-----Chapter 22: The Nameless Dawn-----
The wind carried something unnatural.
It wasn't the lingering scent of burned wood and dried blood, nor the distant cries of the wounded filling the fortress. It was something deeper—something that pulsed beneath the surface of reality itself.
Sylvian felt it before he could see it.
A pulse. A shift.
Like the world itself had exhaled in pain.
The torches along the fortress walls flickered violently, stretching unnaturally before snapping back. The very ground beneath them trembled—not from an earthquake, but from something unseen, something shifting beneath the skin of reality.
And then it happened.
A crack, not in stone or sky, but in existence itself.
Not visible. Not tangible. But felt.
Something was growing. Something vast, something unseen, something that did not belong.
A presence that had always lurked in the background, unnoticed. Now, it was pressing against the world.
And the world pushed back.
The air turned heavy. The monoliths standing across the Lower Realm—silent watchers since time unknown—shuddered, resisting some unseen force.
For a moment, Sylvian thought it would stop. That the presence would remain as it always had—watching, waiting.
But it did not.
It was here now.
And it refused to be ignored.
---
Across the city, in the ruins of the broken temple, Sofia felt it too.
The shift in the air. The way her breath hitched—not in fear, but in instinctual dread.
And then it struck.
Like an axe severing flesh, something snapped.
An invisible force ripped through the heavens, and the divine tether between the gods and the Lower Realm was torn apart.
Sofia staggered, gasping as she clutched her chest, feeling the sudden emptiness where divine presence had once rested.
The war priests around her fared worse.
Some collapsed entirely, their bodies convulsing, their hands clawing at their robes as if they could physically reach for something that was no longer there.
Bishops—bleeding from their noses, ears, and eyes—gripped their relics like lifelines, whispering prayers to gods who no longer answered.
Veylin stood among them, his face paler than she had ever seen.
His fingers trembled as they reached for the air.
A whisper passed his lips, too soft to hear—
But Sofia knew what it was.
A prayer.
A desperate plea to something that was no longer listening.
---
Sylvian barely had time to register the severing before his own body betrayed him.
A fire unlike anything he had ever known erupted beneath his skin.
A snarl ripped from his throat as his knees hit the cold stone floor. His hand shot to his wrist—where the stigma burned like molten iron beneath his flesh.
He wasn't alone.
Varen collapsed beside him, his voice a sharp hiss of pain.
Alec doubled over, fingers digging into the dirt.
Sofia, across the city, barely managed to stay standing, her nails cutting into her palm, trying to ground herself in anything but the pain.
It wasn't just pain.
It was something shifting inside them.
Something was being rewritten.
The air around them rippled, distorted.
The very ground sank slightly, as if whatever they were becoming was beginning to reject the world they stood on.
For a single, excruciating moment, Sylvian felt something beyond him, inside him, becoming him.
And then—
Everything stopped.
No pain. No sound. No movement.
Just… stillness.
Sylvian gasped, chest heaving, his fingers still curled around his wrist, as if trying to confirm he was still real.
He forced his gaze up—
And saw them.
The others.
Varen, trembling, one arm pressed to the ground, his breath ragged.
Alec, pale as death, eyes wide, chest rising and falling too fast.
Sofia, still standing, but barely—her golden eyes dim with exhaustion.
Around them, the bodies of knights, priests, and warriors littered the floor, some clutching their arms, others curled inward, as if trying to hold themselves together.
Sylvian pushed himself up, dragging in a breath.
It was over.
Or so he thought.
And then—
His stigma glowed.
A deep, pulsing light, neither golden nor red, but something in between. Something unnatural.
His stomach turned.
The others' marks—they were glowing too.
Alec looked down at his wrist, his expression unreadable. Sofia, who had spent her whole life devoted to the divine, stared at her own stigma like it was something foreign.
Sylvian's jaw clenched.
He reached for his wrist, ready to examine the mark, to understand what had just changed inside them.
But before he could—
A shadow fell over the land.
---
The world groaned.
Not thunder. Not wind. But something deeper.
Something far above them had moved.
Sylvian turned sharply, his instincts screaming before his mind could catch up.
And then he saw it.
A figure.
Not yet fully formed, not yet fully here.
But stepping through the sky.
The light above them fractured like glass, golden cracks stretching outward, bleeding radiance into the air.
A shape moved between them.
Indifferent. Slow. Unstoppable.
Every breath in the city turned shallow.
Even the priests, still trembling from the severing of their gods, turned their faces upward in silent, frozen horror.
Sofia's lips parted, but no words came.
Varen gritted his teeth, his fingers curling instinctively around his sword hilt.
Alec, still weak from the stigma's awakening, barely managed a whisper.
"No…"
The figure descended, step by step, closer to the world.
And then—
His gaze turned toward them.
And for the first time, Sylvian did not see the all-powerful arrogance of a god.
He saw something else.
Something that shouldn't be there.
A flicker of worry.
A hint of urgency.
Like even he was afraid of what was happening.
And in that moment, Sylvian knew—
The war had already begun.
---
The moment stretched, suffocating and endless.
The god had arrived.
And yet, the world did not bow.
Not fully.
Some fell to their knees immediately—a reflex, an instinct. The war priests, still reeling from the severing of their divine connection, gasped in reverence, clutching at their chests as if the very presence of their god could mend what had been lost.
But others?
Others did not move.
Sylvian remained still, his breathing slow, measured. Watching. Calculating.
The weight of divinity pressed against his skin, demanding recognition. It was suffocating. But Sylvian had walked through hell already—he had crawled through blood and war, through the silence of gods who had long since abandoned them.
And he would not kneel.
Not now. Not ever.
Yet, across from him, something stirred.
---
Sofia felt it all at once.
The god's presence. The weight of something divine pressing against her body, against her soul.
She had spent her life whispering prayers to the sky, hoping, believing.
And now, standing before the very presence she had once longed for—
She was frozen.
Her legs did not move. Her knees did not buckle.
Her breath hitched, but not from reverence.
Because the wound inside her—the one left by the severing of the divine link—was still there.
She had thought that when the gods returned, it would be different. That their presence would fill the void, not deepen it.
But it hadn't.
If anything, the absence felt worse.
Around her, the war priests bowed their heads. Some trembled, whispering prayers between ragged breaths. But others—others did not.
A few looked up at the god with uncertainty, with doubt.
They had seen the silence.
And silence could not be unseen.
The realization sent a shiver through Sofia's spine.
Faith was no longer an unshaken force.
It was cracking.
And then—
A voice cut through it all.
---
Varen exhaled sharply. His jaw tightened.
His fingers curled into fists, his breath slow and controlled—but there was a tremor beneath it.
He felt it—the expectation, the pressure.
This was a god. A being that had shaped the world.
And yet, all he felt was rage.
He turned, his voice sharp, biting.
"Tell me, god—" Varen spat, his eyes locking onto the celestial figure. "Did you mourn for the dead? Or did you just come to collect the living?"
A silence followed.
Not of reverence.
Not of awe.
But of something breaking.
The war priests flinched.
Sylvian's gaze flickered toward Varen. Not in surprise, but in expectation.
And the god?
His expression did not shift. Not visibly.
But something in his stance changed.
Something tightened.
He had acknowledged the hostility.
---
The god exhaled, slow, steady.
His presence, which had pressed against the air itself, lessened—but did not vanish.
Then, he spoke.
"Faith is not meant to be easy."
The voice was deep, layered, stretching beyond sound. It was not a voice that echoed through air, but through existence itself.
And yet, it held something heavy beneath it.
Not arrogance.
Not wrath.
Urgency.
He looked upon them all—the faithful and the faithless alike.
"This world is fading," he said. "I have come to offer salvation."
The priests gasped in reverence. Some whispered his words as if reciting scripture.
But Sylvian?
He said nothing.
Because he saw it.
He saw the way the god's gaze flickered, just for a second.
Like he was searching.
Like he was looking for something that wasn't there.
Like he was unsure.
---
Varen's lip curled. "Salvation?" He scoffed, shaking his head.
"You don't bring salvation. You bring silence."
The words hung in the air, sharp and unyielding.
The god did not answer.
He simply watched.
Unmoved. Indifferent.
But someone else moved.
A slow, deliberate rustling of robes.
Bishop Veylin.
From his bowed position, he rose to his feet, his head still lowered in reverence. The dim torchlight cast deep shadows across his face, but there was no uncertainty in his movements.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
Until he stood between the god and the defiant.
His voice was smooth, but weighted with quiet disdain.
"You speak as if you understand faith, knight."
Varen's fingers twitched at his sides, but he did not speak.
Veylin lifted his gaze—not toward Varen, not toward the others, but toward the god himself. A look of absolute devotion.
"These men," he continued, his tone laced with cold finality, "have lost their way. They see divinity and spit upon it. They do not deserve your mercy."
The air grew colder.
A shift. A fracture.
Veylin turned slightly, facing the gathered priests and war clerics—his own followers. His voice did not rise, yet it carried through the ruins like a decree.
"Come."
A single command.
A call to faith.
One by one, figures began to rise from the kneeling masses. Some moved hesitantly, glancing between the god and those who had refused to kneel. Others followed without hesitation, stepping forward to stand at Veylin's side.
And yet, not all followed.
The crowd did not move as one.
Some remained where they stood, their hands clenched, their breaths uneven, caught in the weight of something they could not yet name.
Veylin did not glance back.
He simply walked forward, leading his followers toward the god.
And the god turned and left with them.
Without another word.
Without another glance.
Leaving the rest to decide where they stood.