The forum was held inside a cathedral repurposed for ideology.
Stone arches once carved with prayers now bore sharp, angular glyphs—sigils from Kael Dross's Purity Codex. Rows of listeners sat hushed, heads bowed, journals open. Their pens didn't record. They copied.
Sera Vex wore no disguise.
Just restraint.
Her pulse tapped like rebellion against her ribs.
She sat in the rear, hands tucked into the folds of her cloak, beside a child sketching Kael's sigil over their textbook margins.
On the dais, Kael stood tall—not theatrical, but precise. His voice pressed through the chamber like scripture tattooed to silence.
"We do not seek to erase dissent," he said. "We define it. So that truth does not bend again."
The crowd nodded.
Sera listened. Every phrase was engineered—resonant, hypnotic, woven from distorted quotes Caelum had abandoned, resurrected through Kael's lips.
Then came the ritual.
Audience members shared testimonies—how the Living Doctrine had confused them, how myth fractured community, how Caelum Dross had once stood firm before being softened by poets and rebels.
One speaker cried while reciting:
"I lost my brother to forgiveness. He believed compassion could hold a system upright. He was wrong. Now he's gone."
Sera stood.
A pause.
Kael turned toward her, curiosity veiled in calculation.
She spoke:
"My mother died from a system Caelum created. And yet—I still believe forgiveness rebuilds cleaner than obedience ever could."
The air shifted.
Someone hissed. A binding sigil lit.
Kael raised a hand. The room stilled.
"You come not to speak. You come to spark," he said.
Sera nodded. "Because your truth is forged. And I archive fire."
She placed a scroll on the podium—Caelum's original journal, sealed in magic and memory.
"Let your followers read it. Let them know he asked not to be remembered. And especially, not like this."
Kael stared.
Didn't touch it.
"History remembers power," he said.
Sera smiled.
"No. History remembers who dared to change even after power was offered."
She walked out.
Unstopped.
And the crowd watched the scroll.
It glowed.
Not with fire.
With grief.