The night air clung heavy to the skin, thick with incense and anticipation. Across the Imperial Plaza, thousands stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the looming Pillars of Faith, their faces bathed in golden firelight. From the rooftops to the alley shadows, Vortalis breathed like a beast waiting to wake.
Kael stood atop the marble balcony, silent, one gloved hand resting on the cold stone. From this height, the crowd below looked like shifting tides—unpredictable, swayed by winds unseen. But Kael saw their hearts clearly: hope, hunger, and the dull ache of disillusionment.
"Faith is the most fragile chain," he mused inwardly. "All it takes is the right fracture…"
At the center of the plaza, beneath a web of glowing sigils, stood a newly erected golden platform. Empress Selene stepped upon it with the grace of divinity, but even her breath trembled slightly before she spoke.
Clad in imperial crimson edged with night-black silk, she looked every bit the sovereign. But tonight, she was more. Tonight, she would be the voice of doubt.
Her voice rang through enchantment-cast amplifiers.
"Loyal subjects of the Empire…"
She let the silence linger like a knife's breath.
"Tonight, I do not speak as your Empress. I speak as your daughter. A woman of this land. One who bleeds, as you do."
A hush swept the plaza like wind through dying leaves.
"The Prophet speaks of a future unshackled—free of tyrants, of chains. He wraps chaos in prophecy. But I ask you this…"
Her voice darkened.
"Who is he?"
Gasps. The words hit like a thrown stone.
"Where was this 'chosen one' when monsters clawed at our borders? When soldiers froze in the mountains so you would live in peace? When your children cried from hunger, and the Empire fed them?"
The people shifted. Uncertainty. Some still clung to devotion. Others… others looked unsure.
Then, the first fracture appeared.
A hooded figure emerged from the crowd—silent, slow, deliberate. No guards moved to stop him. Kael had ensured that.
Whispers rippled like cracks in glass.
The man reached the platform. In one motion, he drew back the hood.
Gasps surged like waves breaking.
Brother Edrin. Once the Prophet's voice in the capital. Beloved. Revered.
Now trembling.
He knelt, his hands open to the heavens.
"I have sinned," he began, voice cracking. "I have followed a lie."
Even Selene seemed momentarily stunned—but Kael saw her eyes shift. Calculating. Calm. Adaptable.
"The Prophet promised truth," Edrin continued. "But behind the veil was ambition—hatred. He spoke not of salvation, but conquest. He would burn this Empire to build his throne on its ashes!"
He raised a weathered tome. Its pages dripped with cryptic ink—words written in the Prophet's own cipher. Exposed. Translated.
"This is his truth. Not prophecy, but manipulation. I have seen it. I lived it."
Tension snapped like coiled wire. Cries rang out. Some shouted denial. Others, betrayal. A woman sobbed. A man knelt beside her, confused, angry.
Kael's eyes narrowed. The seed was flowering.
Selene took a single step forward.
"You must decide what is real. Not by blind devotion. Not by fear. Ask yourselves—what leader sows division and dares call it salvation?"
She paused. Let the pain swell. Let their minds spiral.
"I will not command your faith. But I will defend your future."
That last line—crafted by Kael himself—was a dagger cloaked in silk.
Edrin fell forward, weeping. Selene reached out, not to lift him, but to steady the image. A fallen disciple, forgiven. A sovereign who listened.
From above, Kael turned away.
Below him, pillars that once symbolized unity now cast long, splitting shadows across the square.
In the chamber of mirrors within the palace, Kael stood alone, removing his gloves.
Ravyn entered, wordless, but her gaze was sharp.
"You broke him," she said, almost in awe.
Kael's voice was soft.
"I let truth do the cutting. All I did was place the blade in his hand."
"The Prophet will retaliate."
Kael's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Good. Let him rage. Let him scream. The more noise he makes, the more doubt will echo."
That night, the Prophet watched from a distant spire—his most trusted disciple kneeling to the Empire, his holy book exposed.
His hand clenched around a carved stone as blood welled from his palm.
"They think this is a crack," he murmured.
"Let them.
They've only weakened the mask…"
"Not what lies beneath."
To be continued…