Alara sat at the base of a grand stone fountain at the courtyard’s center, tracing her fingers along the intricate embroidery along the hem of her blue and white robe. The mermaid goddess Aedre sat perched upon the top of the fountain, holding her arms outstretched, her hands together as water pooled into her stone palms before spilling into the basin below. Her carved hair seemed to ripple like waves, and her serene face was a vision of grace. Yet to Alara, the goddess’s external beauty appeared hollow—a cold, unfeeling lie etched in stone.

  Like a heartbeat, faith pulsed through every wall and soul in the temple. She chased it for many years, spending many sleepless nights praying for some trace of it to find her. All she discovered was silence—no whispers, no signs, just her grappling with her doubts.

  Is it me? She wondered, a dull ache in her chest. Am I the one who’s broken?

  What made it worse was that she was not just anyone struggling with faith. She was supposed to be Aedre’s Chosen Speaker. As the only daughter of Emeresia’s royal family, her destiny was to be the goddess’s voice, connecting her divine will to her loyal worshippers. But Alara considered herself a fraud. Every prayer she whispered went unanswered. Every ritual appeared empty. She finished her tasks mechanically each day, experiencing a growing distance from her beliefs with each passing hour.

  She leaned over the fountain’s basin. The statue above loomed over her, reflecting Aedre’s face beside hers, warped in the rippling water. The image seemed almost mocking. Was the goddess watching her falter? Did she know she wasn’t enough?

  “Why won’t you speak to me?” Alara asked, her voice so soft the trickling water drowned it out. She did not expect an answer. She never did.

  But this time, as if in response, the water calmed and sharpened into focus. Alara watched herself blink in surprise, startled to see her every movement mirrored with uncanny precision as if the collected water had transformed into a perfect glass. A cool breeze brushed over her skin, sweeping the hair not restrained by her braid across her face, yet the water below remained undisturbed despite the loud trickling of water that overwhelmed her ears. Beneath that sound, she could barely discern another. A low hum?

  Her fingers tightened around the fountain’s rough stone edge. Her mind was blank and unfocused as her right hand approached the mirror. A primal urge to touch it overtook her, wanting to break its illusion. Would it ripple if she touched it? Or would it feel solid against her fingertips? They trembled as she hovered them above its still surface.

  A muffled shout shattered the spell, jolting Alara from her trance. She spun toward the noise, following the sight of two of her fellow acolytes darting past her across the courtyard. Engrossed in their own matters, they did not seem to notice her or care as they exchanged their low, pressing, and unintelligible whispers.

  Once they were out of sight, Alara returned to the fountain, bracing herself for what awaited. But the water had returned to its natural rhythm, fracturing her reflection into shifting indistinct shapes. The hum she thought she heard was gone. Alara looked up to the statue above, then back down to the basin. Everything was just as expected—unremarkable.

  She leaned away from the fountain, scoffing as she sank to the ground. What had she just seen? An illusion? A trick of the light? Had she been staring at the fountain for so long that her tired eyes played cruel tricks on her? It seemed possible, but a lingering sense of hope remained. Is this it? The sign we had been waiting for?

  She rose to her feet and shook her head. She smoothed her robe with shaking hands, attempting to calm her mind by choosing to focus on the acolytes who had rushed past her. Why had they been in such a rush?

  The question gnawed at her, an additional worry weaving into the already tangled knot in her chest. There was definitely activity in the temple, and she was certain it wasn’t just in her imagination.

  Then she realized. Banquet preparations. She slapped her hand against her forehead. I forgot it was supposed to be today.

  The banquet was a grand performance her father demanded of her twice a year. Emeresia’s nobles and dignitaries mingled with the king’s daughter, reputedly divine, at a grand temple spectacle hosted by the Divine Council. They would clap politely, open their purses to the temple, and leave satisfied, equally enriching for both the crown and clergy.

  It was a one-woman stage play with Alara in the starring role—a girl who was barely familiar with her lines and struggled to project confidence in a being she didn’t even know existed. The twenty years of her life spent in “devotion” appeared hollow. And what was her reward? Nothing.

  Unless...?

  No. Alara dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it had appeared. She wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—consider it. A mirrored fountain wouldn’t suffice; Alara required more to notice the goddess attempting contact. She needed words. Clarity. Not cryptic parlor tricks.

  Even if Aedre were trying to reach her, it wouldn’t help her now. The banquet’s imminence and the time needed to prove the goddess’s communion meant she wouldn’t be ready, not by tonight. Nothing she could do could shield her from her father’s gaze, demanding she have something—anything—to prove her worth. Her hand reached for the ring she kept at her neck, the cool metal calming her increasing nerves.

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  A dry laugh almost escaped her. Would he think her mad if she interrupted the banquet and led everyone into the courtyard to gawk at the fountain? Look, everyone! This morning, the goddess calmed the water. No, I can’t make her do it again. Do I seem capable of controlling the goddess’s actions?

  Perhaps then he’d stop expecting her to deliver miracles. Perhaps he’d view this as yet another setback. The absurdity of the idea didn’t lighten her mood.

  “You look troubled, child.”

  Alara jumped, turning to see Senior Priest Elias approaching from the gardens. His long white hair seemed to meld into his beard as it brushed past his shoulders. His face showed deep lines etched by decades of service, but Alara’s attention always went to his eyes. Their eyes, like a warm hearth, chased away the chill that had settled in her bones.

  Despite his years, the man moved a shadow, often sneaking up on her when she least expected it. Despite causing her trouble many times in her youth, the fear of being caught committing a crime was always visible on her face, no matter how much she matured.

  “Forgive me, Senior Priest,” Alara said, bowing her head before standing straight. “I did not mean to neglect my duties.”

  Elias smiled, waving his hand as though brushing the idea aside. “Sometimes, reflection is as vital as service. We, unlike that statue,” he said, gesturing towards the fountain, “are not made of inanimate stone.”

  He leaned forward on his walking stick as he came to a halt, his gaze drifting past her toward another pair of acolytes as they hurried past, preoccupied as the last. “These are strange days,” he said in a murmur.

  “Strange days?” Alara echoed, following his eyes. Perhaps I didn’t imagine the tension.

  Elias paused, his expression thoughtful, as if wondering if he should continue. “There are whispers of unrest along the border towns,” he said finally, his voice low. “Shifting allegiances, quiet disruptions. The faithful rely upon our stability, but the world... It does not always oblige.” He glanced back at her, his face softening. “I tell you this not to burden you, but so that you understand. Your role, your voice, may soon carry weight beyond the temple.”

  Her heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”

  Elias placed a hand on her shoulder, the gesture seeming to calm her nerves. “We will speak of it soon enough. For now, follow me. I believe you’ll find the lesson I’m leading today meaningful.”

  He turned, starting toward the nearby steps, but glanced back at her, a small smile softening the lines of his face. “I know you feel alone in your struggles, but I see the weight you carry. I previously bore this weight. Perhaps I can help you find some clarity.”

  Alara hesitated, but nodded. Could he see the extent of her worries? She thought she hid it well, but this was Elias. He seemed to see into her deepest thoughts whether or not she allowed him in.

  She fell into step beside him. The great hall was near to the garden, its imposing structure bordering its edge, close enough that Elias had likely seen her lost in thought as he approached its grand doors. They ascended the broad stone steps leading to its entrance, her boots whispering against them as they entered.

  The moment they stepped through the cavernous chamber, the gentle murmur of conversation quieted. Groups of acolytes turned their heads toward them, their gazes following Alara and Elias as they passed. Alara wasn’t sure which one they watched, yet she guessed. She was used to those looks, the whispers accompanying them just loud enough to catch the words. Aedre’s Chosen. The Voice of the Goddess.

  She hated it. Every gaze, every speech, acted as a continual prompt of her expected identity. Another reminder of the role she knew she could never fill.

  Desperate to focus on something else, Alara wandered her eyes to the murals adorning the walls. The intricate carvings and paintings told the story of every High Priestess before her, stretching back to Laina Valewyn, the first of her line—an unbroken chain of women from her father’s lineage.

  Except... maybe it isn’t unbroken. The thought crept in unbidden and unwelcome. Her father lacked sisters to continue the lineage; the last High Priestess, her great-aunt, died fifty years earlier. Thirty years passed before another daughter of the bloodline was born, followed by another twenty for Alara to grow into her role. Twenty years of expectation. Twenty years of silence.

  Perhaps they waited for nothing. The words settled like a stone in her chest.

  Alara steadied Elias as he stepped onto the dais at the far end of the hall, the whispers silencing as soon as his feet touched the stone. She slipped into a seat on the front bench nearest him, a place that always remained empty. No one dared to sit near the speaker, possibly to avoid being singled out or scolded for inattention. But Alara never shared that concern. Despite her struggles with faith, she always hung onto Elias’s every word, as if each one might hold the answers she’d searched for, the key to unlocking her destiny.

  Elias leaned forward onto the podium and broke the stillness. “Faith,” he announced, his intense pronunciation echoing around the room, “is not solely forged in scripture.”

  The simplicity of his words settled over the room, seeming to draw the acolytes closer in their silence. For Alara, they reached some place deeper, stirring up questions she’d kept buried for far too long.

  “My personal test of faith came many years ago, in the days of my youth,” he said, his voice laced with quiet gravity. “As a fisherman, I encountered a storm so fierce that it stole the light from the sky and sent the sea clawing at the earth. I, an unbeliever, prayed to the goddess for rescue. I called out to her, but all I received was the ongoing storm. The storm continued its fury, and the waves swallowed my ship.”

  He paused, his gaze distant, as if he could still see the wreckage in his mind. “When I woke on the shore, battered but alive, anger burned in my chest. Why had she done nothing? Why would she let me suffer? I sensed she had abandoned me.”

  “But in the days that followed, I understood. A hand that pulled me to my feet. The shared bread of a stranger. I realized that while the goddess had not spared my ship, she had spared my life.”

  His eyes swept across the room, his voice softening. “Faith is not always loud, my friends. Sometimes, it whispers through the actions of others. Sometimes, it is the simple gift of waking to see another day.”

  His words hung in the air. Alara felt something shift inside her—small and fragile, yet unmistakable. A droplet of hope, faint yet persistent, rippled to life. Faith is not always loud. The phrase echoed in her mind, its meaning threading into the cracks of her doubt, filling spaces she hadn’t realized were so empty.

  Perhaps silence wasn’t absence, she thought. Perhaps it was just waiting for me to act.

  Elias’s tone darkened, his voice carrying an edge that made the hall feel heavier. “And yet, in these quiet moments of faith, we must remain vigilant. A storm of our own may stir beyond the hills—a storm carried not by the sea but by men of influence. Men whose ambitions weave themselves through our lives like unseen threads.”

  Alara blinked. Men of influence? Her thoughts drifted back to what he had said earlier in the courtyard: The faithful rely upon our stability, but the world... It does not always oblige.

  She revisited the murals, the past High Priestesses’ faces adorning the walls. Had any of them faced such storms? Did they, too, have to find faith in quiet details, whispers, and subtle signs instead of the loud, undeniable answers she craved?

  Perhaps faith whispers, Alara thought, an idea settling deep within her. But I must decide for myself whether I will listen.