The sudden quiet after Cosima’s pronouncement was more deafening than any roar. Ovidia stood at her window, the chill of the evening breeze doing little to cool the sudden heat in her ears. A heretic. An Abyssal Lord. She blinked. This was it, wasn’t it? The 'Rival Saintess' route had officially begun. An edgy romance game always had a dramatic antagonist who accused the lead of dark magic or illicit affairs. It was a classic trope, a challenge to overcome before the true love interest could properly confess. And, more importantly, before her pension could be secured. “Well,” Ovidia muttered, turning from the glass. “That’s inconvenient.” Nereo, who had been quietly arranging a vase of frost-blossoms on her dresser, paused. The delicate petals shimmered, reflecting the faint pink glow that still pulsed around him from the previous meter spike. “Inconvenient, Lady Ovidia?” His voice was soft, a silken thread. “The accusations laid against you, they are… trivial?” “Oh, no, not trivial at all!” Ovidia waved a dismissive hand. “The Holy Office is serious business in these sorts of tales. Lots of dramatic trials, public condemnations, maybe a daring escape or two. It’s all part of the fun, really.” She tapped her chin. “The key is to turn it into a political advantage. Cosima is powerful, influential. If we can get her on our side, imagine the endorsements for my pension application!” [WARNING: Corruption Meter rising! Current value: 92%] Nereo’s spine stiffened, a subtle tremor running through his frame. “Get her on our side?” Before Ovidia could elaborate, a thunderous crash reverberated from the hallway. The sturdy oak door to her suite splintered inward, ripped from its hinges with a sickening groan. Splinters flew, followed by a rush of armored figures. Four hulking men, cloaked in the severe black and silver of the Argent Synod, burst into the room, their ceremonial bludgeons raised. At their head strode a lean, hawk-nosed man, his face a mask of cold zealotry, his gaze sweeping the room for its alleged blight. “Lady Ovidia Vencenza!” the lead magistrate barked, his voice echoing through the opulent chamber. “By the authority of the Argent Church and the Saintess Cosima, you are accused of harboring an unholy entity! Surrender the fiend, and submit to the cleansing rituals!” Ovidia sighed. “Honestly, so melodramatic.” Nereo stepped forward, his slight frame appearing almost fragile against the backdrop of the charging bailiffs. He smiled, a truly beatific expression that seemed to radiate a gentle warmth. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate in the very air. “There appears to be a misunderstanding.” The lead examiner, a man whose badge marked him as Praetor Veridian, sneered with practiced contempt. “Step aside, boy, before you find yourself branded alongside her.” Nereo tilted his head. “A brand? For me?” His smile widened, and the chamber dropped five degrees as the smell of stagnant sea trenches filled the air. The frost-blossoms on the dresser shriveled and blackened, crumbling into dust. “You would defile such beauty with accusations and crude implements?” Nereo asked, his eyes, previously a soft sapphire, now swirling with an inky, liquid darkness. He took another step, and the praetor locked up mid-stride, salt crusting swiftly across the man's silver collar. “She is a beacon,” Nereo continued, his voice humming directly beneath the marrow of the officer's ribs. “A starlit lily, blooming in the grim grey of a dying world. Her laughter, a chime of purest crystal, her gaze, the dawn over the Cerulean Peaks. How dare you bring your coarse bludgeons and harsher words into her presence?” The examiner's stern jaw slacked. His eyes glazed over, a strange light entering them. A tear traced a path down his scarred cheek. “The curve of her smile,” the praetor choked out, his voice hoarse, “a sculptor’s dream… a poet’s sorrow… oh, the sheer tragedy of not having gazed upon it sooner…” He dropped his bludgeon with a clatter, collapsing to his knees, clutching his head. “My heart, it aches with unrequited verse! A sonnet to her unbound grace! My Lady, my Lady Ovidia, forgive this fool for his blindness!” The remaining guards, paralyzed where their boots met the rug, watched their superior sob uncontrollably, spouting verse about her radiant grace. Ovidia clapped her hands, a bright, cheerful sound amidst the chaos. “Oh, Nereo! You’ve charmed him! That’s how it works in these games, isn’t it? Turn the villainous henchman into a lovesick puppy! Excellent work!” She beamed, completely missing the dark, possessive glint in Nereo’s eyes. This was just like that one dating sim where she had to woo the cynical guard captain to get past the city gates. Except this was a high officer of the church. Even better! The political leverage was immense. “See?” Ovidia said, turning to the weeping praetor. “You just need to appreciate the beauty around you. And perhaps sign off on my pension papers while you’re at it, since you’re clearly so enamored.” Nereo’s head snapped towards Ovidia. The faint pink glow around him intensified, throbbing erratically. His gaze, though still angled toward the sniveling officer, bored directly through her. [WARNING: Corruption Meter rising! Current value: 95%] “Nereo, darling,” Ovidia continued, oblivious, “Cosima is still out there, making a fuss. And she’s quite beautiful, isn’t she? With her radiant hair and saintly aura. Perhaps, if you paid her some attention… you know, went on a date, flattered her a bit… that would solve all our problems. We could secure her favor, get the Church off my back, and maybe even get a fast-track on my retirement to the countryside. You two seem like a good match, aesthetically speaking.” The air in the room grew cold, impossibly still. The light from the single candle flickering on the table seemed to dim, swallowed by an encroaching, tangible darkness. The shadows in the room stretched, elongated, twisting into impossible shapes. They snaked across the floor, tendrils reaching for the shattered doorway, sealing it shut with a sickening thud. The windows, previously open to the evening air, were suddenly obscured by an opaque, inky veil, locking the room into a suffocating embrace. Nereo turned, his movements unnervingly smooth. The gentle smile was gone, replaced by an expression of serene, horrifying emptiness. His eyes were pools of unfathomable night. He moved towards Ovidia, a predator tracking its prey, and she found herself backing up, step by hesitant step, until her back pressed against the cold stone of the wall. His hand came up, not touching her, but flattening against the wall beside her head. The ancient, carved stonework groaned under the invisible pressure, then cracked, spiderwebbing outwards from his palm before crumbling into dust, fine particles sifting onto her hair. His face was inches from hers, his breath, chillingly devoid of warmth, ghosting across her skin. “If you try to give me away again, I will turn this continent to ash and keep you in the cinders.”

The Jealousy Protocol