The torches that lined the stone walls flickered like restless spirits, their flames casting shadows that seemed to sway with intent, alive with meaning, as if they too were watching. The air in the chamber was dense, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts and something heavier still—expectation. It was a feeling that wrapped itself around the bones of the room, thickening with each heartbeat. The Covenant stood in formation, their heads bowed in reverence, eyes half-lidded in devotion, a synchronized breathing that was not mere practice but something far deeper, something ingrained, like an ancient ritual performed through instinct, through generations of unwavering belief. But even in that stillness, there was a shift. It was small at first, an almost imperceptible tremor, a crack in the glass of their collective certainty. Erasmus could feel it—he had always been sensitive to cracks, and they were never small for long.
The door to the chamber creaked open, slow and deliberate, like a question posed to the silence. And then, in a moment that seemed to stretch across eternity, the hero stepped inside. His presence was a sharp contrast to the calm that had previously filled the room—a sudden dissonance, a clash against the rhythm of the Covenant's devotion.
He was young, no older than seventeen, his knight's frame still unburdened by the weight of experience. His golden hair shimmered in the dim light, haloed in a soft glow that might have made him appear ethereal, if not for the fire burning in his eyes. Dark red, fierce, and unyielding—eyes that had not yet been dulled by the cruelties of the world. He was a candle flame—bright, burning, but fragile. Erasmus watched him, not with disdain, but with a certain measure of interest. The flame flickered brightly now, but even the brightest flames could be snuffed out. Erasmus could only wonder how long the fire would burn before it too was extinguished.
The Covenant, for all their supposed certainty, did not regard him as an immediate threat. There was no rush to form weapons, no flurry of action. They were unsure, hesitant. This was not a challenge they had prepared for. Their faith, a doctrine built on submission and unwavering obedience, had armored them for many things, but a challenger was not one of them.
The hero spoke, his voice clear, unwavering. "I heard of a man standing against this Covenant," he said. "Was it you?"
Erasmus met his gaze. His eyes were steady, unfazed, measuring. Testing. The hero's posture was firm, yes, but his words did not carry the weight of an attack. There was no aggression in his tone, only the quiet openness of one who was searching, waiting for confirmation. Erasmus allowed a breath to slip slowly from his lips, almost as though it were a revelation he were offering, not resistance. "I am merely one who stands," he answered, the words deliberate, not just in their meaning but in their cadence. "One who speaks when silence would be easier."
The Covenant shifted at that. The subtle movement of bodies, a slight shuffle of feet. It wasn't fear, not yet, but uncertainty—an opening, a crack, a fissure where the rigidity of their faith had begun to weaken. They had been so certain, so unwavering in their beliefs, but Erasmus had spoken something that resonated deep within them. The weight of his words settled over the room, pressing against the long-held dogma of the Covenant, and for the briefest of moments, their convictions trembled.
The hero's shoulders eased, just a fraction. His belief in his righteousness was still there, untouched, but now it was no longer a shield. It had become a question, a flicker of doubt he was willing to entertain, at least for now. That was all Erasmus needed.
A woman, her face obscured by a veil of devotion, spoke next, her voice cutting through the thick air. "You claim to speak truth," she said, her words slow, cautious. "But truth must be weighed."
Erasmus inclined his head, acknowledging the challenge, but not retreating from it. "Truth is not something you weigh," he replied, his voice still, unwavering. "It is something you recognize."
The room fell into a tense stillness. The Covenant, once so united in their certainty, now wavered. Some of them stood firm, their faith resolute, while others... others faltered, their eyes flickering toward him with an expression that could no longer be called faith, but something close. Something like doubt, or curiosity—an open wound in the very core of their convictions.
The hero observed all of this, his gaze now fully trained on Erasmus. "Then what do you recognize?" he asked, his tone edged with the same curiosity that had begun to spread through the room.
Erasmus allowed the question to linger in the air, allowing the silence to stretch between them. He did not answer immediately. Instead, he let the stillness grow, allowed the weight of the moment to fill the space between words. Silence, when wielded correctly, could be more deafening than any declaration. And in that silence, Erasmus felt the air grow thick with anticipation.
Scratch.
The faint sound broke the silence like a crack in a pane of glass. Small. Insignificant. But in the stillness of the chamber, it stood out.
The Smiling Man, who had been standing motionless at the back of the room, did not seem to notice the shift. His grin remained plastered in place, his posture unbroken. And yet, despite his stillness, something had changed. His hand was moving—just slightly, absently, as if he were unaware of the motion. A faint scratch. A brush of fingers against his wrist, his palm, his throat.
Scratch.
The sound was almost imperceptible, but it was there, echoing in the chamber with an unnerving rhythm. The cultists, for the first time, began to notice. One of them glanced toward the source of the sound, uncertainty crossing their features. That was new. The Smiling Man had never acted like this. He had always been the immovable one, the unshakable presence in the Covenant. Why was he scratching?
The hero, sensing something off, turned his gaze toward the source of the noise. "Who is he?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.
Before Erasmus could answer, one of the cultists spoke, their voice barely above a whisper. "He is the one who showed us the way."
A twitch of discomfort ran through the hero's jaw. He didn't like that answer, and the uncertainty in his eyes betrayed his unease.
Scratch.
This time, the sound was longer. More deliberate. The Smiling Man's fingers dug into his forearm, the motion almost absentminded, like a nervous habit. The pale fabric of his robe shifted as his skin seemed to shift beneath it, revealing something strange, something wrong.
The hero's brow furrowed, his hand twitching toward his weapon as his eyes narrowed. "Are you alright?"
The Smiling Man did not respond. His grin was as frozen as ever, unyielding. But his fingers, moving in a maddeningly rhythmic motion, continued to scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
The sound became unbearable, reverberating in the quiet chamber. And then—a flake of something pale drifted to the ground.
The hero's stomach clenched. His eyes widened as he realized what he was seeing.
It wasn't skin. It wasn't dust. No, it was something harder. Something unnatural.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Another piece of something pale peeled away from the Smiling Man's forearm. And this time, a thick, black ooze began to seep from the wound, slow and steady, like ink spilling from an open jar.
The hero's breath caught in his throat. He took a half-step back, his body rigid with confusion and revulsion. "What—"
A gasp echoed from one of the cultists, and the room froze.
The Covenant saw it now too. They couldn't ignore it anymore.
"Master?" one of them whispered, their voice trembling.
The Smiling Man finally moved. But it was slow, unnervingly so, as if he were a puppet with strings pulled too taut. His head turned—too smoothly, too precisely. A single, hoarse breath escaped his lips.
"Ah."
And then, his skin split.
The tear was jagged, an unnatural crack running along the Smiling Man's forearm. The black fluid oozed from the wound, staining the pale fabric of his robes, a dark stain spreading across the fabric like poison, like rot.
A choked sound came from one of the cultists, the sound of something breaking, something fundamental shattering in their world.
The hero's hand twitched again, closer to his weapon, but still unsure. His eyes remained fixed on the Smiling Man, watching as the creature before them transformed into something else.
Erasmus? He did not move. His gaze remained steady, locked on the unfolding scene. He watched with quiet calculation.
The Covenant, once blind in their faith, now saw the truth. And in that moment, their belief cracked. It shattered, falling apart like fragile glass. And in the hollow space left by their faith, Erasmus stepped forward, unshaken.
His golden scale gleamed at his side, catching the dim light of the torches. He raised it. Slowly, deliberately. And then, he tilted it—just enough.
To the right.
To judgment.
The hero saw it. His gaze locked onto the scale, and Erasmus could feel the weight of his attention, feel the doubt beginning to take root.
"You asked what I recognize," Erasmus murmured, his voice quiet but heavy with meaning. "I recognize this. I recognize judgment. I recognize the weight of truth."
The scale did not tremble.
It only tipped further, heavier now, leaning into the right, into judgment.
The hero's breath caught in his throat. His heart skipped a beat.
And in that moment—he hesitated.
That was all Erasmus needed.
The Covenant had broken. The hero had wavered.
And in the heavy silence that followed, Erasmus knew this was not the end.
No. This was only the beginning.