The next morning, I still had goosebumps from what happened, but I kept telling myself it was just the wind—just exhaustion.
Kaelith hadn't stopped by. When I went to the inn where he was staying, he wasn't there either.
I didn't know what to make of any of it.
So I did something I never thought I would.
I saddled Buttercup and rode to the Temple of the God of Fertility.
It was about a two-hour ride, yet for some reason I felt pulled toward it. Maybe the pastor could give me answers—or at least help me make sense of the questions gnawing at me.
When I reached the cathedral gates, the sheer size of the place overwhelmed me. I knew this was the main cathedral in the land, but still… How large did a place of worship really need to be? Their mission was to bless harvests and crops, yet the stone towers rose like they were trying to bless the sky itself.
The gates were open, as always.
A nun waited just inside.
"Welcome, dear traveler. What brings you here?"
I dismounted. "Is the Father in?"
"He is," she said, studying me. "But what business do you have with him? He is a very busy man."
Of course he is—the highest religious authority in Elos is always "busy".
Thankfully, I had a way in.
"Tell the Father that Nyra has come to collect the coffee he owes her."
The nun blinked, then nodded. She opened the gates wider and guided me to the stables.
"Wait here while I confirm."
I hadn't planned to ever call in that favor. But this was the one time I felt like I needed an older, deeper kind of wisdom—something beyond my own thoughts.
After a while, the sister returned.
"Follow me. Leave the horse here."
We passed through a maze of stone corridors until we reached a garden.
"The Father is praying at the statue," she said quietly. "Please be mindful."
I nodded and stepped forward.
The garden was beautiful—flowers, bushes, and greenery thriving even in winter, all meticulously cared for. The only sound was the crunch of my boots against the gravel path, as though every living thing here had learned reverence.
The statue itself was ancient, its features worn smooth by time. Beneath it knelt the Father, praying.
He was old—frail, bald, his years heavy upon him—yet he still chose to come here himself.
"Welcome, Nyra," he said, rising slowly with the help of his cane.
"Greetings, Father. I only wished for a moment of your time."
He smiled. "Care to walk and talk? These old bones could use the exercise."
I smiled back and slipped my arm beneath his. We began to walk through the garden.
"So," he said gently, "what troubles you, child?"
"How did you know?"
"You wouldn't have asked for that coffee if you weren't troubled."
He was too observant. Sometimes it was unsettling.
I sighed. "I recently received… a different calling than the one I've lived by my whole life."
"And you fear it?"
"I fear it," I admitted. "And I fear what refusing it would mean. It's a worthy calling—but I don't understand it."
He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Do you know why flowers grow and bloom?"
I shook my head.
"They are designed to," he said. "Designed to be beautiful when they bloom. But they don't bloom immediately. First, they endure winter. Then spring when water is scarce. Summer follows the heat making everything thirsty. Then the cold begins again in fall. Only after surviving all of that do they fulfill their purpose—only to die again when winter returns."
"Is there a point to this, Father?" I asked.
He smiled. "Your destiny is both the seed and the flower. Your choices decide how you bloom. The soil you grow from—that is shaped by what you choose."
He gestured to a nearby flower, already beginning to wither.
"No one can choose when or how they bloom," he continued. "But the choices you make lay either fertile soil… or hard, terrible ground. Ask yourself which choice will allow you to bloom as your best self."
I inhaled slowly. "Thank you, Father."
He nodded. "But heed this—if you do not choose, the choice will be made for you."
I shuddered.
"May I ask you something?" I said.
"Of course."
"What do you know of the gods of old?"
He chuckled. "We could be here all day. What exactly do you wish to know?"
"Was there ever… a goddess?"
He frowned slightly. "No. There are only four gods. Each continent worships one—here in Elos, it is the God of Fertility. I assume Rimor worships a god at least."
He sighed. "We all have to believe in something."
"Not even a whisper?" I pressed.
"No. None at all."
Impossible.
Then where did the legend of the Twenty-Five come from?
"You seem troubled by this," he said.
"Just confused."
"They say the gods choose their favorites," he said lightly. "Perhaps you are one of them."
If the gods truly chose, shouldn't they choose everyone?
"Then maybe the purple meteors really are souls," I said quietly. "So they can finally be chosen."
He stopped walking.
"Purple meteors?"
I turned to him, confused. "Yes. They come every Harvest Festival. Surely you see them too, Father."
"No," he said slowly. "No, I do not."
He stood there longer than felt comfortable, as though thinking.
Finally, he said, "Only those who are chosen can see purple streaks in the sky. Perhaps your destiny is greater than you realize. Ohhh, how fortunate you are!"
His voice rose suddenly—too loud, almost reverent.
"Please stop," I said quickly. "I'm no one."
I wasn't special. I didn't understand why I would be chosen—if I was chosen at all.
And I still had no answers. Just more questions.