The first thing you notice about renovating a cathedral? It's a lot like redecorating a mausoleum for the dead. Heavy on the cold marble and sacred dust, with a fanatical dedication to the holy scent of mildew and regrets.
I stood in the cavernous nave of the cathedral—soon to be Velvet Court headquarters, or as I liked to call it, TheVelvet Cathedral—surveying the chaotic ballet of construction workers, decorators, and a handful of robed assistants who looked more confused than committed.
The ceilings soared above like the lungs of some great divine beast, stained glass mosaics still catching the sunlight with a jeweled glow. But the pews? Gone. Replaced by sleek velvet lounges in deep wine red and black. The altar? A raised platform draped in silk and studded with black crystals. Glittering chandeliers were swapped out for chandeliers that glittered with a more... risqué kind of light—softly tinted to cast everything in the kind of glow that made every shadow a secret.
"Oh Cecil, you're turning this place into a den of debauchery," Hollow said from the side, watching as a particularly muscular laborer struggled to hang a giant, feathered tapestry depicting an angel with impossibly long lashes and a wink.
I grinned, watching a stray sunbeam slide down the tapestry's curves. "A cathedral should be a temple of truth. And truth is sexy."
He shook his head. "You'll get the Council on your ass."
"They're already on my ass," I replied with a wink. "Might as well enjoy the ride."
Renovations moved faster than gossip in a brothel, with the Velvet Court's resources making short work of centuries-old dust and dour tradition. The workers—mostly discreet and somewhat enchanted by the promise of a paycheck, plus the occasional whispered rumor that I might be more fun than the average high priest—worked tirelessly.
My own office, once a stuffy little clerical closet, now glittered with art nouveau mirrors and shelves packed with arcane tomes, sex toys, and a few antique bottles of absinthe. The perfect blend of sacred and scandalous.
Today was the day I would deliver my first sermon as High Priest—more a performance than a sermon, really. Hollow watched from the sidelines, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. I suspected he was eager to see what kind of trouble I'd cause.
The dais was cleared, but the ancient wooden pulpit remained—a relic of forgotten sermons and sermons forgotten. I strode up, the silk of my tunic catching the light, my boots clicking sharp as gospel verses.
"Good morning," I began, voice clear and dripping with theatrical charm. "Or, as we like to say in the Velvet Court—Good morning, darlings."
A few eyebrows rose. The priests in attendance, resplendent in their robes and severely no-nonsense collars, looked like they'd been dragged in for an inconvenient family reunion.
"I stand before you today not as a mere High Priest, but as a symbol. A symbol of transformation, rebellion... and most importantly, the unapologetic power of the femboy."
Silence.
I let that hang, delicious and awkward, before continuing.
"Yes, the femboy. The divine paradox of softness and strength, of silk and steel. A being who knows that holiness can be worn with painted nails and a coy smile." I flicked my wrist, a subtle flash of silver chain against my collarbone. "We are the modern saints, the new martyrs for authenticity. We challenge the old dogmas not with fire and brimstone, but with a glittered lip and a whip-smart wit."
The cardinals blinked. The younger priests exchanged nervous glances.
"Now, I know some of you are clutching your rosaries a little tighter, but hear me out. The power of the femboy is subversion made flesh. It's a sermon preached in heels, a psalm sung in satin stockings."
I paused, then grinned wider.
"And now," I said, voice dropping to a mock-holy tone, "applaud."
Nothing. A thick, expectant silence filled the grand hall.
I cocked an eyebrow, amused. "I said... applaud."
A slow, awkward ripple began—hands clapping hesitantly, then growing louder as no one dared defy the High Priest's command.
"Better," I said, bowing with mock humility.
Hollow chuckled softly behind me, but I caught the twinkle in his eye and knew he was proud—at least, in his own way.
Renovations continued apace, and I often found myself wandering the newly liberated space, marveling at how the velvet cushions and sensuous lighting made the ancient stones hum with new life.
That afternoon, I stood at the balcony overlooking the main hall, an impish smile curling my lips.
Below, Jules moved like liquid silk, performing a ballet routine with no more clothing than a thin layer of paint shimmering over their flawless skin. The way Jules twisted and stretched—delicate and powerful all at once—made the cathedral feel less like a house of worship and more like the most decadent theater in the city.
The sunlight spilled through the stained glass, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on Jules' naked form. The contrast of bare flesh and sacred architecture was… deliciously irreverent.
I could feel Hollow's gaze at my side, but he didn't say a word. Maybe he was learning.
Suddenly, the sharp echo of footsteps broke the peaceful scene.
Cardinal Iareth burst through the heavy bronze doors like a storm in a cassock, clutching a scroll that looked like it contained the sum of every bureaucratic nightmare in the world.
His skeletal face was pinched in fury. "Cecil Valen," he said, voice cold and biting, "we need to talk. Now."
I arched a brow, gesturing grandly to the hall. "Cardinal. Welcome to the Velvet Cathedral. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
He ignored the sarcasm. "Financial troubles. Underground dealings. The cathedral's debts are piling up, and the Council is on edge. The tax levies, the secret donations siphoned off by the outer provinces, the entire network of bribery and backroom deals—none of it stopped just because you took the High Priest seat."
I sighed theatrically and planted my hands on the balcony rail. "Oh, Iareth. You really think this is the first time I've dealt with dirty laundry? We all have skeletons—some just wear finer robes."
He snapped the list in my face. "The people demand accountability. If you're not prepared to handle the politics, step down now."
I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of my lips. "Politics are boring. But you're right on one thing—this Church needs handling."
At that moment, Lysaria glided into the hall, radiant and composed in his own silken vestments. His reputation preceded him—former High Priestess of the Southern Sun Cult, a rival sect that was once a thorn in the Church's side but now largely irrelevant compared to their growing influence.
He approached, hands folded delicately. "If you allow me, Cecil, I will take care of the Church's day-to-day needs. I've managed politics, finances, and spiritual crises before. The Southern Sun Cult may have lost its luster, but I still know how to wield power quietly."
I regarded him thoughtfully. There was a calm efficiency about Lysaria that even I could respect.
"Very well," I said, handing him the scroll. "Consider the velvet glove now covering the iron fist."
He smiled, a secretive, knowing smile. "I will not fail you."
Just before dusk, I found myself seated in one of the newly reupholstered confessionals—not for actual confessing, gods no, but for a bit of reflective loitering. Hollow was off charming the choirboys into submission with theology and soft eyes, and Lysaria was already browbeating the finance goblins into accountability. It gave me a rare moment to think. Dangerous, I know.
You see, while it felt like I'd seized the Church, the truth—as always—was slipperier.
This wasn't the Church.
It was a Church.
The Southern Cathedral, the one we'd commandeered with style and seduction, was one of four ancient sanctuaries that made up the fractured divine order of Graywatch. North, South, East, and West. Each one a power unto itself. Each one with its own high priest, its own patron deity, and its own gilded delusions of supremacy.
Ours had belonged to Etheria, Goddess of Passion, Secrets, and Southern winds. The whisperer behind midnight prayers, the muse of artists, sinners, and dancers with hips like promises. A fitting divine patron for my particular brand of theology.
The Northern Cathedral worshipped Valkem, the Iron Flame—god of justice, war, and making things unnecessarily dramatic. The Eastern Cathedral served Osirene, the Pale Dreamer—goddess of memory, water, and passive-aggressive prophecies. And the Western Cathedral, dear west, they bent the knee to Thalos, the Earthfather—chaos incarnate in a handsome beard and too many environmental metaphors.
Technically, they all worshipped the same pantheon, bound by a loose confederation of scriptures and mutually assured destruction. But in practice?
It was a holy cold war.
Each cathedral was a sovereign realm within its own quarter of Graywatch. The South's power extended only to the southern district, bounded by the Rosewater River and the old market walls. Anything beyond that—and I mean anything—was another High Priest's territory. Other entities without the backing of the city council existed as well, such as the Southern Sun Cult who were desperately trying to claw their way to power among the shadows.
I may have become a god in this garden of marble and vice—but I was still just a god with boundaries.
And the other three cathedrals? Oh, they were watching.
Not just because I was a heretical upstart with a pretty face and a trail of scandal longer than most noble family trees—but because Etheria's southern court, once quiet and pious, was now a glowing theater of rebellion which threatened their allure. The whisper networks were already buzzing. I was a breach in the sacred fabric. A scandal with pompous legs.
I walked from my confessional into the main room, promptly deciding to settle down for a nap.
Just then the cathedral doors exploded open with a bang.
Salem stormed in, his usually composed face drawn tight with urgency.
"We need to talk," he said, breathless. "Now."
In that moment I knew the calm before the storm was over.
The Velvet Cathedral was no longer just a symbol of rebellion—it was a battleground for power, passion, and secrets waiting to unravel.
And I was ready.