The Grand Cathedral of the Archons stood like a blade piercing the sky, untouched by time and corruption. Its towers shimmered with divine light, built not by mortal hands but by celestial decree—an architectural hymn to obedience. Choirs of golden flame flickered in midair, casting endless radiance across the hallowed marble floor. The scent of burning myrrh, of sanctified blood and ancient incense, hung thick in the air.
Beneath the towering effigies of forgotten gods—guardians of an order long rusted—the High Archon knelt in silence. His robes shimmered with starlight, woven by the weavers of heaven, untouched by mortal dust. His face was hidden behind a mask of porcelain gold, his hands folded in eternal prayer. He did not move.
But silence was no longer peace.
It was decay.
"Doubt," came a voice like velvet laced with venom. "It spreads like a disease."
Eryndor, the Shadow Serpent, stood near the altar's edge. A being of obsidian grace and unreadable eyes, his very presence dimmed the divine glow of the chamber. Wings folded behind him like a cloak of dusk, and his voice, once a clarion of justice, now dripped with quiet blasphemy.
The High Archon offered no reply.
But Eryndor was not here for answers.
He was here for truth.
Once the most loyal enforcer of the celestial will, Eryndor had shaped wars with a flick of his blade, razed cities in the name of purity. He had never doubted. Never questioned. Until now.
Now, the silence of the gods was deafening.
What if we are wrong?
It had begun with whispers. Unbidden thoughts. Fragments of memory and doubt seeded into his soul like a creeping vine. He had seen Kael. Fought him. Stalked him through the mortal realm.
And he had seen something else:
Order, born not from divinity—but will.
Far below the heavens, in the sanctum of the Shadow Court, Kael watched the threads of fate unravel.
The war table before him had changed. Once it bore borders and armies—now, it displayed souls. Faith. Shifting allegiances and ideological fault lines. Tiny stars of light and darkness moved across the map like living fragments of belief.
Varian knelt at his side, robed in black and silence. "The first fracture has formed," he intoned. "Eryndor questions the divine order."
Kael's gaze never left the glowing display. "And the High Archon?"
"Unmoved," Varian said. "But brittle. Too still. He hears the echo."
Across the room, the Empress stood near the towering window, where stormlight painted her in silver and blood. Her gown flowed like water, her presence regal—but not untouched by fear.
"One defection," she murmured, "does not win a war."
Kael's head turned slowly, his voice like steel sheathed in honey. "Faith is not broken in battle, Your Majesty. It is corroded."
She flinched—barely. But Kael saw it.
Beside her, Selene lounged with an elegance honed in a thousand battlefields. Her armor was muted, her expression amused—but her eyes? Watching. Calculating.
"So what's next?" she asked. "You throw doubt into the heavens like a spear?"
Kael approached the table, fingers tracing a glowing constellation hovering over the capital.
"The celestial order," he said, "is not built on power."
He turned, golden eyes meeting theirs.
"It is built on the illusion of righteousness."
"We don't destroy it," he continued. "We reveal it."
Selene arched a brow. "You're going to make the gods' chosen doubt their gods?"
"No," Kael said, voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm going to make them renounce them."
The Empress inhaled sharply—but not in disbelief.
In awe.
Back in the Grand Cathedral, Eryndor moved like a ghost.
The sanctuary halls were lined with murals of divine conquest—images he had once revered. Angels casting mortals into flame. Prophets wielding chains of light. Gods with eyes closed to pain.
Now those images twisted.
He had watched the Empire burn villages for impurity. Watched the High Archon execute children in the name of "sacred cleansing." He had believed it was all part of the plan.
But Kael had shown him something else.
Choice.
Kael had offered no promise of salvation. No illusion of eternal reward. Only truth—and the power to act upon it.
And wasn't that more divine than blind obedience?
Eryndor's breath shuddered.
The golden glow of the temple dimmed around him. A fracture, invisible to the eye, ran down one of the columns. He placed a hand against the stone.
"Do you fear him?" came a soft voice behind him.
He turned slowly.
It was Seraphiel, Archon of Fire. Radiant, furious, unwavering.
"No," Eryndor said. "I fear us."
Her expression flickered—only for a moment.
"Blasphemy," she whispered.
"Truth," he answered.
In Kael's sanctum, the map shifted.
The glowing constellation representing Seraphiel flared bright—then wavered.
"She hesitates," Varian said, watching the pulse.
Selene laughed softly. "Even Archons bleed."
The Empress approached Kael now, something raw flickering in her voice. "You are breaking their heaven. What happens if you succeed?"
Kael's answer came without hesitation.
"Then I build something better."
"And if they descend?" she asked. "If the gods come themselves?"
He stepped close—so close she could feel his breath.
"Then I show them what it means to kneel."
Back in the heavens, the High Archon finally stood.
The vast cathedral trembled with his presence. Light poured from his robes, his hands glowing with divine wrath. His voice echoed across the entire sanctum, waking every Archon from slumber.
"Summon the Sunsworn. Prepare the Sanctification."
"There is heresy among us."
But as his command resounded, he did not see the shadow lingering behind one of the pillars.
Eryndor.
Watching.
Waiting.
No longer praying.
To Be Continued…