Far beyond the reach of mortals, in the Sanctum of Eternity, a vast celestial temple bathed in endless golden radiance, the gods convened.
A throne of pure light shimmered at the heart of the realm, its occupant veiled in an eternal brilliance that no mortal soul could ever comprehend. Around it stood divine figures—Archangels, Seraphim, and Eternal Oracles—all silent, all watching.
For the first time in countless eons, doubt had crept into the heavens.
Not through war. Not through blasphemy. But through a mortal's mind.
Kael had done what no heretic had ever managed.
He made an Archangel question.
And that was more dangerous than any weapon forged by man or god.
This could not be allowed to continue.
Heaven, for all its power, did not rule by fear. It ruled by belief. Absolute, unwavering belief. The very essence of divinity was rooted not in celestial fire—but in the certainty of its children.
That certainty had cracked.
And so, the gods moved.
They did not choose vengeance. Not yet.
They chose a voice.
A counterbalance.
A savior.
A Prophet.
In the heart of the Holy Kingdom of Velador, beneath the stained-glass domes of the Grand Cathedral, a man lay upon a cold marble altar.
He had once been nothing.
A monk.
A nameless figure among countless others.
Quiet. Devout. Invisible.
But the heavens see what mortals do not.
And tonight, he would become something else entirely.
The priests, robed in immaculate white and gold, surrounded the altar with lifted arms and trembling voices. Sacred verses spilled from their tongues, ancient and binding. Incense curled toward the high vaulted ceilings, and the great bells of the city tolled in time with the divine rhythm of the ceremony.
Then—light.
A beam of radiance, too pure to be called flame, descended from the heavens and struck the man's chest.
He convulsed.
The priests fell to their knees in awe and terror.
His eyes rolled back.
His veins lit with divine fire.
Visions assaulted his mind—celestial truth, Kael's defiance, the corruption festering like rot through the world.
And then… a voice.
"You are chosen."
It was not heard with ears. It was felt—pressed into his soul like the weight of eternity.
"You are the vessel. The shepherd. The light in the shadow."
His body arched as the heavens rewrote his very being.
A moment later, he gasped—lungs filling as if breathing for the first time. When his eyes opened, they were no longer human.
They were divine.
The Prophet had awakened.
In the capital of Kael's empire, the night whispered secrets across every rooftop and corridor. But inside the obsidian halls of his fortress, silence reigned.
A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows upon polished stone. The scent of burning incense lingered—subtle, bitter.
Kael sat upon a throne not built for spectacle but for control. It was elevated, angular, dominating.
Before him stood his inner circle.
The Empress—draped in regal midnight silk, her expression unreadable, yet her thoughts raced behind her cold, calculating eyes.
Selene—once the sword of Heaven, now a fractured soul caught between the divine and the real, her armor polished but her conviction dulled.
Eryndor—the Shadow Serpent, his form half-lost in the dim light, ever-smiling, ever-listening.
The Shadow Broker—faceless, voiceless, yet everywhere.
Kael's golden eyes glinted as he leaned forward.
"We've pierced the veil," he said quietly, yet every syllable was a command. "But we haven't broken it."
The Empress crossed her arms. "Then what's their next move?"
"They won't send another army," Kael said. "They learned their lesson."
Selene shifted, sensing what was coming.
"They'll send a Prophet," she said, almost a whisper.
Kael's smile widened.
"Yes."
In Velador, crowds had gathered in the Grand Cathedral square.
Thousands of believers.
Tens of thousands more would hear the words spoken here. Carried by messengers, scribes, and the holy fires that flickered in every chapel across the continent.
The newly anointed Prophet stood atop a silver dais, his robes aglow, his hands raised toward the heavens.
"My name is not important," he began, his voice amplified not by magic, but by sheer presence. "For I am only a vessel. A voice. A mirror to the divine."
The crowd trembled in reverence.
"I bring not wrath, but warning. I speak not for judgment, but for redemption. There is one among us—one who has climbed too high. A man who dares to challenge the sacred order. He walks as king, speaks as a god, but knows nothing of grace."
His voice resonated with raw, absolute belief.
"The heretic Kael must be stopped—not with blood, but with light."
The people erupted.
Tears. Screams. Reverent wailing.
In the days that followed, the Prophet's image appeared everywhere. Banners bearing his symbol fluttered across villages. Scribes recorded his words in sacred tomes. Songs were written. Myths began.
But in the shadows of the Empire, Kael listened.
And smiled.
Back in the fortress, the Empress broke the silence.
"He's gaining ground already. There are whispers from the outer provinces. Even some within the nobility are… intrigued."
"Of course they are," Kael said, amused. "He offers simplicity. Salvation. Clean answers to messy questions."
Selene's gaze fell to the floor. "And that's what makes him dangerous."
"Precisely," Kael replied. "He does not command armies. He commands hearts."
Eryndor stepped forward, shadows clinging to him like smoke. "Shall I remove him?"
"No," Kael said sharply. "Killing him would make him a martyr. They'd carve statues of his broken body and chant his name for a thousand years."
The room quieted.
"Then what do we do?" the Empress asked.
Kael rose from his throne.
"We do what the gods fear most."
He stepped into the center of the chamber.
"We break his faith."
Days passed.
Then weeks.
The Prophet's fame surged like wildfire. In villages across Velador and beyond, miracles were claimed. Crops suddenly grew. Sick children recovered. Statues wept.
Whether they were true or not no longer mattered.
Perception was now reality.
And yet, tiny seeds had begun to take root.
A priest, once fervent, was found drunk and ranting about the Prophet's arrogance.
A bishop was caught embezzling tithes in the Prophet's name.
A merchant claimed he'd been promised protection by the Prophet's guards, only to be robbed blind.
Whispers.
Barely noticed.
But carefully planted.
By the time Kael acted, the Prophet was no longer just a man.
He was an idea.
And that was what Kael would poison.
The Prophet stood alone in his sanctum, staring into a sacred mirror.
But something troubled him.
The visions were… fainter.
The voice that once echoed within him was silent tonight.
And for the first time, he felt the cold touch of uncertainty.
He clenched his fists, steeling himself.
He would not fail.
He could not fail.
But far away, in a chamber where truth and lies danced side by side, Kael smiled once more.
"Doubt," he whispered, "is the gods' blind spot. They made a man to speak for them."
He turned to Selene, who had quietly entered the room.
"And men can be broken."
She looked at him, torn.
"You won't kill him?"
"No," Kael said. "I will make him like Lucian."
Her eyes widened.
"You'll corrupt him?"
"I'll liberate him," Kael corrected softly.
"From faith?"
"From chains."
Far above the mortal world, in the Sanctum of Eternity, the gods watched.
Their Prophet still shone.
But in his soul, a hairline fracture had formed.
And in the realm of divinity, even the smallest crack could echo like a thunderclap.
The war had begun.
Not with fire.
Not with blades.
But with belief.
And Kael?
Kael would become the heresy that rewrote Heaven.
To be continued...