"They want my god to act," she whispered, voice so low it barely reached her own ears.
"They want him to overstep."
But even as the words left her lips, something in them didn't sit right anymore.
Because this didn't feel like a provocation. Not really.
It felt like an invitation.
A dare.
Not the kind that pokes and prods and mocks until something breaks—but the kind that says: step forward, go ahead, we already have a place ready for you.
It was as if the trap had been built not for the girl, not even for the cult, but for something far bigger.
And whether the god stepped into the light or stayed hidden in the shadows, it didn't matter anymore.
The moment he moved, the board would shift.
And that was the part that finally, fully sank in.
She wasn't setting the stage.
She wasn't the one watching from above.
She was bait.
The polished piece was sent forward to measure their strength, test the waters, make the first noise, and see who responded.
