-----Chapter 20: The Unseen Chains-----
The ruins still reeked of blood.
The winds carried the stench of decay, dragging it through the hollow streets where the dead had long since been cleared. The stone walls, cracked and weary, groaned under the weight of a silence that refused to break.
Yet, amidst the ruin, life stirred.
Survivors moved through the wreckage like ghosts, their faces hollowed by hunger and sleepless nights. They gathered beneath collapsed rooftops, huddling for warmth, sharing what little food remained. There were no homes here—only remnants of what once was.
The knights patrolled the streets, armor scraping against the silence, their hands never straying far from their blades. Their eyes swept across every shadow, every broken alleyway, searching for threats that no longer needed to be seen to be feared.
The war priests, draped in tattered robes, whispered prayers that the gods had long since abandoned. They moved between the wounded, offering food, murmuring empty blessings. Their presence was tolerated, but not welcomed. Faith alone had not saved them.
Among them were Sofia's people, neither knights nor priests—just survivors, hardened by the world's cruelty. They distributed supplies, tended to the injured, but their loyalty was uncertain. Some followed Sofia out of belief. Others because she was the only one who had given them a reason to live.
The fortress stood at the city's heart, its walls battered but holding. It was no longer a place of war. It had become a graveyard where the living had nowhere else to go.
And at its core, behind the thick stone doors of the war chamber, a battle of words was already unfolding.
---
The air in the chamber was heavy, thick with the scent of melted wax and damp stone. The candlelight flickered, stretching shadows across the walls, making the figures seated at the long wooden table seem larger, darker.
Sylvian sat at the head, his arms crossed, his gaze sharp beneath the weight of exhaustion. The bruise along his jawline had barely faded, a reminder of the battle that had nearly killed him.
Across from him, Sofia sat unmoving, her hands folded in front of her. The dried blood on her armor had yet to be washed away, as if she had no intention of forgetting the cost of their survival.
To her right sat Veylin, the Bishop of the Gods, draped in his pristine robes, his hands woven together in mock patience. His face carried that same calm certainty it always did—the look of a man who believed himself untouchable.
Beside him, Samantha, a war priest, stood with her arms crossed, her back straight, her shoulders tense. The knight who had once saved Sylvian now held a lingering resentment in her eyes, though whether it was for the Bishop or herself remained unclear.
Varen slouched in his chair, arms draped lazily over the backrest, but his fingers drummed against the wood. He was watching, listening, waiting.
The silence stretched, thick and unyielding.
Then—Varen exhaled sharply, breaking it.
"This is pointless," he muttered, his voice rough with frustration. "We all know what's happening outside these walls. People are still out there. Dying. And we're sitting here talking."
Sofia didn't blink. "And do you believe charging blindly into the unknown will save them?"
Varen scowled. "I believe doing something is better than sitting here debating."
"We don't even know if we can sustain the people we already have," she countered. "We're running low on supplies, and our defenses are stretched thin. If we bring in more survivors and we collapse, then all of this—everything we fought for—will be for nothing."
Samantha's voice was quieter, but there was an edge beneath it, something raw and tired. "So what?" she murmured. "We just let them rot? Pretend we don't hear their screams beyond these walls?"
Sylvian remained silent. He let them speak. Let them clash. A decision made in silence often carried more weight than one made in haste.
"We move slowly," he finally said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "We prepare, but we do not wait."
For a moment, nobody responded.
Then—Veylin chuckled softly.
The sound slithered through the room like something venomous.
The Bishop leaned back in his chair, his shadow stretching long across the candlelit floor. "And who will follow this 'preparation' of yours, Sylvian?" His voice was smooth, deliberate. "Do you truly believe that our priests will abandon the will of God because a knight decided to give orders?"
A sharp, deliberate crack echoed through the chamber.
Samantha's fist slammed against the table, the wood groaning beneath the impact.
"You speak of God's will," she said, her voice slow, low, dangerous. "Was it God's will that let hundreds die? Was it God's will that we stand here, broken, while others are still out there suffering?"
Veylin did not flinch.
"Faith is not for the impatient," he murmured.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
And then—Samantha turned.
Her gaze locked onto Veylin, her expression unreadable.
But her eyes—her eyes.
For the first time, disgust crept into them.
Like she was looking at something rotten.
Like she was seeing him for what he truly was.
Sylvian exhaled, slow. "Believe what you want," he murmured, voice quieter now, but heavier. "But we can't stand still forever. No matter how slow we move—we must move."
The silence stretched, thick and unyielding.
Then—Samantha spoke.
"Give me a day," she said, not to Sylvian, but to the room itself. "I'll decide then."
She pushed back her chair, the sound scraping against the stone floor. Sofia stood. Veylin followed, his robe shifting as he turned without another word. The door shut behind them, leaving only Sylvian and Varen in the dim candlelight.
The silence didn't leave.
---
Varen let out a low, humorless laugh. "You know what pisses me off?"
Sylvian didn't answer.
Varen leaned forward, arms on the table, eyes sharp. "That we're even working with these self-righteous bastards in the first place." His voice was edged with something bitter. "They don't listen. They don't obey. And yet, somehow, we're supposed to pretend this is a real alliance."
His jaw clenched. Then, his voice dropped.
"And yet…"
Sylvian watched him. "And yet?"
Varen let out another bitter chuckle. "And yet they saved lives." His fingers flexed. "You saw them. Those priests healed people. Fed them. Whether we like it or not… they've been useful."
He shook his head. "I hate this."
Sylvian said nothing.
---
The heavy silence that had settled in the chamber barely lifted as the knight stepped forward.
"Commander," he said, standing rigid, his voice carrying the weariness of a man who had seen too much. "A survivor wishes to meet you."
Sylvian, who had been resting his forearms on the table, leaned back slightly. His fingers curled, pressing against the rough wood as he exchanged a glance with Varen.
"Who?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it.
The knight hesitated. "He calls himself Alec. Says it's urgent."
The name meant nothing. Just another survivor—another face pulled from the wreckage of the world outside these walls. And yet, something in the knight's expression gave Sylvian pause.
There was an unease there.
Something that didn't belong.
"Send him in," Sylvian ordered.
The knight gave a sharp nod before stepping out.
For a brief moment, only silence remained.
Then—the door creaked open again.
Two figures stepped inside.
One was a man—Alec. His clothes were torn, his frame thinner than it should've been, but his posture remained unshaken. His face, lined with exhaustion, carried something deeper in his eyes—something raw, something desperate.
Beside him stood Rosia, a woman of similar age, her stance slightly more guarded. Her sharp eyes flickered between Sylvian and Varen, her fingers twitching slightly, as if prepared to run or fight at a moment's notice.
They both stopped a few steps from the table.
Two knights stood behind them, unmoving.
The tension was suffocating.
Neither Alec nor Rosia spoke at first.
They stood there, caught between hesitation and expectation, their gazes heavy but unreadable.
Then, Alec stepped forward.
And, to Sylvian's quiet surprise—he bowed.
"Commander," Alec's voice was steady, yet tight with something he was holding back. "I came to thank you."
Sylvian remained still.
Alec straightened, his hands curling slightly at his sides. "I saw you. During the battle. You didn't hesitate. You leapt forward, not for glory, but for your people."
Sylvian watched him carefully. The words felt genuine—there was no trace of forced gratitude, no flattery. But there was something else beneath them.
Something heavier.
Before he could respond, Alec's gaze shifted—his breath hitched.
His entire body froze.
His expression twisted—shock. Relief. Fear.
Then—he stumbled back, falling to the floor.
The knights at the door flinched, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.
Rosia immediately moved, kneeling beside him, grabbing his arm. "Alec?"
But Alec wasn't looking at her.
His wide, unblinking eyes were locked onto Sylvian's hand.
Or rather—onto the stigma that marred his skin.
Sylvian's brows furrowed. His fingers flexed against the table, his palm curling slightly as if to shield the mark from view.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice sharper now.
Alec's breath came unsteadily. Then, almost breathlessly, he spoke—
"I need to talk to you."
His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"Alone."
Sylvian's eyes narrowed.
Varen, who had remained silent until now, scoffed. "Like hell—"
"It's fine," Sylvian cut in, his gaze never leaving Alec. Then, shifting his focus slightly, he gave a single nod. "Varen, Rosia. Step outside."
Rosia hesitated, but at Alec's glance, she finally stood. Varen's lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't argue. With a sharp glance at Alec, he turned and followed Rosia out of the chamber.
The door shut behind them.
Now, only Sylvian and Alec remained.
And yet, the room felt even heavier than before.
---
Alec sat there for a moment, his hands trembling slightly. Then, as if steadying himself, he exhaled.
Slowly—he reached for his wrist.
Sylvian's gaze followed the motion, his breath slowing.
With careful, almost hesitant fingers, Alec began unwrapping the bandage that had been tightly bound around his skin.
Layer by layer.
Until—
The final strip unraveled.
And there, etched into his flesh, was the same mark.
A deep, dark stigma.
The sight of it sent a strange chill through Sylvian's chest.
He had seen that mark before.
On himself.
Alec swallowed thickly. "A few days ago," he whispered, "I saw something. A vision… or a dream. I don't know. But this mark—this thing—has been here ever since."
Sylvian remained silent, his gaze fixed on the twins of their marks.
Alec's hands curled slightly. His voice was quiet, but it carried weight.
"In that vision, I saw you."
Sylvian's heart slowed.
"You were standing before thousands of us," Alec continued, his breath uneven. "Leading us… somewhere. A battlefield. A war. I don't know where, I don't know when, but—" He hesitated. "We were following you."
Sylvian's jaw tightened.
Alec exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "At first, I thought it was just… I don't know. A dream. A trick of the mind. But then—"
He looked up, his eyes dark with something raw.
"Yesterday, when I was patrolling with the knights, we were attacked by monsters. My stigma… it glowed." His hands clenched. "I cut them down. Easily. Like—like something was guiding me."
Sylvian felt something cold coil in his stomach.
Alec shook his head. "But not everyone had the same mark. Not everyone could feel it. So I don't know, Sir Sylvian. I don't know what the hell this means."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Sylvian, for the first time in a long while, felt lost.
The vision. The stigma. The whispers that haunted him even after waking.
What did it mean?
Were they being led towards something?
Or were they being led towards their own end?
Alec's breath came shallow. "Tell me you know what's happening."
Sylvian's throat felt dry.
He wanted to give an answer.
But he didn't have one.
Instead, his voice came softer than he intended.
"I don't know," he admitted. His fingers curled slightly. "Either these visions lead us to something important… or they are leading us to ruin."
Alec's hands trembled.
Sylvian exhaled.
"I can't say anything for sure," he murmured. "I'm sorry."
Alec went silent.
Then, after a moment—
He straightened.
His hands steadied.
"Then let me follow you."
Sylvian's breath caught.
"Even if it leads to the end," Alec said, his voice stronger now, "I saw you leading us, Not out of order but leaning on yours, surviving together. Let me follow you, Commander. "
Then, with that, Alec bowed slightly and left.
And Sylvian was left alone.
With only more questions.
Then—
The door creaked open again.
Varen stepped inside.
And behind him—
Sir Aldric.
Fresh from his scouting mission.
And his expression?
It told Sylvian everything.
Something was coming.