Rain lashed the capital's spires, veiling Sarfin's skyline in a mist of gray. From the throne room's arched window, King Sarfin stood immobile, his red mantle sodden yet unyielding, the crown's star-metal glinting like a cold eye. Below, the city churned—merchants shuttering stalls, soldiers boosting patrols, rumors of the Lightbringer's name snaking through the streets. Toji's shadow loomed greater with each tale: Marveth's savior, Eldren's blade, Thalren's bane. Sarfin's old hands clenched, knuckles white on the window's stone frame. A king did not fear a man, but he feared chaos, and Toji was its herald. Within the throne room, advisors circled a war-table, their voices keen with urgency. Maps of White Star spread across the marble, marred with Thalren's treason and Gulmund's turmoil. Sarfin disregarded their shouting, his attention on the guy who'd turned a shattered battalion into a legendary. Greater than the Ten Gods, the people dared murmur. Greed—for glory, for rebellion—had broken empires before, and Sarfin would not let this soldier's spark ignite his destruction. A presence stilled the room, heavy as thunder. Lysara, the 1st-ranked God of the Ten, approached, her silver armor sparkling like liquid starlight, her spear—a relic of forgotten divinities—casting faint arcs of magical radiance. Her long locks surrounded a face both calm and furious, her eyes alight with a clarity that pierced mortal facades. She knelt briefly, then rose, her voice steady. "You called, my king." Sarfin pivoted, his stare a sword. "Toji, the Lightbringer. His name festers in the streets. Marveth, Eldren, now Thalren's rout. What is he, Lysara?" Lysara's spear-tip touched the floor, its light carving shadows that flashed like uncertainties. "A warrior bound by faith, not greed. His God is alien, yet potent. His nano-magic defies our records—too precise, too huge. He fights for truth, not thrones, yet truth can cause rebellion." Sarfin's eyes narrowed. "Rebellion or not, his legend grows. The people declare him greater than you—greater than the Ten. This cannot stand." Lysara's jaw hardened, a spark of divine pride flashing. "The Ten bow to no mortal. If he oversteps, my spear will judge him." "Judgment waits," Sarfin muttered, his voice a hoarse growl. "For now, shadow him. Every step, every phrase. I need his soul bared—his pals, his weaknesses. If he's a tool, I'll wield him. If he's a fire, I'll snuff him out." Lysara's eyes met his, probing. "And the governors? Kaelis's disloyalty, Voryn's evasions—they build a wider web. Toji is merely one thread." Sarfin's smile was a shard of ice. "The governors will bend, or they'll break. My pals promise it." "Allies?" Lysara's voice fell, her spear stilling. "Beyond White Star?" Sarfin's silence answered, laden with secrets. He waved her away, and Lysara withdrew, her armor's radiance fading into the rain-swept hall. The advisers resumed their deliberations, blind to the king's implicit pact, but Sarfin felt its weight—a link fashioned in shadows, tying him to powers he scarcely grasped. In a muddy camp on Eldren's frontier, Toji crouched beneath a drooping tent, the rain drumming a steady cadence. His coat, caked with grime, hung loose as he cleaned his blade—not with nano-magic, but with a cloth, the act grounding him against the echoes of Lightbringer, savior. The battalion's cheers from the ravine lingered, a burden heavier than any crown. His trust in his God, a light that treasured life over power, calmed him, but the people's hope felt like a tide threatening to drown him. Frankie sat on a stump, sifting herbs by lantern-light, his fingers blackened with sage and ash. "Sarfin's spies reached us last night," he added, peering at the camp's edge. "Myra caught one asking about you. The king's nervous, Toji." Elian stretched on a bedroll, tossing a stone between his palms, his grin sharp as a knife's edge. "Nervous kings get nasty. Sarfin's has the Ten Gods, and they don't like upstarts stealing their shine." Toji's hate for avarice erupted, a flame sparked by Kaelis's ambush, Voryn's half-truths, Helmund's lies. The governors' conspiracy—demonic, vast—eluded him, its roots deeper than Thalren's betrayal. Confusion gnawed: who wove this web, and for what? He placed the rag aside, the blade sparkling in the lantern's glimmer, and touched the Marveth relic in his pocket, its spiral carving a gentle tether to his God's truth. "Sarfin's not the head of this," Toji added, his voice low. "Kaelis, Voryn—they're pawns. The Project's bigger than one throne." Frankie paused, a herb bundle drooping. "Voryn's archives hinted at a power behind the governors. Demonic, but… orderly. If Sarfin's involved, why let you rise?" "Control," Elian said, grabbing the stone. "He wants you leashed, not dead. Yet." Toji's gaze moved to the capital's distant brightness, obscured by rain. Sarfin's throne was a stronghold, but walls hid rot. His God's light burned clear: truth, not power, will break this plot. "Let him try," Toji said. "I'm no one's chain." Elian chuckled, tossing the rock into the muck. "Hope you're as tough as your talk when Lysara shows up." Beneath Sarfin's palace, in a crypt secured by star-iron gates, the king descended alone. The flame in his palm sputtered, casting jagged light on walls engraved with constellations unknown to White Star's heavens. The air seemed dense, oppressive, like if the stone itself breathed. At the vault's core stood a pool, its surface black and quiet, reflecting no light, only Sarfin's face—older, harder, a monarch who'd bargained more than he admitted. He knelt, the torch's flame flickering. "Speak," he said. The lake rippled, and a voice answered—not mortal, not demonic, but huge, like a chorus of fading stars. "The Lightbringer grows," it murmured, each syllable a strain on Sarfin's chest. "His faith blinds him, but his God sees our design. Beware, king. He walks paths you cannot." Sarfin's breath caught. "He's a man. Lysara will bound him, or I'll end him." The voice hummed, amused. "A man, yet his soul threads realms. The Cauldrons stir, Sarfin. Your governors falter, your throne frays. Our contract holds only if you deliver him." Sarfin's crown felt heavier, its metal piercing his brow. "I've fed you wars, cities, souls. What more?" "All," the voice said. "The Lightbringer's path leads to the hall. Chain him, or he will smash your world." The pool stilled, its surface blank. Sarfin climbed, the torch's light faint against the vault's gloom. His alliance—forged in desperation, sealed in whispers—had guaranteed his crown, but its cost was a shadow growing longer. Toji was no mere threat; he was a fault line, a blade that might tear through Sarfin's kingdom and the powers beyond. Dawn broke, the rain diminishing to a trickle. Toji stood at the camp's edge, watching the capital's towers emerge from the mist. Myra's battalion packed supplies, their voices low but resolute, Gulmund's promise a day's march away. Frankie followed him, herbs packed inside a sack, his expression apprehensive. "Sarfin's spies won't stop," he said. Toji nodded, a tingling of instinct—not magic, but battle-honed sense—warning of heavenly gaze. "Let her come," he urged. "Truth doesn't bend to gods or kings." Elian sauntered over, slinging a knapsack over his shoulder, his expression belligerent. "Truth's nice, but a blade's better. Ready for Gulmund?" Toji's hand lingered on the relic, his God's light a constant flame. Gulmund, where this began, where demonic secrets festered. Sarfin's whisper, Lysara's stare, the governors' lies—they were walls, and Toji would pull them down. His hate for avarice, for men who bartered lives for power, propelled him forward. The capital watched, but Toji walked his path—not as a savior, but as a breaker of chains.
