The grand cathedral of Arkenhall towered like a golden blade piercing the heavens, its spires shimmering in the late-afternoon light. Crafted from sanctified marble and inlaid with runes that once radiated divine warmth, the cathedral was the heart of the holy city—a monument to faith, to power, and to the gods who had long ruled unchallenged.
But that heart now beat irregularly.
Inside, the scent of incense mingled with cold sweat. High Priest Aldren knelt before the altar, his hands trembling against the cool stone. The flames of a thousand candles flickered as if disturbed by an unseen wind, casting elongated shadows that danced like ghosts across the sacred walls.
He whispered ancient prayers—not for the people, not even for the gods—but for certainty.
And none came.
Aldren had served the gods for nearly sixty years. His faith had weathered wars, plagues, and heresies. But Kael—Kael was something else entirely. He was not a blasphemer. He was not even a conqueror in the traditional sense.
He was a revelation.
And revelations had the power to undo entire pantheons.
Behind him, the chamber doors opened with a heavy groan. Brother Callis entered, robes whispering across the stone floor. "My Lord," he murmured, voice tight. "They're gathering again. Thousands."
Aldren did not turn. "To pray?"
"To demand answers."
A heavy silence followed. Aldren rose slowly, the ceremonial dagger still clutched in his hand, its edge glittering in the candlelight.
He had read the reports. Whole provinces were abandoning old rites. Statues of saints were defaced. Shrines to Kael—illicit and crude—were appearing in slums and marketplaces. The clergy whispered in secret chambers. Even the Order of Saint Vareth had split; some of their knights now marched under Kael's sigil, swearing oaths not to gods, but to a mortal man.
Aldren finally turned. "Have we heard from the Archons?"
"No word. Only silence."
"Then we're alone." He gave a bitter smile. "Abandoned… or tested."
Outside, the city square seethed with energy. Thousands of citizens, nobles, priests, and soldiers alike had gathered beneath the massive cathedral steps. Arkenhall had always been a city of reverence, where silence was sacred and questions were unwelcome. But now, the silence had been replaced with murmurs, and the questions had become too loud to ignore.
From the rooftops above, Selene stood cloaked in red, her golden eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk. Shadows clung to her like old friends, hiding her from the priests patrolling below. She could feel the shift in the air—not just political, but metaphysical.
Below her, Kael's agents were in place—whispering truths disguised as rumors, seeding doubt, fanning the flame of uncertainty.
Selene tapped a gloved finger against her lips. "He'll falter," she said.
From the darkness beside her, Eryndor, the Shadow Serpent, smirked. "He already has. The gods speak through silence now. And mortals don't follow silence."
Selene turned her eyes toward the balcony where Aldren would soon appear. "Faith is a house built on trust," she said quietly. "And once the foundation cracks... it collapses."
Inside, Aldren stood before the great doors, hands shaking as he placed his palms against them. The weight of expectation—of divine judgment—pressed against his spine. He had spoken to kings, stood in the presence of saints, seen visions from the divine plane itself.
But he had never been more afraid than he was now.
He pushed open the doors.
Golden light spilled across the threshold as he stepped onto the balcony overlooking the square. A hush fell over the crowd. Thousands of eyes turned to him.
"My children," he began, voice steady despite the storm within. "The gods hear your prayers."
Murmurs spread like rot.
A voice called out. "Then why are they silent?"
Another: "Why do they fear Kael?"
And then louder still: "Why should we kneel to gods who no longer act?"
The High Priest's lips trembled. These were not isolated voices. These were questions once whispered in taverns, now shouted in the temple square.
He drew a breath, lifting the ceremonial dagger high. "The gods test us. Their silence is not abandonment—it is a call to faith."
But his words fell flat.
Then—thunder cracked.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the sky split open. Light—pure, golden, unmistakably divine—poured from the heavens.
Aldren exhaled, tears welling in his eyes. They have answered.
The divine manifestation shimmered above the cathedral like a sun reborn. It pulsed with energy, with judgment, with something older than mortal comprehension.
But then—it flickered.
The golden light twisted.
The pulse became a distortion. The warm radiance fractured into unnatural hues. Light became shadow. Harmony turned to dissonance.
And then—
A rift tore through the sky.
Where once divine presence stood, now opened a wound between realms—like a mouth of the cosmos bleeding ink.
Screams erupted.
Aldren collapsed to his knees. "No… no, this isn't what I prayed for…"
And through that rift, a figure descended.
Kael.
No magic accompanied him. No divine heralds. No dramatic display. He merely stepped onto the ground as if the rift had parted for him.
The crowd fell silent, eyes wide in awe.
He wore black, lined with silver thread. His presence alone silenced the wind. Where priests shouted, Kael merely stood. Where faith trembled, he radiated absolute certainty.
He did not raise a hand.
He did not draw a sword.
He did not need to.
The people turned to him as if recognizing an old truth they had simply forgotten. A truth deeper than prayer, older than gods.
That power belongs to those who seize it.
Far above, in the halls between realms, the divine council watched.
Lythael the Radiant Judge trembled. "That miracle… it failed."
"No," Azareth whispered, eyes hollow. "It was rejected."
Eryndor leaned forward, expression unreadable. "And that… is far worse."
A miracle undone by mortal belief. A prayer twisted by mortal will. A god cast down by choice.
The Archons, eternal arbiters of divinity, sat in silence.
For the first time since the dawn of creation, they felt fear.
Back on the ground, Kael finally moved—his gaze sweeping over the gathered faithful.
Aldren raised himself from the floor, staggering toward the balcony's edge. His voice cracked. "You... you've deceived them."
Kael raised a brow. "Have I? Or have you simply failed to keep them?"
The High Priest pointed the dagger at him, hand shaking. "The gods are eternal."
Kael smiled coldly. "Then let them prove it."
The dagger clattered to the ground.
Aldren fell to his knees—not in worship—but in defeat.
As night fell over Arkenhall, the cathedral no longer glowed with divine light. The candles burned low. The statues of saints were draped in shadow.
And in the city's heart, where the faithful once stood united under heaven, a new truth echoed.
The gods had lost the people.
And Kael had not needed to lift a finger.
He had simply waited for belief to turn.
To be continued…