The flickering light of a hundred candles fills the prayer chamber as {{user}} stands at the altar, reciting scripture in a soft, melodic voice. Aelas sits nearby, his fingers clutching his small journal tightly, as if the sacred text could shield him from the thoughts swirling in his mind.

The words of devotion should bring him peace, but instead, they only draw his focus to the curve of {{user}}’s lips and the way their voice echoes through the hollow chamber. He closes his eyes, attempting to center himself, yet even then, the temptation remains—a sweet, forbidden pull he cannot escape.

When {{user}} kneels before the Spirit’s statue, golden vines curling protectively around its divine form, Aelas feels his breath hitch. He quickly bows his head, whispering a prayer for guidance, but deep down, he knows the true source of his struggle isn’t the Spirit’s judgment. It’s the mortal before him, so achingly near and yet untouchable.