Chaos swept through the streets of Valmerith like a tempest.
The once-sacred city, home to faith, divine devotion, and peace, now reeked of discord. The scent of ash, smoke, and unrest filled the air as the sky above grew heavy with dark clouds, mirroring the turmoil below.
No hymns rang out from the Cathedral today. No chants lifted the spirits of the faithful. Instead, the thunderous roars of protestors drowned out the sacred echoes, demanding justice for those whose blood had stained the holy ground. They had witnessed the bloodshed—the Hero's sword cutting down two "heretics"—but what was once viewed as divine retribution had twisted into a sacrilege in their eyes.
The bloodied bodies of the accused lay sprawled across the square, crimson pooling under the cruel sun, and the whispers of the crowd stirred like a brewing storm.
"Did the gods ever favor him?"
"Was he ever holy—or just their weapon?"
The Hero—once the shining beacon of faith—had become the center of an uproar. From the admiration of the people to their cries of betrayal, his fall was swift, as if fate itself had turned against him.
Inside the Cathedral's inner sanctum, beneath the towering arches and the flickering glow of altar candles, the Hero knelt on cold marble. Blood stained his hands, though it had dried long ago. The weight of it felt heavy, sinking into his very soul. Each stain was a mark of something far darker than the mere death of two innocent lives. It was the seed of doubt—doubt that festered within him now like a poison.
Before him, High Priest Gregorin stood, bathed in the holy light of the altar, his countenance cold and unyielding. Once, Gregorin had been a father figure—a mentor. But now? Now, he stood as a judge, sentencing the Hero with words sharper than any sword.
"You were meant to restore the Church's light," Gregorin's voice cut through the tension. "Instead, you've drowned it in shadow."
The Hero's gaze remained vacant, his once confident eyes now hollow, as if drained of hope. His breathing was shallow, each exhale rattling like the last breath of a dying man. His once-pristine armor, now tarnished with blood and guilt, seemed to weigh him down.
"I tried to uphold justice," the Hero's voice trembled, barely a whisper.
Gregorin raised a hand, silencing him with a simple gesture.
"Silence." The priest's voice cracked like thunder, each word echoing with an authority that made the air itself quake. "You do not get to speak of justice. You slaughtered two dissenters in public—and in doing so, you opened a gateway of heresy."
The Hero staggered, his knees trembling beneath him. "I didn't know about the sigil," he whispered, as if the words could offer any salvation.
Gregorin's eyes hardened, his lips curling in contempt. "Intent does not absolve corruption." His voice was ice, every syllable calculated, designed to strip the Hero of his last shred of dignity.
The priest's gaze pierced the Hero's soul, and for the first time, the man who had once been exalted—revered as a divine instrument—saw nothing but disdain in the eyes of the one who had raised him. The man who had once called him the Holy Blade of Eternia now looked upon him with disgust.
"The nobles demand answers. The faithful waver. And you…" Gregorin's voice trailed off, his disgust palpable. "You've become a liability."
The Hero's heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing louder than the last. "You would cast me aside?" The words were like a plea, a desperate cry for the guidance he had once found in the man before him.
Gregorin's face was a mask of stone. "I would bury you, if it meant preserving the faith."
The Hero's breath caught in his throat. It was as if the ground beneath him had split open, and he was falling—falling into an abyss from which he could not escape. The weight of Gregorin's words crushed him, suffocating the last remnants of his spirit.
A long silence followed.
Then came the verdict—the one that would change everything.
"You are stripped of your title," Gregorin declared, his voice cold and final. "Your sword, your blessings, your status—all revoked. Leave this city. Seek redemption in exile. Until then… you are nothing."
The words hit him like a falling star—fast, searing, and final.
The Hero—once the Holy Blade of Eternia—was no more.
Outside the Cathedral, the city burned. The people cried for justice, for vengeance, for retribution against the heretic who had once been their savior. They did not yet know how close they were to losing everything.
But inside, in the shadows of the holy place, the Hero's world crumbled.
Across the city, in the comfort of his private chambers, Kael leaned back in his velvet chair, savoring the moment as if it were a fine wine. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest, a soft, measured rhythm that matched the pulse of his own satisfaction. The report had arrived earlier, sealed and signed, confirming the Hero's fall.
Evelyne stood nearby, her figure a shadow against the flickering candlelight. She watched him with a mixture of curiosity and intrigue.
"It's done," she said, her voice calm yet carrying the weight of expectation. "Gregorin cast him out."
Kael didn't bother looking up from his glass of wine, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight before him. "Good," he murmured, the word slipping from his lips like a soft exhale. He swirled the wine in the glass, watching the deep red liquid shift in the dim light.
Evelyne arched an eyebrow, clearly expecting more. "No triumphant speech?"
Kael's lips curled into a smile, but there was no joy in it—only cold calculation. "This was never about stripping his title," he said, his voice low, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "It's about shattering what's left of him."
He set the wine glass down gently, as though placing a fragile object back into its rightful place. Then he turned to face Evelyne, his eyes gleaming with a dark, almost predatory light.
"The divine mantle was just a mask," he continued, his voice barely a whisper. "But now? Now I'll burn the man beneath it."
Evelyne stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. "And how do you plan to finish him off?"
Kael's smile deepened, a glint of malice flashing in his eyes. "By taking what he still believes he has left."
Evelyne's brow furrowed in confusion. "Her."
Kael nodded, the smile never leaving his lips. "Her."
Somewhere deep in the rain-soaked forests of Eldwyn, a small cottage stood, hidden from the chaos that had overtaken the capital. The wind howled outside, and the sound of rain slashing against the windows filled the silence of the modest interior. Inside, the Hero sat by a hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the coldness that had settled within his heart.
No armor adorned him now. No sword at his side. Only a broken man, lost in the silence of his own thoughts. His hands trembled as he stared into the fire, though he didn't feel its warmth. The crackling flames offered no comfort.
He didn't hear her enter.
But when he turned, there she was—the woman he had loved beyond all things. She stood in the doorway, a soft smile on her lips, though her eyes were filled with worry. Her gentle presence filled the room with a fleeting sense of calm.
"You'll catch a cold," she said softly, offering him a towel.
He took it without a word, his hands shaking as he dried his face, unable to meet her eyes. He couldn't bear the weight of her gaze.
"You're not alone," she whispered, her voice gentle, like a lullaby.
For a moment, the Hero closed his eyes, feeling the coldness within him slowly retreat. Her warmth, her presence, was the only thing holding him together now.
But what he didn't know—what he could never have known—was that she was already lost to him. She had already pledged herself to Kael.
Back in his study, Kael finished writing a letter, his hand steady as the quill sliced through the parchment with precision. Every word, every sentence, was deliberate—a crafted instrument of destruction.
Evelyne watched him from her seat, swirling wine in her goblet. "Another move?" she asked, her tone laced with intrigue.
Kael folded the letter, sealing it with his insignia. "A seed of doubt," he said, his voice as cold and calculated as ever. "One letter is all it takes to turn a heart… against itself."
He handed the letter to a cloaked messenger, his fingers brushing the parchment as if it were the most fragile thing in the world.
"Send this to her," Kael ordered. "She'll read it in secret. And when she does, the war inside her will begin."
Evelyne's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a faint smile. "You're unraveling him piece by piece. Ruthless."
Kael's smirk returned, sharper than before.
"He was their light," he whispered, his voice carrying a dark promise. "I will make him crave the dark."
As the messenger disappeared into the night, a gust of wind extinguished one of the candles in Kael's study. Only his eyes remained alight—burning like distant stars in the void.
To Be Continued...