TBR CH67

It is easy for a god to win the love of a mortal.

The reverse, however, is not so.

Tarksius altered the memories of everyone in the square—an act not particularly difficult, for the mortal shells of humans could be effortlessly molded and reshaped under a god’s fingers. Edwin closed his eyes, leaning drowsily against him. Step by step, he descended from the high platform of the White Tower; the bishop’s chamber was near.

Tal turned the doorknob, and the wooden door slowly swung open, revealing a scene that seemed like a frozen frame from a memory. Edwin had changed nothing. The bishop was gently placed on the bed by the god. Tal adjusted the bedding, then couldn’t resist slipping in to embrace the sleeping Edwin for a moment, leaving the sheets tinged with his scent.

The god suppressed the urge to stay and wait for Edwin to awaken. There were still things he had to do before that.

The bishop’s staff, brought back by the god, suddenly flickered for an instant before dimming. The power of light within Edwin’s body receded like a tide. In his sleep, Edwin’s breathing grew restless and rapid until the god placed a hand on his forehead. In the name of divinity, Tarksius bestowed upon him power anew.

The only human blessed with the power of the dark god was not even his follower.

Tal leaned down gently, pressing a kiss to the trembling eyelids of the dreaming human, and whispered softly:

“Wait for me.”

The power granted to his followers by the God of Light had been stripped away by Him entirely. Tarksius knew full well that causing such a commotion at the heart of the Church of Light would draw the attention of even the loftiest gods who typically paid no heed to worldly affairs. It wasn’t because of Edwin—in the eyes of the God of Light, humans were unworthy of notice. What He truly feared was the presence of the dark god in His domain.

The black-haired, red-eyed god quietly closed Edwin’s door and turned away.

In that very moment, he stepped into a realm accessible only to gods.

The voice of the God of Light rumbled like distant thunder—He always favored such a manner of speech, and His followers ate it up—but such threats, when directed at another god, seemed rather hollow. Tarksius merely curled his lips into a casual smirk:

“He is mine.”

The god’s voice was light, yet it carried no sense of levity. A deep chill and menace lurked beneath his words—a power that even the light could not dismiss.

“You’re welcome to try. You self-proclaimed noble god will only find that you cannot even touch his fingertips.”

The God of Light was the most primal of deities. Unlike Tarksius, He was born with divinity, emerging from the light itself, commanding a vast legion of followers. He was like the finest sculpture—flawless yet devoid of any breath of emotion. From His very core, He believed gods and other beings were separated by an unbridgeable chasm. In this world, the only thing He feared was the dark god.

He stood before Tarksius.

“Why does he remain in the Church?”

The God of Light had never imagined He’d be powerless against a mere human. Humans were fragile creatures—waging war with the dark god over one was hardly worth the cost, especially when the power of darkness was growing in places He could not see. He had a very bad feeling about this. Perhaps one day, Tarksius would eclipse His radiance entirely.

“If you like him so much, take him away. Grant him all the glory you wish.”

The Archbishop of the Church was an utter traitor, a blasphemous wretch who defied Him and colluded with the dark god. This filled the God of Light with rage. Never before had He descended from His pedestal or suffered such a blow. Offering such terms, He considered it a slight lowering of His noble head—a concession.

Yet the dark god paid no heed to His dignity. His blood-red eyes gleamed with a strange light.

“Because that is the position he deserves. The seat of the Pope should rightfully be his—there’s no question about it. I will ensure he obtains everything he desires, clutching all that is rightfully his in his own hands. But rest assured—”

The God of Light took a step back.

His emotionless eyes suddenly brimmed with something akin to shock.

“Wait,” He asked in dismay, “You shared your power with that human? You’ve gained a follower? How has your strength grown so terrifyingly vast all of a sudden?”

“You needn’t worry,” Tarksius replied, completing his unfinished thought.

“After that, he’ll set his sights on a greater goal—a higher honor more befitting him.”

The dark god’s eyes, once reminiscent of boundless blood, now shone brightly, like a glistening gem. Whenever he spoke of the human, a faint smile tugged at his lips. The God of Light stared at him intently. For the first time, He felt He was no longer the supreme, omnipotent deity in this world. For the first time, He faced such a direct threat and challenge.

“Tarksius—” He gritted the name through clenched teeth.

But the dark god, as if suddenly recalling something, turned to face Him. His black hair sliced through the air like a blade or a spider’s web, even his locks exuding a dangerous malice.

“Oh, right,” he said casually, “I hear you’ve recently taken a liking to a certain human. They say he’s pure, innocent, devout—a follower with a face and virtues captivating enough to win the heart of the God of Light.”

He was speaking of Noah. At the thought of that breathtakingly beautiful, utterly obedient boy, the god’s expression softened slightly. Naturally, only a human like that deserved a fleeting glance amidst a sea of ants. Lately, Noah had been occupying more and more of His thoughts. The god had even considered making him His companion, though the matter was still under deliberation.

Still, Noah’s devout love for his god was beyond question. It was surely the pinnacle of human devotion to divinity.

“So…” The dark god observed the shift in His expression with keen interest. “If you still refuse to yield, I’ve thought of a fair solution. After all, you know as well as I do that if it comes to a battle on the ground, the losses will fall heaviest on the light.”

Tarksius laid out the terms, and a smug satisfaction gradually spread across the God of Light’s face. He seemed to believe His enemy had finally revealed a weakness—overconfidence in his own judgment. In this domain, He held the greatest advantage, adept at making decisions. He didn’t believe He could lose.

Naturally, He agreed.

Thus, a wager between gods was forged in secret.

*

The god wore a ruby hairband.

Tarksius stroked the gleaming ruby and the soft silk it was attached to. Before it was removed, it had been tied onto him by human hands. On the god, his black hair—normally a symbol of shadow and sharpness—softened as he gathered it with the band. Even he himself softened. Sitting in his usual perch, he did not proclaim himself a god before his lover.

Tal gently bit his lip, his beautiful agate-like pupils shimmering with both softness and unease.

He looked at Edwin with that cautious gaze. The bishop inwardly warned himself that the being sitting across from him was a god possessing the power to destroy the world, but it was no use. This appearance melted his heart beyond measure.

A cunning demon was most skilled at beguiling human hearts.

Edwin took a deep breath, suppressing the tremble in his fingertips. His mind was clear now, sharp as a blade that could effortlessly slice through sizzling butter. He couldn’t refrain from asking questions. It had taken him half a day to barely maintain clarity of thought—grasping the god’s name and the reality of the situation—before he began piecing together his memories. Bit by bit, he perceived the immense, terrifying qualities lurking beneath the sweet veneer of daily life with the demon.

A god.

“So,” Edwin slowly uttered the god’s name, “…Dark God Tarksius.”

The bishop had intended to step back—not to distance himself, but to avoid being so swayed by the demon’s docile demeanor. Yet he found himself unwilling to pull away. Edwin couldn’t tear his eyes from him. Tal was the pinnacle of all his desires, undeniable.

The question was whether this was all a god’s jest. Humans were so insignificant before a deity. Tal—Edwin clutched the rose in his hand tightly, as if grasping the only shred of reality. Tal, Tal, the one he loved so deeply—had he truly existed in this world?

Yet he couldn’t restrain himself, realizing with sorrow that even if it were all an illusion, he might still crave that false salvation as if it were real.

He had almost no boundaries when it came to Tal.

Before a god, humans wished to appear less fragile. But the demon was adept at seeing through the haze in his pale gray eyes to his true emotions. The human who loved him so deeply now stared at him intently—yearning yet anxious—desperate to prove something, unable to suppress the urge to embrace him or the joy of reunion, yet welded in place by the vast chasm of their identities and the fear of “never truly possessing.”

“Can I still call you Tal?”

He murmured, as if the words were merely a ghost drifting from his lips.

But the god answered him in an unequivocal way. Rising from the chair, the divine visage overlapped with that of the demon for a fleeting moment before the haze dissipated. Tal stood before him—the little demon with garnet-red eyes and soft black hair.

Edwin instinctively reached out, only to realize he was extending his hand toward a god. He stiffened slightly, hesitating over whether to retract his greedy grasp and conceal his possessiveness toward a deity.

The bishop’s hand wavered unnaturally.

Patience was key. The demon suppressed his desire to embrace, maintaining a gentle demeanor to avoid startling him, waiting for Edwin to come willingly. So he merely extended his hand to rest over Edwin’s. The bishop’s hand was always cool, and though the dark god was much the same, Tal felt warm. The demon’s voice was husky, like dark honey:

“My true name is Tal,” he said. “It always has been. I should declare my love for you first, and then I’ll tell you everything. Edwin, would you like to hear my story?”

The bishop held his breath and nodded.

…A god’s story, he thought.

But the demon shook his hand lightly, a smile tugging at his lips:

“It’s the story of a particularly good human who shattered a bottle and freed the lonely demon trapped inside.”

*

Edwin first heard the story he already knew.

It wasn’t unimportant, the demon assured him. It had all undeniably happened. He had truly wandered this continent like a free traveler while constantly fleeing. The honeyed mead was real, as were the tender sunsets and the mornings thick with murderous intent. He had sat atop a dragon’s ridge, watching a meteor streak across the sky, and indeed made a wish.

“What was the wish?”

Edwin couldn’t help but ask. Tal shook his head; it was too long ago, and he couldn’t recall. The demon subtly scratched the back of Edwin’s covered hand with his fingertip, indulging in small, restless gestures. As he listened to the tale of a free soul, Edwin indulged him, casting a faintly reproachful glance with his pale gray eyes, urging him to continue.

“Too long ago,” Tal shook his head with a smile. “Probably a few thousand years back. Edwin, I was just about to tell you.”

Time slipped from the demon’s lips so lightly, as if millennia were as measurable as mere minutes. But the bishop knew time was far from weightless—it was heavy, and even the god spoke of it with a faint, almost imperceptible weariness and loneliness. They sat close together. The evening sun had faded, and now moonlight streamed through the window. Under its glow, their shadows overlapped, casting a veil over Tal’s face as he lowered his eyes while recounting his tale.

How awful. Edwin’s pinky twitched slightly. He had to resist the urge to flip his hand over and grasp Tal’s, for Tal looked so lonely when he spoke of time.

Sensing the faint itch in his palm, the god paused and began to tell Edwin stories he hadn’t heard before.

The world a thousand years ago was much like it was now. Before the Church was rebuilt, there were still vast, imposing structures and orderly hierarchies. Yet amid it all, human greed and thirst for gain remained unchanged. Like peeling back a scar, Tal recounted his origins—a timeless romance and its tragic end, and the unwelcome gift that failed union bestowed upon his parents.

“That’s me,” Tal said, lifting his eyes to smile at the bishop, seemingly unconcerned. “So I started running. My father and mother both wanted to capture me. Being hunted by two great powers at once was quite a hassle—but I think I did pretty well.”

He had indeed done well. No one expected him to last so long—sly as a fox, agile as a cheetah. He slipped through taverns and desolate ruins, accustomed to dealing with all sorts of characters, yet cautious never to entrust his heart to anyone. He loved the free life and occasionally even savored the thrill of the chase. The young demon had pondered how it might end, but he didn’t care. Back then, he naively believed even death could be part of freedom.

Freedom. Edwin mulled over the word in his mind, feeling, for some reason, a strange, bitter pang. Tal pressed down on his hand, as if pinning a butterfly’s wings to keep it from flying away, his eyes glinting:

“Dear Bishop,” he said, as if seeing through his thoughts, “that doesn’t include love. I’ve never liked anyone else—no, never. You’re the first person I’ve ever loved.”

Speaking of freedom inevitably led to love. Edwin finally realized he had indeed been worried—Tal seemed the type many would fall for.

But to be confessed to so bluntly caught him off guard. He knew Tal meant to reassure him, yet for some reason, the parts of his hands being touched felt not just warm but searing. He recalled the question in the tavern that the demon had dodged with a drink, now answered with resolute honesty.

“Tal…” he murmured, then abruptly fell silent, unsure what to say. His pale gray eyes flickered with a hint of plea, uncertain whether to respond to the confession or urge him to keep talking.

The demon smiled, shook his head, and continued where he’d left off.

“Even so, the Church got to me first in the end. My mother, the Saintess at the time, wrote me a letter. In that moment, I couldn’t help but waver. It’d be sadder, perhaps, if I’d managed to harbor no expectations at all.”

Edwin nodded. The bishop listened intently. Moonlight spilled through the window onto him, while Tal remained in shadow. Edwin, illuminated, was outlined in silver threads. His eyes shimmered with empathy, resonating with the demon’s most hidden emotions from long ago.

Tal’s situation back then had been dire. Locked in a cell, the prison was as it is now—lit by bright holy candles twenty-four hours a day. Even curling up couldn’t stop the discomfort from seeping into every inch of his skin.

The demon began to contemplate his fate. It seemed death was the only outcome, yet he clung to hope in the contract he’d hastily left in the Church’s library. Optimistically, perhaps it would only take days for someone to summon him. Death wasn’t so terrifying to him, but if given the choice, he still wanted to see more of the world with those eyes.

He hadn’t expected the Church to discover his potential—and find a way to exploit it.

He hadn’t anticipated that, in the end, he wouldn’t even achieve death—trapped in a bottle by boundless light or languishing in the flames of a fearsome demon god.

Tal shared this past with Edwin, his voice soft and slow, betraying little emotion. At first, he’d tried counting the days in the bottle, but soon realized it was futile. He began imagining someone shattering the bottle to free him, yearning so desperately to escape that he envisioned the scene over and over. He told Edwin he’d wondered countless times who might find the contract tucked between the pages of an obscure book in the library—until, at last, he resigned himself to the idea that the book might have been lost forever in the vast traces of history, irretrievable.

“I found it…?” Edwin said softly, still a little uncertain.

The demon lifted his eyes. Those translucent garnet orbs, reflecting Edwin’s figure, had been stripped of emotion during the tale, his lips pressed tight. Now, they curved into a faint smile—stunningly beautiful and indulgent.

“It was the one you found.”

“But it was still too late.” Edwin only needed a moment’s thought to realize the timelines didn’t align. A sharp, indescribable pain flooded his heart. “If only it had been sooner, maybe I could’ve…”

—Could’ve brought you out in time.

He wished for it so desperately.

Because the demon had suffered too much, had been too lonely. Edwin knew he hadn’t yet grasped the full truth—like how Tal became the god before him now. But just imagining Tal, whom he held so dear, enduring endless years with an unanswered hope that gradually dimmed those garnet eyes made his heart ache unbearably.

Edwin’s fingers twitched again. This time, he couldn’t fully suppress his emotions. He spread his fingers, and though Tal cast a surprised glance, the bishop firmly, without hesitation, interlaced their hands, gripping tightly.

“I’m so sorry.”

His gaze spoke the words, and the demon’s expression shifted—trying to smile nonchalantly yet teetering on the edge of tears. He cherished the moment, gently swaying their joined hands, savoring the slight friction.

“Don’t apologize,” Tal’s voice was a little hoarse. “Edwin, you found me in the end. Not too early, not too late—I’m no longer sad… See, I was right. The one who found the summoning book ultimately saved me.”

Edwin’s eyes held a trace of confusion. He hadn’t yet understood why the demon phrased it that way—as if you thanked someone sincerely, and they fretted over not helping sooner. Tal let out a soft laugh, but it was overshadowed by an urge to tell him everything, to share his feelings, to explain how Edwin had saved him, starting from his soul.

They still had time…

Tal leaned in. Edwin froze, not reacting immediately, as the demon pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips. Seconds later, Tal licked his lips and sat back.

Holding hands wasn’t enough. Edwin pressed his lips together, still tasting the sweetness from memory. He now wanted to embrace the demon, but he restrained his impulse, embarking on a new round of patience.

And so, Tal began to tell the bishop everything about what came after.

*

The life of the Dark God was as piercingly cold as unchanging ice and snow, with the few noteworthy events steeped in wet, dripping blood. Tal held nothing back, recounting his existence to Edwin in exhaustive detail—then the black book, the world invaded by the Chosen One, and the attack he launched after learning the truth.

The Holy Son, struck by dark forces at a distant border, returned to the Church in haste and disarray. The noble factions seized the opportunity to challenge the young bishop, uncovering the secret of his bloodline that he’d hidden for years. The gears of fate turned, bringing a demon long thought dead to Edwin’s side—a miracle through and through.

A miracle was like rain. But rain doesn’t fall on just one person.

The miracle fell upon Tal, and suddenly he no longer resented the powerless self of a thousand years ago. That demon had nothing—no one had ever listened to his story—but now, a millennium later, a human chose to love him. All his tales were suddenly infused with color, and the ghost within the god was resurrected.

Again and again, the god indulged the bishop.

The ghost, returned to the world, realized he wasn’t ready to leave. Not only had he shown Edwin the colors of the world, but Edwin had reminded him of everything he’d once loved—the bright, the beautiful. Talking about it all with the bishop brought him joy. Pulling Edwin from the mire bit by bit, piecing his nearly broken self back together with kisses and embraces—it was as if he, too, could have been redeemed back then, even though he hadn’t been.

Then the final deadline arrived.

The god chose to withdraw when necessary, but the long-dead ghost inexplicably made a decision in his stead. He tucked away the ruby hairband and left Edwin’s room, unwilling to impose any shackles on him.

Even knowing he might be killed again—this time with no one to find him.

Until Edwin ascended the White Tower.

“Until you ascended the White Tower.”

Tal said softly. Only then did he understand that the soul of the demon Tal had never, for a single second, been at peace or redeemed. It had remained trapped in the shattered golden bottle of the past—until the bishop utterly crushed its remnants in the radiant holy light, and the sky’s glow fell upon him once more.

“I love you.”

He looked into Edwin’s eyes, repeating firmly and slowly, “I want you to have everything you desire, to fulfill every wish. I want to give you everything. I realize my wish is the same as yours—I want you to stay, to remain by my side forever, and I want you never to forget me…”

He spoke without a trace of shame, yet Edwin felt his ears burning.

To be loved so steadfastly and openly by Tal was an unbelievable sensation, as if the entire world were melting around him. Tal—Edwin softly held the name between his lips, his pale gray eyes reflecting the figure before him: a god. Born a madman chasing ambition, he now harbored an unimaginable hope. His longing soared like a winged bird, rising far beyond the earth to immeasurable heights.

Just as he, a half-incubus hybrid, had coveted the highest seat of humanity, he was about to ascend to that pinnacle. So perhaps coveting a god wasn’t such a grave sin after all.

And though the god possessed the power to shatter the heavens and earth, he sat docilely before him, adorned with the gift a human had given him—a mark of sorts.

He was clearly a little nervous too. Even a god grew anxious before his lover, cautiously awaiting Edwin’s response. His soft black hair reached his shoulders, tied with the glittering ruby hairband, his lips murmuring gentle, sweet words.

“I’m sorry for deceiving you. It won’t happen again—I’ll never utter a single lie in your presence.”

Edwin closed his eyes briefly to steady himself against the dizziness of it all. He’d always be helpless against Tal’s pleading, especially when he swore so earnestly before him. But something more was needed. Humans were far craftier than gods imagined, never satisfied with what lay before them.

“No leaving, no forgetting…”

Edwin quietly repeated the god’s heartfelt promises, then asked Tal with deliberate mischief, “But what if I get mad at you for deceiving me?”

The god’s beautiful red eyes fixed on him unblinkingly, as if he were the only one in their gaze.

“That’s fine,” Tal said. “You can be mad at me.”

Edwin’s fingers twitched, but this time he didn’t manage to suppress the urge to hold Tal.

*

The bishop reached out, and the demon knowingly leaned in. Their embrace was mutual, each holding tight. Edwin rested his head on the god’s shoulder, inhaling the pleasant scent of roses—his roses. His hand slid up Tal’s back, reaching the soft, slightly cool strands of hair and the ruby hairband.

With a gentle tug, the hairband came into the human’s hand.

Edwin sighed softly, pulling back from the embrace. His pale gray eyes flickered as he looked at Tal, making a special request.

“Tell me what a god is usually like.”

Tal tilted his head slightly, observing Edwin’s expression. The bishop’s demeanor was calm, but the demon knew Edwin could be far more troublesome than he appeared—clearly, he’d already hatched some secret plan. Like a venomous snake, he’d left plenty of victims in his wake on his climb up the ranks.

Yet the god adored this side of him.

Edwin stood before the god once more, taking in the Dark God’s true form. Ignoring the gentle, indulgent gaze, Tarksius truly fit the description of a deity—tall and lithe, with abyss-deep black hair and crimson eyes. More than that, it was his presence: long accustomed to supremacy, steeped in boundless divine power that lent his cold, aloof nature an edge. Edwin could guess he viewed other beings as mere ants.

“Don’t move,” Edwin said, wrapping the hairband around his hand before kneeling on one knee.

The god couldn’t lose him. Love blinds, willingly accepting any condition. True to his word, Tal didn’t move, pursing his lips and letting Edwin proceed. His stillness only made him resemble a breathtaking statue more. The bishop had passed the statue of the God of Light in the sanctuary countless times, offering feigned prayers of devotion before it. Light demanded piety, after all.

But Tal didn’t demand piety from him.

And he was no human easily satisfied with what a god offered.

Edwin knelt halfway, taking the god’s hand—long fingers, beautifully sculpted bones. He began kissing from the fingertips, at first like a devout follower worshipping a deity. He carried himself entirely like the Grand Bishop of the Church, and Tal only now noticed he hadn’t even changed out of his robes, making the scene all the more absurd and striking.

He was truly skilled at feigning faith.

The bishop’s spine arched tautly, his gray eyes softly closed. Faith was always blind, like this.

He sighed lowly, “You’re a god…”

Tal shifted his fingers slightly, uneasy. Because the bishop was a lover, not a follower.

Edwin’s lashes trembled, then his half-open eyes revealed a sliver of shadow-like gray—gray that could devour everything, a swirling storm declaring his ambition reached far beyond this.

He pressed down on the god’s arm, the hairband dangling from his wrist, its pure black silk brushing lightly against the god’s hand like a hazy, ambiguous kiss. Edwin commanded softly:

“Don’t move.”

“You’re a god… but you’re also my Tal.”

The way Edwin said “my” carried a soul-stirring certainty, as if there were no doubt that the god belonged to a human.

Then the hairband coiled around the god’s arm like a snake, spiraling to bind his hands tightly together. Made of thin silk, it could be torn apart with a fraction of his strength. Yet the god didn’t use his power, allowing himself to be bound so easily—as if a human had truly captured a deity, free to do as he pleased.

This was hardly the act of a pious follower daring to offend a god.

Tal blinked, clearly thrown by the situation.

“I won’t move. You can do whatever you want.”

But the god still said this, and Edwin leaned forward, pressing the god onto the soft bed. The human cast a sweet shadow over him, binding the hands that could destroy the world with the hairband. Jet-black hair spilled across the bedding, stirring bursts of rose scent.

Edwin took a sharp breath, gazing at the god at his mercy. The sight was too captivating.

He knew how much he wanted to profane the divine.

And he knew how earnestly he cherished his god.

The Dark God’s robes were exquisitely ornate, with a cold, icy touch. But Tal was right—no matter the garment, it was far easier to undo than Edwin’s long row of buttons. Edwin wasn’t sure if he’d unfastened the god’s clothes in the proper order, but the result was a bit of a mess. That wasn’t a big issue.

Soon, he shed his own robes as well—the silver buttons, the black velvet fabric sliding away. Edwin now wielded the power of the Dark God, allowing him better control over his bloodline. The incubus heritage within him had matured, fermenting into something ripe, and he used it now, making himself feel like a heavy, laden fruit.

Incubi were not fragile creatures. On the contrary, their innate gifts endowed them with a unique blend of danger and captivating allure.

The god offered no resistance. Tal inhaled softly, letting the human touch his body. The tail of the half-demon swayed gently behind him, and the god had to suppress the urge to reach out and grasp it. His black hair spilled messily across the bed, like a spider’s web meant to ensnare prey—yet too soft, powerless in his lover’s hands.

Edwin gathered a handful of that hair, leaning down fully to kiss him. Kneeling astride the god, the slight friction stoked a hidden desire, letting it simmer.

He had to ensure the god was his.

He lowered himself, biting his lip. But it wasn’t too bad—still within his control.

Tal’s bound hands rubbed against the soft silk, unavoidably leaving faint red marks. Even so, the god never broke free from the restraints that, to him, were laughably fragile.

You can bind me. Those garnet-red eyes spoke silently, and Edwin couldn’t resist that gaze. He knew the god was docile and vulnerable only before him, yet he couldn’t suppress the desire to possess and protect him.

“What bargaining chip could I use to keep a god?”

The bishop knew humans had no such leverage—no being in the world could confidently make a god stay. But Tal had come to him wearing the ruby hairband, smiling as he told him no, no more was needed.

The contract was already sealed.

Only love could hold a god. Even the mightiest deity was powerless before it.

Until Edwin was gasping for breath, fully aware he’d expended too much energy. He slowly bent down, his damp breaths brushing Tal’s neck as he reached out without looking, gently untying the silk ribbon that bound the god. Now, the god could freely use his hands—only after the human’s permission. Such a light, soft ribbon.

In that instant, he received an embrace.

The god leaned in, wrapping his newly freed arms around his treasure. He shifted to the side, letting Edwin sink into the soft bedding, enveloped by a deep rose fragrance. The god’s eyes, darkened with restraint, now shimmered with a deep, flowing crimson. He began kissing downward from Edwin’s forehead, then continued lower.

Until, at last, both were fully satisfied. Tal left a final kiss between the bishop’s lips, a mark of affection. Some spent their entire lives never hearing a single word from a god, yet here was a god whispering in his lover’s ear:

“I love you.”

The bishop could never withstand Tal pouring out such love by his ear.

Edwin’s eyes curved slightly, like a cat squinting after being petted. His smile was genuine, utterly devoid of pretense. Tal had once said Edwin looked beautiful when he smiled sincerely—and this was that joy.

He replied:

“Of course, I love you too. Always have.”