The empire stood still—frozen in the illusion of peace.
The war had begun not with banners, nor with swords, but with shadows. With whispers that moved swifter than steel. With truths twisted until they resembled nightmares.
Kael did not need armies. He only needed doubt.
And doubt was spreading like wildfire through the soul of the Empire.
The Grand Temple of the Celestials, once the heart of divine reverence, now echoed with uncertainty. Its golden spires pierced the sky like outstretched fingers begging the heavens for answers. Yet the sky gave no reply.
Inside, beneath a dome painted with ancient glories, High Priest Veldrin knelt before the Eternal Flame.
His eyes, once radiant with conviction, were clouded.
The flame flickered, not from wind, but from something deeper—something unseen. For centuries it had burned steady. Now, its pulse was erratic, like a dying heart.
Veldrin's voice, once thunderous with faith, was reduced to a hoarse whisper.
"Celestials… why do you not answer?"
Behind him, a rustle of robes.
Eryndor.
He moved like a shadow long forgotten. No longer adorned in the silver of the Archons, he wore the black of apostasy. His presence bled unease into the temple.
"You pray to silence, old man."
Veldrin stiffened. "Eryndor. You betray your vows."
"I fulfilled them," the former Archon said calmly. "I sought truth. And truth has a price."
"You serve a tyrant," Veldrin hissed.
Eryndor knelt beside him, not as a supplicant, but as a serpent coiling in warmth. "I serve the only one who answered."
The priest's eyes widened. "The gods test us."
"Do they?" Eryndor tilted his head. "Or have they abandoned their flock like cowardly kings watching their kingdom burn?"
The flame dimmed further. Veldrin's hands trembled.
"There is still hope," he murmured.
"No," Eryndor whispered. "There is only Kael now."
He placed a coin into the priest's palm—black obsidian marked with Kael's sigil: a broken halo. "This is your new tithe. Spend it wisely."
He vanished, but the silence remained—thicker than ever.
All across the Empire, the signs spread.
A wandering monk stumbled into a village, bleeding from the eyes, screaming of divine visions—the heavens fracturing, the gods weeping and turning away. The villagers, once faithful, now feared their own altars.
A noblewoman, Lady Miravelle, knelt daily in prayer for her son, who lay stricken with a strange illness. When the boy died despite her offerings, she rose in front of the court and cast her celestial pendant into the fire.
"The gods are dead," she declared. "And I will not pray to ghosts."
A young priest, devout and beloved, was discovered in scandal—his sins exposed through forged letters and alchemical illusions. Kael's agents made sure the evidence was indisputable.
Across towns and cities, temple fires burned erratically. Incense brought hallucinations. Sacred texts mysteriously warped—some pages blank, others rewritten.
Fear whispered louder than faith.
In the Imperial Palace, where opulence masked rot, the Empress moved like a dancer through a dying court.
No longer bound by divine decree, she whispered poison with a smile.
At a glittering banquet in the Glass Hall, she raised a crystal goblet of bloodwine to Duke Alistair.
"The Celestials remain silent," she said smoothly. "Have you heard their voice lately?"
The Duke hesitated, wrinkling his brow. "They test our resolve. Perhaps silence is part of their plan."
She leaned closer, her perfume laced with subtle enchantment. "Or perhaps they've grown weary of watching mortals fumble their gifts."
"And you?" Alistair asked. "What do you believe?"
She smiled. "I believe in power I can touch. And Kael… is very real."
Her hand brushed Alistair's shoulder—a subtle brand of alignment.
He nodded, hesitantly.
Another one turned.
Kael stood before a grand viewing mirror—a relic torn from a forgotten age, now reengineered with runes and voidlight. Reflected in its surface were images from across the empire: temples dimming, sermons interrupted by madness, priests turning on each other.
Selene stood beside him, arms folded.
"You knew this would happen," she said. "You planned every fracture."
"I don't need to destroy gods," Kael said, "only the belief in them."
He stepped forward, the flickering scenes dancing across his golden eyes.
"They thrived on obedience. On awe. I replaced both with fear."
Selene looked away, unsure whether to be impressed or terrified.
Far above, the Celestials gathered.
Their realm, once a radiant construct of divine order, now cracked at its edges.
Serathiel stood before the chorus of light.
"The balance is shifting," she warned. "The Empire forgets us."
One of the thrones pulsed, voice haughty and ancient. "Let mortals tremble. They always return."
"But what if they don't?" Serathiel said. "What if he makes them believe they don't need us?"
Another voice murmured, "Then perhaps it is time we remind them what divinity truly means."
But even as they spoke, there was hesitation—fear. Kael had not only attacked the mortal realm. He had begun to erode the heavens' very foundation:
Worship.
The cracks deepened.
In Lorthaven, three high priests declared conflicting revelations and dueled publicly, each claiming to be the new voice of the gods.
In Vel Alarien, the Temple of Harmony collapsed—not by war, but by its own congregation, who rioted after a child bled light and died. The omen was clear.
In Virelyon, sacred relics crumbled into dust before witnesses. Pilgrims fled screaming.
In each city, Kael's agents fanned the flames. Not as assassins. As prophets of unmaking.
One phrase began to appear scrawled in red across temple doors, across scrolls, across dreams:
"Gods do not bleed. But their thrones do."
In secret, a new doctrine circulated. Written in ink of night and whispered into dreams.
"The gods were not creators. They were watchers. And they have watched too long.
Worship is the leash of the weak.
Break the chain. Become more."
This doctrine, passed hand to hand, took root not only in cults and rebels—but among mages, scholars, and even low-ranking Archons.
Eryndor returned with news.
"The Temples of the West have ceased morning rites. Their voices have fallen silent."
Kael nodded.
"Then the collapse is near."
The High Priest Veldrin knelt once again in the Grand Temple.
But the Eternal Flame had gone out.
Not with a gust. Not with battle.
It had simply… stopped.
He touched the cold basin. "No... no..."
From the shadows, a child approached. One of the acolytes.
"High Priest?" she asked, voice small. "What do we do now?"
He looked into her eyes.
And for the first time in his life, he had no answer.
To be continued...