The moon hung like a pale omen above the Holy Citadel, its light casting jagged shadows across the stone spires. Inside the sanctum, the Hero knelt in silence, his bloodstained gauntlets resting on the marble floor.
The weight of divine armor had never felt heavier.
"They screamed my name. Not in praise. In fear."
Auron's hands trembled.
The crowd had once worshiped him—children reaching for his hand, widows thanking him for vengeance, priests proclaiming him chosen.
But now, after the square... after the ritual...
"Heretic," they had whispered.
Even the faithful had flinched when he passed.
The sacred image was cracked—and Auron felt it splintering further with every heartbeat.
High Priest Gregorin paced before the altar, robes dragging like chains.
"They see weakness," he hissed. "We cannot afford hesitation."
"I didn't hesitate," Auron snapped, rising. "I did what was right. What the gods demanded."
"Then why does the world see you as a monster?" Gregorin's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Why does the crowd now cheer your enemy's name in courtly halls?"
"Kael," Auron said, the name like poison in his mouth.
Gregorin nodded. "The people do not trust the Church. But they listen to him."
"Then I'll kill him."
Gregorin paused, then smiled—not with approval, but amusement.
"You'll try. But understand this: If you fail… the gods will abandon us both."
Far from the Citadel, in a candlelit chamber beneath the Imperial Library, Kael stood before an ancient tapestry—one depicting a forgotten war between angels and abyssal beasts.
Evelyne entered behind him, holding two letters.
"From House Caldrith and Duke Merro," she said. "Both willing to pull funding from the Church. Quietly, of course."
Kael took the letters without looking.
"The Hero is fracturing," he said. "How soon before he breaks?"
"He's already broken. He just doesn't know it yet."
Kael turned, eyes like midnight steel. "No. Not yet. But he will."
He traced a sigil on the tapestry—a halo cracked down the center.
"Faith is like glass, Evelyne. Once it shatters, no one remembers what it used to reflect. Only what it failed to protect."
That night, in the undercity of Viremont, Kael walked alone into a shrine defaced by ash and blood. The old priest there, blind and bent, turned to him without surprise.
"You again," the priest rasped. "You smell of shadows, boy."
"And you smell of rot, old man," Kael said calmly. "But we both know rot is where truth grows."
He placed a pouch of coins on the altar.
"Spread word. Quietly. That the Hero bleeds guilt. That his sword shakes."
"And the price?"
Kael's voice was ice.
"Just one rumor. That he questioned the will of the gods."
The priest grinned toothlessly. "A lie?"
"Does it matter?"
Auron sat alone in his sanctum, the words echoing inside him like a curse.
"You're doubting."
"You hesitated."
"They saw you falter."
He looked at the blade across his lap. The same blade that had struck down demons. The same blade now whispered to be cursed.
His reflection in the steel was not that of a Hero.
It was a man lost in a storm of doubts—and Kael had conjured every cloud.
Back in the Imperial Palace, Kael stood before the Empress.
"The Hero is wounded," she said. "And yet, you smile."
"Because a wounded icon is far more useful than a perfect one," Kael replied.
"And what would you do, Kael? Replace him?"
"No," Kael said, eyes gleaming. "I would own him."
To be continued...