Boom—explosions tore through the cathedral grounds ,Not beasts this time.No, Something worse. Something human.once again Greed had taken over.
A man's head flew past Lysander, landing with a dull thud before rolling down the slope to join the pile of the damned. He let out a long, tired breath, watching blood mix with the dust. There was no shock left in him—only routine.
The pile of skulls beside the shattered altar hadn't changed. Only the names did. He thought about how quick people turned on each other. Three days. Four nights. The Trial wasn't even halfway through, yet they were already tearing at their own throats for scraps of safety.
He followed Gwen to a cracked window. Outside, chaos festered—bloodied men brawling, teeth breaking, someone's arm already gone. The Aristocratic Front moved like a machine, Jason's father barking orders with soldier's precision. His men spread out in formation: tank, melee, ranged, healer. Textbook war, just without purpose.
And in the middle of it—Jason.
He stood beside his father, weapon clenched, face blank. Lysander couldn't read him anymore.
Jason's father shouted, voice slicing through the noise. "Hold the flank! Push through the eastern sector!" He didn't need to shout Jason's name—his tone carried enough ownership.
Jason moved like a trained echo. But his eyes, behind the dirt and sweat, flicked toward the cathedral. Toward Lysander.
Lysander turned away. He didn't have time for ghosts.
Another squad of assailants pushed through the outer gate, scavengers in armor stripped from corpses. He motioned for Gwen to stay low and slid behind the cathedral doors. If they wanted to enter, let them.
They did.
The first man stepped in, and Lysander's blade met his throat before he finished the breath that carried his war cry. The others followed, desperate and uncoordinated.
He moved through them like a shadow with purpose—one step, one cut, one fall. The cathedral filled with muffled steel and short screams, echoing off hollow walls. He didn't fight with rage. He fought like someone finishing a job he never wanted.
Blood splattered across the cracked stone floor, joining what was already there. He didn't bother to wipe it off.
When the last body dropped, he leaned against the door, breath steady but eyes hollow.
So much noise. So much waste.
"how Hypocrite of me " he muttered under his breath. "Asking for peace in a world that survives on war "
---
Jason's POV
The smell of burning wood filled his nose. He didn't know if it came from the houses or the people inside them.
His father stood a few paces away, his armor polished even under the soot. The man's voice stayed calm while everything else screamed.
"Don't hesitate son , remember" Jason's father said, eyes fixed on the front. "Hesitation kills."
Jason gripped his blade tighter. "They're not beasts, Father."
"They will be," his father replied. "When the Tide begins, you'll see."
Jason wanted to speak again, but his throat locked. He knew better. Words didn't work on his father; only results did.
Still, the thought wouldn't leave him. Lysander isn't your enemy.
His father turned slightly, enough to catch his son's hesitation. "You're thinking about him again."
Jason said nothing.
His father's smile was small and sharp. "He's useful now, but you've seen what he's capable of. Men like him don't stay allies. They become problems. Do what you must when the time comes."
The words dug in deep, disguised as guidance. The same tone his father used to justify everything—war, sacrifice, blood.
Jason looked down at his hands, red and shaking. "How many problems do we solve before we become one?"
His father didn't answer. He just placed a hand on Jason's shoulder, firm, almost fatherly. "Purpose isn't clean, son. You'll understand."
Somewhere beyond the firelight, Jason thought he saw movement—a figure standing near the lake, cloaked, watching. The mark of Mirror Faith shimmered faintly in the reflection of the water, like a whisper on glass.
He blinked, and it was gone.
---
Lysander's POV
The cathedral was silent again. The only sound came from dripping blood and the crackling of old wood.
Gwen approached slowly, eyes on the bodies. "You didn't have to kill them all."
"I know." Lysander's voice was flat. "But they didn't know how to stop."
Outside, he caught a glimpse of movement—Jason standing beside his father, the man's hand heavy on his shoulder. For a second, their eyes met through the smoke and distance. Lysander saw it there—the conflict, the weight, the slow fracture of something that used to be trust.
He looked away first.
A faint hum stirred the air, followed by a ripple across the lake's surface. The ground trembled lightly beneath his feet. The interface blinked to life again.
"ONE HOUR UNTIL NEXT BEAST TIDE."
The letters burned, then faded.
Across the ruins, Mirror Faith members moved like shadows, their faces unreadable, their robes flickering in and out of sight. Watching. Always watching.
Lysander didn't understand them. Maybe no one did. But he knew one thing—everywhere death lingered, their presence followed like a second shadow.
He sat down against the cold stone wall, blade still wet. Gwen sat nearby, too tired to speak. For a long time, they just listened to the wind moving through the empty city.
"I used to believe fighting made sense," he said quietly. "That it meant survival. But now I think it just delays the end."
Gwen didn't answer. She just nodded once, like she understood more than she could say.
Outside, the light dimmed. The air grew colder. Somewhere beyond the mist, the Tide stirred again, unseen but close.
For now, though, everything was still.
The calm before the storm.
And in that silence, Lysander closed his eyes, wondering if peace ever meant anything—or if it was just another lie the living tell themselves to feel less dead.