reign to these people's innermost sins, courtesy of Laeto's ideas.

Once in a while, Illyria had to admit that her oldest brother concocted brilliant plots, no matter how great their differences, ocean-vast, wide as the maws of a gaping cliff.

It was Father, however, that suggested the building of an underground pathway from the Coronet House to the Temple, so that they may come and go as they pleased. Truly, it proved fruitful.

"I have perpetuated a planet's suffering. I helped people wage war and place blockades on planets," the old man's voice quivered. "I knew it was wrong and yet I continued in my folly. All my actions have only been for the betterment of our planet, of Corellia. You must understand, Allfather."

Ah, there it was. The excuses. The justification. A wrong for a right. Lives for riches. Trading a planet's welfare for their own. How . . . convenient for them. Illyria nearly scoffed at the hypocrisy, at the pandering to the divine beings they claimed to worship, the lies they tell to supposedly all-knowing gods.

Illyria's eyes flickered to the cloud-gray walls, so bare and pure compared to the ornaments adorning the confessional room, as if they needed to see gold to feel at home and divulge their secrets. How typical of them.

A sigh billowed past her lips. Oh, well. She'd gotten all she needed to hear from those bumbling fools. It was high time to return to Coronet House, but something seemed to stop her, as if invisible ivies had curled around her wrists and rooted her in her place.

Yes, there was something else she needed to see—or rather, someone. And he would not be visible through this worm-sized hole.

Quickly making up her mind, Illyria clenched her jaws and rolled her eyes. It seemed she'd really have to go to the Temple now.

────୨ৎ .✦────

THE TEMPLE WAS even more resplendent within.

The halls were etched with gold, its marble pillars reaching sky-high, entwined with arched ceilings that spanned across the ivory-carved building. In place of alabaster, the roof was a web of murals, the mismatched glass casting azure, emerald, and vermilion light towards the floors as the apricot sun blazed in the ether above. Gleaming, aureate statues of the Corellian gods were lined between every pillar, mammoth-sized, six on each side, their shadows translucent, bleeding over the surface.

Illyria was nothing but a blot amongst all this grandeur, as small as the stars when they're observed amongst green grass, almost . . . insignificant. From an early age, she had been taught the craft of being noticed, of making her presence bigger, ensuring she was irradiant, encompassing even the darkest corners of a room.

Even without the effort, she had always drawn attention. One of the only products of a marriage between a forgotten political house of Corellia and a prominent house of the recluse Kherena, importance was fused into her every pore.

Thus, it was only natural that she disliked the way the Temple seemed to humble her. That, and the contradictory simplicity of all its clerical members. It just felt hypocritical, in a way.

The feeling of contempt seemed mutual, from the way i gresta was sneering at her, head twisted back to look at her as they both paced forward, all so his eyes could roam over the carnelian-shaded rings adorning her fingers, the blood-red diamonds dangling around her neck, the silken dress wrapped around her body.

His expression screamed distaste.

I gresta ( the help — as she and Daeron had taken to calling the aged, failed-to-be-clerics that now served and slaved away at the Temple ) had not a touch of subtlety.

"Enjoying the view, Taron?" she teased, a smirk blossoming at the edge of her lips. She liked grating this one in particular.

With a huff, he yanked his gaze forward, body curdling into a shudder, visible even beneath the dull brown robes that swallowed him. "It is Ataro, my lady,"—the syllables of deference were so forced, Illyria imagined his teeth grinding against each other—"and I am doing no such thing. Simply observing your . . . various ornaments."

"Ah, would you like some, Taruu?" She cocked her head, almost feline in her grace. "They do get rather heavy after a while. And I still have so many left in my chambers."

"It is Ataro." His face must have been all blotchy and red by now, belying the calm exterior he attempted to display. "And truly, speaking with you is no good for my health. It is better if we cease this conversation entirely."

"But I'm having so much fun, Toran. A feeling I'm quite sure you cannot possibly fathom considering the . . . constricting atmosphere here."

"You are truly insufferable," he groused at last, abandoning all sense of decorum. "I do not understand how your brothers can deal with your atrocious behaviour."

"Oh, trust me, they're much worse," Illyria jested, river-blue eyes glossed in humour. "A bunch of miscreants, really."

They stopped at last, before a squared pathway, with viridescent ivies hung over them, overlooking a room. The old gods did not believe in enclosing oneself, therefore the only doors to be seen in this entire temple rested upon the bathing chambers and the confessionals. The philosophy of the architecture and the religion were similar in that sense, she supposed: archaic and flawed. Senseless in their beliefs.

To overcome the odious lack of privacy, force fields had been installed between every room, blurring the contents within from plain sight, and only those with access would be granted passage.

I gresta cleared the pebbles in his throat. "Well, here is His Eminence's office. Might I remind you that he is in deep prayer and not to be disturbed?"

"I am Illyria Andali. If I wish for an audience, the gods will sit and wait."

With those parting words, she turned from Ataro, who bowed his head ( probably to hide how utterly incensed he was at her words ) and scurried away, then gently placed her palm upon the translucent barrier, positioning her retina over the scanner. A blue glow surged from the field, and then a robotic voice called out, " Lady Illyria Andali, access granted."

────୨ৎ .✦────

"ATARO TOLD ME you were in deep prayer. Are you the liar, or is he?"

A crack of a smile dawned on his lips. So, she did know his name.

"Sister," he acknowledged, nodding in her direction. His gaze, however, never strayed from the holopad over his desk and he neglected to answer her question.

Rude, Illyria thought, but she stayed her tongue and watched him work. With gentle strokes, his pen scrawled over the pad, perhaps writing his newest musings on the issues of Corellia, or perhaps, he was scribbling nonsense. Illyria couldn't quite tell.

"Laeto." Her tone was wickedly amused, as if she'd excavated a grave, tar-black secret about him and now planned to use it against him. "Not the sinless cleric after all, are you? How could you possibly lie within holy grounds?"

"It wasn't a lie," he rectified, his words breeze-light, still deep in thought. "The prayer simply ended much faster than I thought it would."

"Didn't pray for much, did you?" Illyria asked, her steps soundless as she approached him, though her tongue was curled like a blade, ready to pounce. "Is it because you've finally come to your senses and realised the Celestials aren't real, therefore incapable of answering your prayers?"

"A presumptuous thing to say. Presumptuous and blasphemous, might I add." At last, he placed down his pen, his fingers deftly tapping on the holopad until its blue glow dimmed and died. Then, after three heartbeats, he finally summoned the courage to face her.

All his words seemed to halt, his train of thoughts corked. Seeing his sister once more was akin to basking underneath the moon's rays on a starless night: overwhelming, flooding the caverns of his heart with gentle joy. How long has it been since he saw her last? A year? Two? Laeto had long lost count. "Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, dear Sis? I don't imagine you've come here to seek repentance and salvage your soul?"

"Not even if the fires of the Nine Hells were to engulf me," she retorted and laughed. Laeto's mind was somehow a blank slate, almost wiped clean of the remains of his childhood, a white canvas with faint scribbles on its edge, his last surviving memories. He had nearly forgotten the way her laughter sounded, the way the decibels rang one after the other, a perfectly timed melody. Yes, everything about his sister had always been faultless. She continued, "Lord Armand, however, made a little trip to the confessional booth earlier."

"Did he? And how would you know?"

Illyria shrugged, fiddling with the hem of her sleeves, playing coy. "Some could say it was divine intervention."

"Ah, you see, I prefer to call it diabolical intervention."

"Oh, you clerics and your accusations." On instinct, she rolled her eyes. "Anyhow, it's not me you should be rebuking. It's him and his group of filthy councilmen."

This would be a long conversation, Laeto could sense it. He billowed a sigh before calling out D-43LA ( or, as he preferred to call her, Daela ) to bring them two cups of tea and burrowing further into his chair, fingers crisscrossed together in front of his chest, settling his elbows over the armchair. "What'd they do to earn your ire this time, Sis?"

Illyria arched her brow. "Won't you at least allow me to sit?"

"What?" His eyes widened, mortified. He could not believe such simple manners had escaped him, despite having entertained numerous visitors and nobles. "Oh, yes, please take a seat."

"Barbaric, really, the way you treat your guests," Illyria huffed, affronted, dusting the invisible lint of one of the sofas before gracefully lowering herself, smoothing over the creases in her gown.

Just in time, Daela had come bearing two cups of smoke-warm tea over a silver tray, its fumes spreading over the marble-white room.

Illyria eyed the gray-shelled droid, lids narrowed. "Isn't that—"

"Mother's protocol droid, yes," he cut her off, clearing the mountains that had suddenly lodged in his throat. "Father gifted her to me."

"Oh." Silence loomed. Their mother was an unapproachable topic. "I was about to comment on its old model."

"Well, she's as good as any." The clock's tick was as loud as a fanfare. Laeto tapped against the porcelain of his glass. "Besides, you were saying?"

"Right." Illyria snapped back into focus, the shadows that had slinked into the room dispersing. "Are you aware of the recent Blockade of Naboo?"

"Who isn't?" His guard lowered, and he rubbed a hand over his face, his straight posture diminishing as he relaxed and slouched. "The High Priest made us pray day and night for the safety of their people. I spent weeks without sleep."

She clicked her tongue, head bobbed sidewards, teasing him. "A planet was under invasion and you're grousing over lost sleep? Is this the behaviour to be expected of a priest?"

There was suddenly something so vital in his eyes, red-hot, molten fire. Like their banter was breaething life into him. "As if you worried for anything but your dresses."

"Who's being presumptuous now, hmm?"

"Pray tell, am I wrong?"

"Well, not quite. But, I do have reasons for concern. Lord Armand revealed in his confessional that he played a part in the blockade — and I'm willing to bet so did the other lords of the council. Sooner or later, the Senate will find out and people will be sent in to investigate. It'll be a disaster."

"Why are you worried, then? Let them fear. Our family's hands are clean in the matter."

"It's father's first year of being a diktat, Laeto." Her gaze conveyed how ludicrous it was for him to even ask such a question. "It'll be horrible for his reputation and his credibility. Despite having no hand in it, it was his own councilmen's doing, and it happened under his rule. The Senate will either think him devoid of authority for not being able to control his subjects, or somehow involved in it."

Understanding dawned in his lake-blue eyes, like ascending clouds after veiling the clearness of the sky. "You plan to do something, then, I assume. Something drastic to get the attention off father."

"You assume correct."

"Will you divulge these plans of yours?"

"To you? No, of course not, don't be ridiculous." She waved his question away, lips furled, knife-sharp, almost cruel in her intent.

"Why tell me this then?" He leaned forward in his seat, confused, glass-eyed, vulnerable. Illyria was ready to pounce, to exploit his weakness. "Why come to me at all?"

"Because I thought you deserved to know what those councilmen are up to— men claiming loyalty to their gods, pledging allegiance to the Celestials. See what havoc they've wreaked. What pain they've caused to others. Know that these are the same people that worship your gods."

"The gods cannot be held responsible for a man's negligence, Sister."

"No, perhaps not," Illyria admitted. That would be a foolish notion. "But when they destroy planets and hide behind the shield that is your gods' unending forgiveness, do these gods not contribute to their sins? The promise of salvation, as long as one repents, as long as one continues to believe, no matter the sin . . . what a dangerous idea."

Laeto, for once during his tenure as a priest, was stunned into silence. It was odd, really. He lived and breathed to preach, fashioning himself into a humble mouthpiece of the gods, a vessel of the Sacred Word. He spewed prayers and sermons, the famed golden voice of the temple, herald of The One Truth, and yet he could not counter his sister's words.

Satisfied by the stupefied look scrawled over his face, Illyria arose from the sofa, heading towards the rectangle-shaped column, the space in-between hazy from the force field.

"Goodbye, Laeto." She turned her head to catch a last glimpse of him. It was only then she noticed the dark moons hanging under his eyes, the boulders seemingly strapped to his shoulders, his disheveled dirty-gold hair. How many sleepless nights had he gone through?

Pity crawled up her throat, nearly pushing its way out through her lips in the form of an apology, or asking how he fared. She tamped it down and crushed it to pieces with an iron fist, letting the shards pierce her chest, suffocating her breaths, bleeding out all thoughts of mercy from her body. "It was lovely speaking to you."

────୨ৎ .✦────

author's note !

MEE?? PUBLISHING A CHAPTER 2?? who would've thought??? 

fun fact, the first part of this chapter was done like . . . MONTHS ago. the 2nd part came together like a month ago (?) and the third part is still vv fresh but I hope they all still sound connected HAJHDJDH. 

hope you all enjoyeddd the interaction between her and laeto, her oldest brother who is a tad bit estranged from the family🫣🫣🫣 sorry for such a long wait HAJKJDFS thank you all sm !! critics are vvv welcomeee