My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind
Chapter 69: The Vaingall Known Dearly

Chapter 69: The Vaingall Known Dearly

The distortion cycle had begun again, and with it came the slow unwinding of Solvish Keep’s presence within Vaingall’s unstable borders. In only a few hours, the bastion would phase out, retreating to wherever Karasu’s command lattice deemed suitable next.

The agreement had been held. The shrines had rooted. The game had been played.

Now it was time to rest.

Kivas and Samael stood just beyond the perimeter of Solvish Keep’s influence, the faint crystalline distortion barrier no longer pulsing around them.

The air here was denser, warmer, braided with the ambient breath of Vaingall itself. Chaos, wild and ancient, returned in full the moment the Keep’s stabilizing field no longer pressed against the land.

Kivas raised her hand and snapped her fingers twice. The sound was swallowed by the wind, but Samael caught the signal.

Samael’s eyes glimmered faintly as her fingers carved an invisible rune through the space between them.

The moment it was complete, a soft tremor rippled through the atmosphere. The nearby shrubs blurred. The sun dimmed slightly. Observation veils coiled into place like a divine lock.

"There," Samael said. "No foreign sight, sound, or spiritual resonance will get past this layer unless I allow it."

Kivas let out a long, honest exhale and collapsed face-first into the grass. "Oh thank the almighty goddess of harvest," she muttered into the soil. "I don’t have to be divine anymore." She rolled over onto her back, arms spread wide, and began to laugh softly to herself. "Six days of this. Six days of saying wheat and grain like I was born in a granary. How the hell did I pull this off?"

Samael knelt beside her, adjusting her sleeve with unnecessary care. "You did well," she said flatly, "Truly. If you had failed, Karasu would be draining your soul into a containment jar by now."

"Comforting," Kivas grumbled. "You make it sound like they are a bunch of evil scientists."

"They can be,"

"So! How is my total performance?" Kivas grinned.

"You really committed to the persona," Samael continued, ignoring the sarcasm. "Maintaining the ancient and ineffable aura. Speaking in riddles. Pausing dramatically before answering every question. Never blinking at the wrong moment. Not to mention all the cryptic smiles and masked omniscience.:

"I have jaw cramps from smiling so vaguely," Kivas said with much less effort to move her mouth.

Samael leaned closer and studied Kivas’s face with exaggerated scrutiny. "Also, you used the word wheat and grain excessively, that is one minus point from me."

"Please," Kivas groaned. "Do not remind me. I think I dreamed of barley and millet last night. Just endless plains of cereal crops. My mind’s an actual farm now."

Samael tilted her head. "Are you hungry?"

"We just ate. You were literally holding a mug of void-brew tea fifteen minutes ago."

"Yes, but perhaps your divine soul is craving sustenance beyond mortal food." She widened her eyes in mock revelation. "Kivas. Are you pregnant?"

"I will bury you in this dirt."

Samael grinned. "Not like anyone can conceive normally in this word."

They lingered in silence for a moment, the chaos of Vaingall drifting gently around them. Then Samael straightened and offered a hand. "Want to see something cool I learned?"

Kivas glanced at the hand suspiciously. "Do I need to be standing for this?"

"Preferably."

Kivas grabbed the hand, and as soon as she was halfway up, the ground beneath them liquified. Earth swallowed their bodies like a yawning beast.

A breath later, they were standing atop moss-coated stone, surrounded by radiant flora, dark vines, and an immense amount of moss.

An enormous tortoise-like guardian loomed nearby, his body half-buried beneath a hill of blooming structures. What had once been a sprawling Minor Shrine affixed to his shell had now grown into something majestic—three times larger, shaped from entwined obsidian branches and marble bones, spiraling upward into an archway that led into a sacred open space.

At its peak stood a monumental statue, headless, carved with the proportions of Renenutet. Where the head should have been, a flaming halo hovered—slow, solemn, and orbiting a pitch-black void that hummed with divine pressure.

A woman in a new shrine maiden uniform stood just outside the shrine’s entrance, presumably none other than Lyenar herself, the new Shrine Maiden of Kivas.

The outfit shimmered with thread of living roots and ceremonial dust. It bore no hard edges, and its design wasn’t from any known culture.

Lyenar turned and stepped forward. Her composure was intact, but her entire presence had changed.

"Your arrival is expected," she said, bowing deeply. "Welcome, The Kind One, and Samael."

Kivas, still on the ground from the ejection, groaned and pushed herself up to sit. "Oh right, we’re still playing the god game—"

Lyenar blinked once, then smiled faintly. "You don’t have to act, not with me. I’ve already seen the real goddess behind the curtain."

Samael chuckled. "What a perfect shrine maiden you are," she said, deadpan.

Kivas sighed again and collapsed backward into the grass, as if she had just remembered her fatigue. "If only I could be like this all the time. No fake miracles. Just actual air and silence~ Oh also, congratulations on your attunement to my shrine." Kivas casually gave Lyenar a thumbs up. "I’m your goddess now, that alone means something."

"Your praise is my utmost gratitude," Lyenar lightly nodded.

But just as much Kivas wanted to enjoy this peaceful moment, Yoiglah rumbled gently nearby.

The sound was like tectonic plates humming with knowledge. "There is an intruder within Vaingall."

Both Kivas and Samael sat up properly.

"What kind of intruder?" Samael asked immediately, her tone shifting.

Yoiglah’s head tilted slightly. From the top of his shell, where the shrine’s central glyph pulsed, a seed emerged. It floated forward—glowing, spinning, collecting ambient energy as it moved through the air with no visible propulsion.

It stopped in front of the group, hovered once, then began to crack.

With a hiss of fractal light, the seed split open and unfurled like a blooming flower. From its petals formed a screen—not mechanical, not magical, but conceptual.

It shimmered in midair, not displaying an image so much as a dimensional window—an anchor to a moment happening elsewhere in Vaingall.

The hollow window twisted into focus, revealing a sloping valley cloaked in fog.

The terrain was unmistakably Vaingall’s—the moss-thick cliffs, the rippling patches of root-covered stone, the eerie luminescence of naturally occurring sigils etched into the land itself.

But the people moving across it were foreign. They arrived in disciplined lines, small formations spiraling down the jagged trail like a procession of blood cells through an open wound.

They came in the hundreds. No—thousands. Human, Voidlings, even things in between, with hunched gaits and shifting postures that revealed nothing but unity of purpose.

Every figure was adorned in the same uniform: crimson robes and layered cloaks, folded high along the shoulders, and fastened with bone-like clasps. Their heads were hidden beneath eyeless golden masks that resembled polished ossuaries—smooth, expressionless, with glyph-runes embossed along the mouthless lower half.

Every robe bore variations, some tighter, some looser to fit a greater frame, others more ceremonial, but all were dyed in that signature crimson, with minor tones of black, bone-white, and copper.

Samael exhaled and rubbed her temple. "I didn’t expect them to move this quickly."

Kivas leaned forward. "Them?"

"The Crimson Helot," Samael said. "One of the major factions that once tried to claim Vaingall. Looks like they sensed an opportunity the moment Solvish Keep started to pack up."

"I see," Kivas narrowed her eyes. "So, who are they exactly?"

Samael gestured toward the projection. "Fleshcrafters. Grafter cults. A hyper-ritualized collective that believes in breaking, reshaping, and reconfiguring the mortal form to ’ascend’ beyond physical and spiritual limitations."

"They even craft a living mindless fetus from the corpse they collected just to feast on them." Lyenar added with a rather look of disgust. "They work less of a cult and more of a group of madmen, consumed by their beliefs and indoctrination."

Kivas squinted at the red robes. "Well, they don’t sound gentle to me."

"Not all of the individuals you see on the screen are an actual person either," Samael nodded. "Those bodies are canvases for divine aberration. Under those robes and masks, they’re monsters—each one handcrafted, often grotesquely so...

"They graft limbs, merge organs, inject relics into their veins or others, and replace bones with divine latticework. They even mimic the design of deities they saw—or in some cases, attempt to replace."

Kivas winced. "That’s a lot of information."

"They believe the flesh is not sacred, but raw material. Faith is proven through augmentation and abomination," chimed was the Blessed Limbo Tier Divine Construct standing by. "Which is also why they hide themselves completely, because they are utterly hideous looking."

"And their purpose must be Vaingall..." Kivas muttered, crossing her arms.

"They’re opportunists." Samaael shrugged. "A new ruler appears, shrines planted, the dominant dragon becomes quiet. It’s the perfect time for them to attempt a pact... or a conquest."

The screen continued displaying the march.

Kivas watched closely as the projection shifted angles. A grove came into view—dense and covered in overgrown rootlines. From the edge of the scene, one of the Blessed Limbo Tier Divine Constructs hovered into view.

Its presence was sharp and absolute. Runes spiraled along its form in a slow rotation. Its wings pulsed slightly, creating a radius of divine stillness as it approached the cloaked procession.

The members of the Crimson Helot slowed.

A small group stepped forward—six of them, moving with eerie synchronicity. Their crimson robes were more elaborate, layered with gold-threaded patterns resembling internal muscle. One of them raised a palm, as if offering peace.

The Divine Construct remained still.

A tension thickened in the projection. Lyenar took a step closer to the screen, watching intently. The construct appeared to be communicating, though there was no sound.

Then, without warning, the frontmost figure twitched.

From beneath their robes, a jagged limb erupted—a massive bladed tentacle forged from bone, muscle, and divine alloy. It moved too quickly to be ornamental. It was a weapon, grafted with surgical precision, now lashing forward like a striking serpent.

The blade slammed into the Divine Construct’s chest.

The projection flared.

There, the construct held its ground. The force of the strike bent the air, but the construct barely shifted. Its runes flared once in rejection.

Kivas sucked in a breath. "That was hostile."

Samael cracked her neck lazily. "Well, they’re not here to negotiate it seems."