The grand halls of Valmerith Cathedral were suffocating with silence. Not a single chant echoed. No hymns rose into the vaulted ceilings that towered above, their ornate arches twisting into the heavens like the hands of divine supplicants. The once-celebratory echoes of faith were now strangled beneath a weight of doubt.
The air was thick with the heavy scent of incense, but it could not mask the smell of decay. The gilded saints, carved meticulously along the marble walls, looked down with lifeless eyes. Their painted gazes were unable to save the trembling clergy who filled the chamber, shuffling nervously beneath the weight of an invisible pressure. It was as if the stones themselves were whispering that something—something dark—was coming.
At the center of it all sat High Priest Gregorin, his eyes narrowed, fingers clenched tightly around the arms of his ceremonial throne. His knuckles, pale as bone, trembled only slightly, but his mind raced. The cracks in his empire of faith had spread too far, too fast.
The Royal Alliance hesitated. The nobles whispered. The faithful doubted.
The Church's centuries-old authority—its divine power over the law, the soul, and even the throne—was beginning to rot from within. Something was poisoning the people's hearts, and Gregorin knew it was no mere coincidence. It wasn't just a rumor; this was deliberate.
"This is not mere rumor," Gregorin hissed, his voice barely more than a whisper, but laced with venom. He stood suddenly, his robes rustling like the wings of a great bird preparing to take flight. "This is precision."
It wasn't panic, not yet. It was something colder—a predator's recognition of another predator. Someone was orchestrating this: weaving falsehood into truth, twisting virtue into poison, turning loyalty into betrayal.
"A shadow behind the curtain," Gregorin muttered, scanning the chamber. His gaze fell upon the gathered priests and holy knights—dozens of them, all standing beneath the fractured rays of stained glass. His voice lowered, commanding and deliberate. "We do not strike. We summon salvation."
His words sent a ripple of uncertainty through the room, whispers darting through the air like startled birds. But none dared to speak aloud. None dared to challenge the High Priest. Not yet.
At the far side of the room, a kneeling figure clad in gleaming silver armor slowly rose. His every movement was a demonstration of divine purpose, each shift of his weight in his polished boots a testament to the unwavering devotion of the Hero.
The Hero's armor shone with the faint glow of celestial magic, etchings of divine runes gleaming beneath the surface. His eyes, pale blue like sharpened glass, were unwavering, betraying no hint of doubt or fear. He stood as a monument to righteousness—a living sword of Eternia, the god of light and justice.
Gregorin regarded him with something akin to reverence, but his voice was sharp when he spoke. "You've been silent long enough. It's time they remember why you were chosen."
The Hero's gaze remained fixed on Gregorin. His lips parted, and his voice was like the clang of a hammer on an anvil. "I will burn the heresy from their hearts."
Gregorin's smile was cold. A smile that held no warmth, only the thrill of power. "Then go, Holy Blade of Eternia. Show them what it means to defy the divine."
The Hero did not hesitate. He moved with the certainty of a man who believed in the purity of his cause. His every step was measured, deliberate, as he made his way to the heart of the city where the heretics had been gathered.
Across the city, Kael leaned back in his velvet chair in the shadows of a chamber lined with dark wood and deep hues. His gaze was fixed on the sealed report before him, a smirk creeping across his lips as he read the last lines.
"Perfect," he murmured, his voice a low whisper, laced with something dark—anticipation, maybe even amusement.
Beside him, Evelyne stood, her arms crossed in front of her, the tightness of her posture betraying her anxiety. "You expected this?" she asked, her voice tinged with a note of incredulity.
Kael didn't look at her; his eyes remained fixed on the report. "Expected?" he asked, an edge to his voice. "I crafted this."
Everything—the public unrest, the whispers in the streets, the heretics they'd selected, the carefully orchestrated executions—all of it had been part of a single, carefully laid plan. Every piece was moving exactly as Kael had designed it.
The Hero, the Church's greatest weapon, would soon become its downfall.
"Are you going to kill him?" Evelyne asked, her brow furrowing as she regarded him, still unsure of his intent.
Kael chuckled softly, the sound almost mocking. "Kill the Hero? Not yet."
Evelyne raised an eyebrow. "Then what?"
Kael's eyes gleamed, a sharp, calculating gleam that was more akin to a predator sizing up its prey. "I'm going to turn him into a villain."
The central square of Viremont had been transformed into a grand stage for the execution. The marble platform gleamed in the afternoon sun, polished to a sheen that made it look like a place for sacred rites. The crowds gathered in hushed silence, their eyes locked on the figure standing tall at the center of it all: the Hero.
His divine armor glinted in the sunlight as he stood like an executioner. The people's gaze was drawn to him with an almost reverent awe. To them, he was the symbol of purity, the unshakable shield of the gods. But today, he was to be the sword of judgment.
Before him, shackled to the platform, were two "heretics." A man and a woman—both in torn, dirty clothes—wore the unmistakable marks of the condemned. The hero had already been briefed on their crime: they had spoken out against the Church, whispered the truth of the corruption within its walls.
A murmur passed through the crowd as the Hero raised his sword high, its blade catching the sunlight and reflecting it in a blinding flash.
His voice rang out, harsh and final: "By divine will, you are judged guilty. Do you have final words?"
The man, his voice trembling, spoke first. "We only spoke the truth."
The woman's words were stronger, more defiant. "The gods don't punish questions. Only tyrants do."
A ripple of surprise passed through the crowd. These weren't the words of heretics. These were the words of those who had seen beyond the veil.
For a moment, the Hero faltered. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightened, and for the briefest second, uncertainty flickered across his expression. But the mask of righteousness quickly returned.
"Then let justice be done."
With a single, decisive motion, the sword flashed downward.
Two bodies collapsed to the ground. Blood spilled across the marble like a painter's stroke, vivid against the pale stone. The crowd went silent, their breath held in anticipation.
And then—
"Monster!"
A voice cried out, shrill and desperate.
"Not justice!"
"He slaughtered them!"
The Hero's eyes darted around, confusion flashing across his face. This was not what he had been prepared for. This wasn't what he had been told would happen. He had been the divine sword, executing divine judgment. So why—
Then he saw it.
A sigil.
Painted beneath the bodies of the slain heretics, in blood.
A twisted, ancient symbol—one that had long been forgotten by the faithful. A sigil from the Old Abyss.
"A curse—!" one priest screamed, his voice cracked with terror.
"This was a ritual!" another shouted, his voice breaking as the realization spread like wildfire.
The Hero's heart skipped a beat. He could feel the weight of their eyes upon him, the shift in the air.
"He's been corrupted!" someone screamed.
"Kill him!"
"Heretic!"
Panic swept through the crowd like wildfire.
From a hidden rooftop across the square, Kael watched with a dark satisfaction. He stood, a quiet observer in the shadows, savoring the chaos as it unfolded.
"He played his role perfectly," Kael whispered, his smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
Evelyne, standing beside him, said nothing for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the chaos below. "You made him commit sacrilege," she said, her voice tinged with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. "And framed him for it."
"No," Kael replied, his voice soft, yet sharp with certainty. "I made him prove the Church is willing to kill truth to protect itself."
"He'll be hunted now," Evelyne warned, glancing at him. "He's marked for death."
"Good," Kael said, turning his gaze toward her. "Let them chase him. Let them think they are purging him from the world. Because tonight, I'll make sure the nobles know their holy protector is losing control."
Evelyne narrowed her eyes. "You're making them question the Church itself."
"I'm not making them do anything," Kael replied smoothly. "I'm giving them a reason to think."
His gaze turned once more toward the distant Cathedral, his smile widening.
"The Hero has begun his descent. And soon... when there's nothing left but ashes…"
He chuckled darkly.
"He'll come crawling back—to me."
To be continued...