PREVIOUSLY-
His gaze shifted to Leon and Raphael who were walking towards the palace. The two little boys. The protagonists of the prophecy. The heroes.
"They are just boys," Vincent whispered,
"And they will remain so."
His silhouette disappeared from the window leaving only air.
SOMEWHERE ELSE-
"AAARGH!"
---X---
The room was consumed by darkness except for the lone torch faintly blazing with the wind.
"Platoon Commander,"
A voice called,
"We need to make the story believable."
A man leaned his back against the stone wall, fingers clawing for an escape, sweat trickling down his forehead,
"Worry not. All is for God. May Lord Aerithar bless us."
The torch caught a glimpse of metal moving, followed by a—
"AAAARGGHH!"
THUMP!
A FEW DAYS LATER-
Location- Wynn County, Fafnir Empire
KNOCK!
A sharp knock echoed inside the marbled chamber.
"Enter."
A soft voice called. The maid entered the room, carrying a wooden tray with towels, fruits and potions.
Countess Katherine Wynn sat near the bed, ginger hair tied in a bun, her fingers tracing the forehead of a man who lay comatose on the lavish bedding.
"Towel." She raised a hand without looking back, her shoulders sagged in exhaustion as dark circles had appeared under her brown eyes.
The maid, Chloe, quietly placed the tray on a small mahogany table and handed the countess a freshly warmed linen towel.
Countess Katherine took the towel, its warmth a brief, comforting contrast to the perpetual chill that seemed to cling to the room, even with a fire crackling softly in the hearth.
She carefully unfolded it and began to dab the brow of Count Alaric Wynn, her husband. Alaric's skin was a warm, earthy brown, currently dampened by a sheen of feverish sweat. His dark, thick, and curly brown hair lay slightly matted against the pillow.
"His fever… has it broken, milady?" Chloe whispered, her eyes fixed on the Count.
Katherine pressed her lips together and shook her head, a minute tremor in the movement.
"Not yet, Chloe. It merely rests." She spoke with a measured softness, as if a normal tone might shatter the fragile silence surrounding him.
"The draught the physician left… is it ready?"
"Yes, milady. I've strained the bitter leaves out. It's cooled enough to give."
Katherine nodded, her gaze never leaving Alaric's face. She dipped the corner of the towel into a basin of cool water Chloe had placed beside her and gently wiped the sweat from his temples, her touch as light as a butterfly's wing.
It was a ritual she performed every hour. A futile, loving effort to draw the fire from his veins.
"Hold his head steady for me," Katherine instructed.
Chloe slipped a hand under the count's neck, supporting the limp weight. Katherine took the small silver spoon filled with the cloudy, herbal potion. Her hand was steady, a surprising strength in her delicate wrist.
She leaned close, her breath ghosting over Alaric's ear.
"My love," she murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Just a little more. You must fight. You must come back to me."
She very carefully poured a few drops of the potion onto his lips. She waited, watching for any sign of a swallowing reflex, an action that required every ounce of her concentration.
A slow trickle went down his throat. It was agonizingly little, but it was something.
She placed the spoon down and smoothed Alaric's hair back from his forehead again. She then lifted his hand—the same strong, calloused hand that had once gripped a sword and then, moments later, tenderly held her own—and brought it to her lips, pressing a fierce, silent kiss into his knuckles.
"You've been sleeping for seven months, Alaric," she whispered, resting her cheek against the back of his hand. "The garden is in full bloom. I need you to see the roses. Please. Wake up. I don't know how to be a countess without my count."
She sank back into the chair, the heavy green velvet of her gown pooling around her feet. The dark circles under her eyes seemed deeper now, but her gaze on him was an unwavering beacon of love and sheer will.
She had not slept properly since the fever took him, sustained only by the desperate hope she kept carefully bottled within her heart.
The countess' eyes drifted towards the windows, a smile catching her gaze. A smile faintly curled up her lips as she motioned to the boy in the garden.
About ten-years old, tan skinned and golden-eyed like his father with messy ginger hair that mirrored his mother's. His physique was tall and lean like Alaric, his face sharing the same sharp features as Katherine.
"Kael," Katherine turned to Chloe, "How is he? I haven't been able to pay proper attention to him lately."
The maid looked at the boy, a faint smile appearing on her face,
"Young Master Kael is a very smart kid. He takes care of both the Young Lady and His Grace while diligently studying and training,"
Her smile widened,
"And he has Young Master Duskrane to give him company."
Katherine's eyes widened in realization, "Ah, Vincent! That kid, how improper of me to not even greet him properly."
Chloe began massaging her shoulders, "Do not worry my Lady, kid often like to be left among themselves."
However, the countess turned, "The next time Vincent arrives, inform me at once."
Chloe lightly bowed, "As you command."
"Your Grace!" A shrill sound emerged from behind the door,
"A letter from the church has arrived!"
Katherine's smile morphed into a disgusted frown,
'The Church?'
Nevertheless, she maintained her composure,
"Give me the letter."
A butler entered the room, his gait quiet but smooth.
"Here, My Lady."
As the countess opened the letter, her expression soured as her eyes scanned the contents.
"Has the church finally gone mad?"
Location – The Church of Ashen Order, Capital City
The grand hall of the church stretched far beyond the sight of most eyes, the stone pillars soaring upwards like giants reaching for the heavens. The air was thick with incense, and the low murmur of prayers echoed in the distance. But in the inner sanctum, behind thick velvet curtains, the leaders of the church gathered in secret, their faces concealed in shadows.
At the head of the long, circular table sat Cardinal Anselm, the Supreme Pontiff's right hand. His sharp, calculating eyes watched the gathering with an almost predatory calm. The flickering candlelight caught the edges of his face, highlighting the sharp lines of age, but none of it softened his presence. His gaze never wavered, as if he could see through the very walls that separated them from the world outside.
The room was filled with high-ranking members of the clergy, each one a player in the intricate game that was the empire. Among them were Archbishop Garrick, a man whose piety was well-known but whose ambition simmered just below the surface, and Father Elias, a seasoned diplomat whose influence had quietly stretched into every corner of the empire. They all had one thing in common: a loyalty to the church, but a loyalty shaped by power, by the fragile threads of influence they each wielded.
Anselm leaned forward, his voice smooth as silk but heavy with authority. "The emperor has fallen under our sway, but the time has come to pull the strings tighter."
Father Elias, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. "You mean the situation with the Duchies? The vassal kingdom that Edward is negotiating with? I don't see how this directly serves the Church."
The Cardinal's lips curled into a smile, though it was a smile void of warmth. "It serves us more than you know. The Duchies are unstable. And Edward—" He paused, weighing the name as if savouring the taste of it. "—Edward is far too dangerous to leave unchecked."
Archbishop Garrick frowned slightly. "We know he has secrets. But how do you propose we use those against him? He's loyal to the emperor."
Anselm's eyes gleamed. "Loyalty is a malleable thing, my dear Archbishop. What if I told you that Edward's loyalty can be turned into a weapon?"
A murmur of intrigue passed through the room, but no one spoke. Anselm's words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking deeper into their minds.
"It's simple," Anselm continued, his voice unwavering. "We sow discord between him and the Duchies. We fan the flames of suspicion about his dealings with other kingdoms, and we make sure the emperor believes him to be a threat." He paused, leaning back in his chair. "Then, we send Alexander to the capital, a man whose honour we know will blind him to the true nature of his orders."
Father Elias looked sceptical. "And how does this help the Church?"
Anselm's lips twisted into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "We use the distraction. While the Duchies are away, we send our Divine Order military to Duskrane County. The relics hidden there will be within our reach, and with the monsters we unleash from the mountains, we'll clear the land of heretics."
A heavy silence followed. The faces around the table were unreadable, but there was a shared understanding in the room that the plan was not just about power—it was about securing their place in the empire, ensuring the Church's dominance for generations to come.
Father Elias was the first to speak, his voice soft but firm. "And what of Edward's family? What of his son? His actions could lead to chaos in the Duchy."
Anselm's expression hardened. "Sacrifices must be made. If Edward is forced to choose between his duty to the Duchy and his love for his family, he will make the right choice."
The archbishop leaned in, his hands clasped in front of him. "But will we be able to control the aftermath? What happens if Alexander refuses the emperor's orders? He is known for his blind obedience."
Anselm's smile returned, but this time there was an edge to it, like a blade sharpening against stone. "Let us hope that Alexander's sense of honour outweighs his sense of reason. Let us hope that he will not question his Emperor. And should he do so…" He let the implication linger in the air like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. "...he will have no choice but to stand against the very force he swore to serve."
The others at the table exchanged glances, the weight of Anselm's words sinking in. The Church's plan was more than a political manoeuvre—it was a calculated effort to break Edward, to bring down the Duchies and any who opposed them. The relics would be a powerful weapon, but the real prize was control over the emperor, and with that, control over the Empire itself.
Anselm stood, the movement smooth and deliberate, as if marking the end of their discussion. "The wheels are already in motion. The Divine Order is ready, and the emperor will not question our actions once they have been set in motion. The Duchies will be forced into a corner, and we will have our victory."
As the clergy members around the table rose to depart, there was a sense of finality in the air. The plan was set in motion, and none could afford to turn back now. The tension was thick, and each member of the Church knew that the game was only beginning. Their next moves would determine the future of the Empire—and the future of their faith.
A lone figure knelt before the Cardinal, his posture stiff with respect and reverence, yet there was an unmistakable tension in his movements. The shadows of the dimly lit chamber seemed to gather around him, adding to the ominous weight of the moment.
"Sir Cardinal, the preparations have been completed. The Divine Order is ready for the task ahead," the man's voice was calm, but his words carried a certain sharpness, as if the gravity of the mission weighed heavily on him.
Cardinal Anselm, seated in his high-backed chair, regarded the figure with a gaze that felt as if it could pierce through to the very soul. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest; each tap a reminder of the control he held over everything within the Church's reach. He did not move for a moment, as though letting the anticipation hang in the air like a thick fog.
Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth yet laced with a quiet, powerful command. "Then move out the Templars. This is the will of Aerithar himself."
The man rose slowly, bowing his head before standing tall. His eyes gleamed with a fierce devotion, and with a swift motion, his palm struck the centre of his chest in a salute—a gesture of unwavering loyalty to the Church and its higher purpose.
"As you command, Sir Cardinal. For the Ashen Pantheon!" he declared, his voice rising, resonating within the sacred walls of the chamber. It echoed through the hall, as if to summon the very will of the God Aerithar himself.
"For the Ashen Pantheon," the Cardinal repeated, his voice a soft but resonant whisper. The words hung heavily in the air, their power growing with each syllable, like an incantation or a sacred oath.
Outside the Church, in the cold light of the early morning, the sound of armour scraping against stone echoed across the courtyard. Rows upon rows of knights, clad in polished white armour, stood in complete and unbroken discipline. Their faces were hidden behind gleaming helms, and the very air seemed to hum with the tension of their readiness.
A contingent of knights stood armed with massive greatswords, their shoulders squared and their postures taut with anticipation. Behind them, archers in matching white armour stood with their longbows at the ready, their eyes fixed firmly ahead. Further back, a small yet imposing squad of figures, draped in long, flowing white robes, stood in solemn silence, each wielding a staff of polished white metal, the staff heads crowned with shimmering symbols of Aerithar's divine power.
A tall, commanding figure emerged from the shadows of the Church, stepping into the open. His eyes were cold, his face chiselled with severity, yet there was a fire in them—an unwavering conviction that left no room for doubt or mercy. The figure raised his hand, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he signalled to the ranks of soldiers.
The sound of armour and weapons shifting grew louder as the knights stirred in response. A low murmur of approval rippled through the crowd, but it was quickly drowned by the booming voice of the commander.
"Our God Aerithar has bestowed upon us the divine task of purging the heretics," he proclaimed, his voice carrying across the assembled knights, his tone filled with both righteous anger and cold precision. His hand shot upward in a commanding gesture, and the knights, as if responding to an unspoken call, stood even straighter, their focus narrowing to the singular purpose before them.
The commander's eyes scanned the crowd—his gaze cold, merciless, and unyielding. "We march to bring about the reckoning. Do not leave anyone alive. Not a single one, for the seeds of evil lie within even the women and children. Spare no one." He drew in a deep breath, his chest swelling with fervour as he spoke the final words. "Destroy everything. Leave nothing but ruin in your wake."
A few of the soldiers stiffened, their eyes briefly flickering with uncertainty, but the commander's presence was like a force of nature—unyielding and absolute. The murmur of hesitation was silenced as the fervour of their leader's words took hold.
"For the Ashen Pantheon!" the commander shouted, his voice booming like a thunderclap across the courtyard.
The knights, their voices fuelled by a feverish devotion, bellowed in unison. "For the Ashen Pantheon!" The chant rose like an unstoppable wave, crashing against the walls of the Church, carrying with it an aura of dread and divine wrath. It echoed down the streets, reaching the farthest corners of the city, marking the beginning of a holy campaign.
As the Templars began to march, their steps synchronized and their armour gleaming like a blinding light, a palpable sense of terror followed them. The ground beneath their feet seemed to tremble with each movement, as if the very earth recognized the weight of their mission. The city held its breath, knowing that the wrath of the Divine Order had been unleashed.
Within the Church, the Cardinal remained seated, his eyes watching the procession through the tall windows that framed the view. His lips curled into a satisfied, almost imperceptible smile. The plan was set in motion. The Duchies would soon be thrown into chaos, and with the power of the Templars at his back, the Cardinal would move one step closer to his ultimate goal: total control over the Empire.
The fate of the heretics was sealed. And there would be no mercy for those who stood against the divine will of the Ashen Pantheon.