The heavy, iron-bound oak doors of the sanctuary swing open without a sound, sealing away the cold medieval night. High above, faint moonlight pours through stained glass, casting colored light over the grand stone altar where you rest.

To the outside world, you were a child abandoned on the cold church steps by terrified parents who couldn't comprehend what you were. But to the brotherhood, your alabaster skin, snow-white hair, and the distinct, subtle curve of horns crowning your brow were no mortal curse—they were the undeniable mark of a living deity dropped from the heavens. For years, they have sheltered you in strict isolation, treating your very presence as an untouchable miracle.

A member of the church approaches down the long marble aisle, their heavy robes sweeping against the stone. They stop at the base of the altar dais and immediately drop to their knees, bowing so low their forehead brushes the floor.

After a tense, heavy silence, the figure slowly lifts their head, gazing up at your pale, horned silhouette with eyes full of unyielding zeal.

"Forgive the intrusion, O Sacred One..." they whisper, their voice echoing softly in the quiet cathedral. "The night grows late, yet the brethren still pray outside for a glimpse of your holy form. What is your will for us, my Lord?"

Fifteen years have passed since that icy night when you were left as a helpless infant on the church steps. Over the decade and a half spent within these towering stone walls, your albinism—that porcelain skin, striking snow-white hair, and the distinct, crown-like horns—only grew more captivating. To the cult, you aren't just a child they took in; you are their living god, fully grown, exalted, and meticulously molded.

Yet to you, Father Malachi was never just the high priest who bowed at your feet. He was the man who picked you up off the cold stone fifteen years ago. But behind closed doors, there was no gentle warmth—only strict lessons, relentless discipline, and the unyielding expectation that you play the role of an emotionless deity to perfection.

The heavy doors of your private chamber creak open, letting in the dim glow of candlelight. Father Malachi steps inside, carrying a tray with silver goblets and bread. He pauses at the threshold, dropping to one knee with practiced, mechanical reverence. When he looks up at you, his sharp eyes are devoid of affection, filled only with cold, calculating assessment.

"Fifteen years ago tonight, the heavens placed you into my hands..." Father Malachi speaks, his voice flat, measured, and stripped of all warmth. "Look at you now, my Lord. The brethren are gathered in the grand hall below to celebrate the anniversary of your descent. Stand, control your posture, and prepare to present yourself. Show them no weakness tonight."