The Holy Kingdom of Velador had always shone like a jewel of unshaken faith. Its alabaster towers pierced the clouds, crowned with radiant sunbursts of gold and crystal. Holy hymns echoed from its countless spires, rising like incense into the heavens. Every brick, every stone, every whisper of wind that passed through its prayer gardens carried a sacred presence.
And yet, beneath the divine veneer, shadows gathered like mold beneath marble.
Within the Sanctum of Lumina—the heart of Velador's spiritual authority—the newly awakened Prophet stood before the Circle of Flame, an ancient conclave of high priests, ascetics, and divine arbiters. Sunlight refracted through towering stained-glass windows, painting the stone floor with colors of divine judgment.
The Prophet's white robes shimmered faintly, woven from celestial silk, and his eyes glowed with a quiet fervor not born of fire—but of burden.
"I have seen it," he declared, his voice heavy with divine resonance. "The heretic king who wears the crown of men, yet moves with the ambition of gods. He would sever the tether between Heaven and Earth, and declare that humanity no longer needs the Light."
Silence followed. Reverent, but laced with tension.
Cardinal Aelric, the oldest of the Circle, stepped forward. "We believe you, holy one. But belief does not move armies. The heretic holds the Empress, commands the Shadow Broker, and even bent a Seraphim to his will. What hope does faith hold against such... corruption?"
The Prophet turned toward the towering mural of the First Descent—the moment the gods gifted humanity with the Flame of Truth.
"We do not answer force with force," he said. "We answer it with conviction."
Far from the golden sanctuaries of Velador, the Imperial Capital seethed with quiet power.
Within the obsidian fortress that had become the throne of Kael's dominion, shadows moved like loyal hounds, and secrets whispered through the walls. The Council Chamber was lit by low candlelight, the table a map of all realms Kael had yet to conquer.
Kael sat at its head—perfectly still, utterly composed. His golden eyes held no anger, no urgency.
Only amusement.
"The Prophet rises," said Eryndor, the Shadow Serpent, his voice serpentine, barely above a whisper. "And the masses... they listen."
Kael didn't move. "Of course they do. He speaks the language they were raised on. The promises of salvation. Of divine justice."
The Empress tilted her glass, watching the wine swirl like blood. "Then how do you plan to break him? Another war?"
Kael finally stood, his silhouette tall and regal beneath the arching columns.
"I will not break him," he said, voice calm as silk. "I will infect him."
Selene turned from the window, her eyes narrowing. "He is the gods' vessel. You cannot touch him."
Kael smiled. "Everything that breathes can be touched. Even divinity."
And so the game began.
Across Velador, whispers took root in quiet corners and spread like veins beneath the city's radiant skin.
At first, they were small.
"Was the Prophet not once a simple monk?"
"Visions can come from madness, too."
"He does not bleed like us. Does he feel like us?"
But Kael understood the psychology of faith. He didn't need the people to turn away—not yet.
He only needed them to pause.
To wonder.
In the holy city of Ardent's Reach, nestled deep within Velador, a woman knelt at the altar. Her name was Lysara—a devout servant of the gods, a healer, a mother of two.
She had once wept at the Prophet's words. Now, she watched him from the crowd, her heart no longer burning with certainty.
When he raised his hands and called for the Light, the golden aura flared.
But in Lysara's eyes—it flickered.
Had it always flickered?
Was it always so... strained?
That night, she prayed with trembling hands. But her heart did not rise.
It sank.
Within Kael's inner sanctum, a different kind of ritual unfolded.
Eryndor handed him a scroll, sealed in gold.
"Velador has announced a public miracle. The Prophet will revive a dead child at the Great Fountain. Ten thousand will gather."
Kael unrolled the scroll and chuckled. "Ah. So he plays their final card."
The Empress leaned closer. "And what will we do?"
Kael met her gaze, voice cold. "We will help him."
She raised a brow.
Kael stepped into the candlelight, his golden eyes now shadowed.
"He will raise the child. But the child will not be whole. Not entirely."
Selene's breath caught. "You mean to—"
Kael raised a finger. "Not to harm the child. Only... tilt the scales."
He turned to Eryndor. "Send the alchemist. Quietly. The potion must induce visions. Nightmares. Speak of darkness in the Prophet's name. Let the child see Heaven twisted."
"And then?" Eryndor asked.
Kael smiled.
"The people will watch their messiah give life—only to bring torment."
The day of the miracle arrived.
Velador stood still.
The Prophet knelt before the dead child, hands raised to the heavens, divine light surrounding him.
Tens of thousands watched, breathless.
He whispered a prayer.
The light descended.
The child gasped.
Lived.
The crowd erupted in awe and sobs.
But that night, the child screamed in her sleep. Again and again.
"The Light burns. The Light has eyes. He gave me the Light and it watches me even when I close my eyes!"
Her mother begged the priests for help.
But the whispers had already begun.
The Prophet had touched the girl—and now, she saw monsters in the sky.
Back in the Imperial Capital, Kael watched reports arrive like gentle waves.
One after another, letters confirming that doubt had begun to rot the altar from within.
Selene paced nearby, her expression unreadable. "You are toying with something sacred."
Kael looked up, voice soft. "Sacred things are the easiest to corrupt, Selene. They never expect the blade."
She turned to him, eyes fierce. "And when the gods realize what you've done?"
Kael met her gaze. "Then they'll finally descend."
His smile widened.
"And when they do... I will be waiting."
To be continued....