Mogous walked to the adyton hall feeling a sudden tightness in his chest. He had felt this way since he received the news that Moist's request to see him had been sent. It was very rare to meet with the goddess and even rarer to have her request for your presence herself, especially when you were sure you had done nothing extraordinary to receive such favor. During times like this, it was best to assume the worst. He had this ache within him that sprouted from his anxiety of goddess Moist wanting to finally punish him for his mistakes last time. She may have let him live then, but he knew she would not be so forgiving, considering the fact that his mistake now posed as the greatest threat the Human Nation was going to face.
So much had happened since the past few months and he could trace all their tragedies to the day the Siren Queen came to seek alliance with their goddess. He never had a good feeling about it, but it was definitely not in his place to say. And just like he had feared, the outcome was beyond devastating. Goddess Moist returned to the sanctum at the verge of death and the great catastrophe of the Spirit King's return followed.
It rained hail on the Human Nation, as the death of several nobles in the west followed, including his brother's — the duke. This was caused by the Spirit's reclaiming their territory and putting the humans in utter turmoil.
The rapid immigration to the capital sent the stability of their lands to absolute chaos and the priests worked tirelessly day and night to restore peace to the nation but little did they know that it was only the beginning of their troubles.
Soon after, the south was lost too. A long-forgotten entity that they knew nothing about was reincarnated in the person of his sister Amora. The same darkness within her that had addressed the goddess as her sister the time he attempted to bring her to the sanctum. It was now full-blown and all powerful. It took the witch race only one night to claim the south and their strike was not as merciful as the Spirit's. They killed every single human in the south including the noble families of Limphnean, his brother Nabu and the Duke's whole house, leaving no survivors at all, not even the old and frail or the innocent newborns.
It was not very surprising to him. He knew the amount of darkness he sensed from Amora that day and knew that such power was nothing short of ruthless. She was now very powerful and he hated to remember that he could have stopped it all if he had been more capable.
Ever since, in a bid to show himself approved to the goddess, he had buried himself in his cultivation and discipline, aiming for the highest reach of his powers, so as not to fail her for the second time.
He had achieved great success and improvement so far and he had enough faith that he would absolutely make her proud if he be sent on another endearing mission. Nonetheless, he still felt anxious to meet her still. He had no idea what she wished to see him for and knew not if she still had in mind to punish him or just had a task for him.
The adyton's carved archway swallowed him into its cool hush. The inner sanctum smelled of incense and iron, but Moist's presence overrode every ordinary thing in the room. She sat upon the dais not as a distant deity but as a goddess of men: human-boned, resolute, with an authority braided from mercy and the raw politics of a people who had given their last prayers to her. Her aura reeked — not of rot, but of the pungent, stubborn tang of soil turned for harvest, of incense steeped in blood and sweat: the smell of a god who had walked in markets, healed plague victims, taken bribe and oath with equal hands, who carried the scent of the city's alleyways and the sanctity of the shrines on either sleeve. It was the aura of a goddess who had grown from human grief and human governance, not from the aloofness of celestial courts. That odor of everyday divinity filled the air and left no doubt—Moist was as much ruler as nurturer, and she expected deeds, not excuses.
When she spoke his name, her voice had the weight of law and the intimacy of a woman who had known too many sons' failings. "Mogous," she said, "you have labored. Your hands are steady. I will tell you plainly what I require."
She told him without veil: Vesper must die.
Vesper, the Lady Hand of the Spirit Kingdom. Mogous knew nothing more about her apart from the fact that she was a low born spirit and only earned the title of Lady Hand because she aided the spirit lord's rebirth. As for why the goddess wanted her death, he did not know and he did not care. Her words were order and her wish was his command.
Vesper wielded no great power so dealing with her should not be difficult. Her influence however, was truly remarkable. In just a short while of serving as lady hand, she already was the articulate broker of spirit intent. A highly respected lady through out the kingdom.
Moist spoke of Vesper not with hatred for its own sake but with the cold arithmetic of a strategist who had watched her nation's weakness turned into slaughter. The Spirit King's ear was listened to through Vesper; if that hand were removed, Moist explained, Aliadam's focus would have to shift. It was not only a removal of an enemy but an opening—a chance for Moist to draw the Spirit King toward her as an ally rather than an uncontrollable force. She wanted Vesper dead so that she might offer Aliadam a single, unambiguous channel: herself. With Aliadam's attention directed, treaties could be woven and calamity mitigated. Moist's goal—clear, human, political—was to secure a bargaining position that could save thousands, perhaps millions.
Moreover, the way he had defended her that day and the border did not sit right with her. She still wanted Aliadam's love and affection as much as she wanted his protection. Vesper was a posed threat and must be taken out.
"Kill Vesper," she said. "Remove the hand, and the spirit king will notice the gap. I will use what follows to reach him. That is what I want you to do."