Chapter 295: Meeting Soron
(Planet Ixtal, The Lost Forest, Outer Gate of Soron’s Residence)
Mavern walked barefoot through the lost forest, out of respect for the Great God Soron.
No expensive robes adored his frame, no escorts followed behind, and no guards flanked his sides, as he made his way across the beautiful terrain of the Lost Forest in a calm trance.
His steps were slow, as he often paused to admire the beautiful scenery of this unique forest, before eventually moving on, as he knew he couldn’t linger around forever.
He hadn’t come here in decades, not alone, and never without invitation.
But this time, he did not wait for approval or protocol, as he moved like a man who already knew that the weight of his burden was enough to justify the breach in protocol, as he walked patiently until he reached the clearing that he remembered all too well.
There it was.... The god castle!
Soron’s residence.
Plain and unadorned, with no guards stationed outside, no torches burning beside its walls, and no spiritual pressure leaking from within, as it looked like nothing more than a noble’s forgotten lodge buried beneath vines and time, and yet, Mavern knew better than anyone that no place in the universe was more sacred than the one that stood before him now.
He didn’t knock.
He didn’t announce his name.
He didn’t even look up.
He simply stepped to the entrance, lowered his knees, and pressed his head against the stone slab outside the door, as he kowtowed in absolute silence and remained still, knowing full well that if Soron wished to see him, the door would open long before he ever reached out to disturb it.
And sure enough—
It did.
The door opened slowly, without sound, as the air shifted slightly and a familiar scent of copper and incense drifted outward, while from within the darkness emerged a figure that Mavern had not laid eyes on in years, but had never once forgotten.
The great god Soron.
Tall but gaunt, draped in impossibly large robes that looked several sizes too big for his withered frame, with pale skin, sunken cheeks, and long strands of black hair that fell over his shoulders like dying silk, as although he looked nothing like the god of war that he once was, the pressure in the air shifted just the same.
"You may enter," Soron said softly, as he turned and walked back inside, his voice low and without force, but still clear enough to reach Mavern’s soul, as the First Elder finally lifted his head and rose to his feet.
No more words were spoken.
As he followed his lord inside.
—-----------
Soron walked ahead with the grace of a veteran warrior, his steps light and casual, his body swaying rhythmically, as despite his advanced age and countless health issues, the old god showed no signs of struggling with mobility, as though his body had long since made peace with its constant state of pain and decay.
The First Elder Mavern followed a few steps behind, barefoot and bowed ever so slightly, not out of compulsion or fear, but out of instinct, as just being in Soron’s presence made even the proudest of elders feel like students again, while the weight of reverence pressed down heavier than command ever could.
The air inside the castle was warm but dry.
Faint aroma of crystallized herbs and copper seemed to linger everywhere, as if it were fused with every stone inside the walls.
And although there was no grandeur in the halls, no gold, no murals, no vaulted ceilings, there was still an overwhelming sense of power contained within, as if the walls themselves radiated divine pressure after housing Soron for over a millennium.
Slowly, they made their way to a low, circular table at the center of a guest chamber, where a single clay kettle rested atop glowing embers, the water inside already hot but not yet boiling, as though it had been waiting for them.
Soron did not speak.
He did not summon the teacups with a flick of mana or raise the fire with divine heat.
Instead, he crouched slowly, with the careful grace of an old man used to pain, and with his own two hands, he lifted the kettle and poured the tea, in an unhurried and mortal way.
*Trrrr—Fshhh!*
The steam rose in thin curls that danced in the air, catching faint beams of light from a window nearby, as the moment the cup was full, Soron slid it across the table toward Mavern without looking at him.
"Drink," he said softly, his voice calm and steady, but laced with that subtle weight that never needed to raise volume to command obedience.
Mavern obeyed, taking the cup into his hands with care, as he let the warmth seep into his fingers before raising it to his lips.
The taste was faintly sweet, almost medicinal, but it was the aftereffect of drinking the tea that struck him hardest!
Almost immediately after taking the first sip, Mavern felt as though a knot within his chest had untied, as his breath grew lighter, his shoulders eased, and the fog that clung to his thoughts seemed to lift.
His eyes glowed slowly, meeting Soron’s for just a moment, as for that brief instant, the entire weight of the cult, of leadership, of suffering and secrets, felt smaller.
"You brewed this yourself, my lord?" Mavern asked, his voice quieter than he intended as the question slipped from his tongue without deliberation.
Soron smiled faintly, still not looking directly at him as he poured himself a cup.
"Of course. I have a tea garden in my backyard, and I enjoy processing and brewing it with my own hands," he said, taking a sip. "It’s one of my hobbies that keeps reminding me what it means to be human."
Mavern nodded slowly, unsure how to respond, the tea still warming his chest like a memory of a time before responsibilities.
"You should sit down, drink tea and relax more often ," Soron said after a pause, finally looking at him with a gaze that was both steady and ageless.
"Your health is deteriorating faster than mine, child.... And I’m not sure the cult can afford losing another first elder for a while."
Mavern lowered his eyes slightly.
Ashamed that he was indeed aging like crazy.
"I’ll keep that in mind, my Lord" He replied, as Soron nodded.
"So.... What brings you here today? You look very concerned.... Little one" Soron asked in a calm tone, as Mavern let out a dry laugh.
On his way here he had a whole speech ready on how he was going to explain his problem to the great god.
However, after coming here and sitting for a cup of tea, he couldn’t bring himself to talk so conservatively anymore, as he simply broke down like a child before a parent.
"My Lord.... The cult is on a war-path again.
Although no attacks have happened, they are but an inevitability, and I’m afraid we don’t have the strength to hold the righteous faction off.
Morale within the cult is at an all time high and the young ones are roaring for a fight, but I’m not sure if we are strong enough to win it.
Without you to lead us from the front.... I really don’t have faith in us surviving this war at all—" Mavern began, as Soron broke into a soft smile.