Choice Beneath the Shadow
The smoke had yet to clear from the sky. The air still reeked of fire, scorched flesh, oil, dust, and ruin. Asterra lay quiet—dead, almost—but in that silence, the screams of the living echoed.
Sophia knelt beneath a shattered stone wall, clutching a torn, half-burned fragment of the Holy Scripture, stained with blood. Not far from her stood Draven, his black bow broken, his gaze hollow, emptied of all feeling.
"What have we done?" Sophia whispered.
No one answered.
Kyrell wandered slowly through the ruins of the city, dissolving into shadow. Then, finally, Kraan arrived. There was no light left in his eyes—only silence.
He stood still for a while, then sat on the ground, breathing quietly. A whisper escaped his lips:
"Man worships light... But if the followers of light are blind to all else—what, then, does that light illuminate?
One who has known darkness... only they can understand what light truly is—and what it can reveal.
I didn't destroy the temples... I shattered towers built upon lies."
Sophia asked softly:
"Then what now? What have we left behind? An empty city? Ruin?"
Kraan turned his gaze to her and replied:
"Destruction is not the end. It is a choice.
Let us follow neither blind worship of the light, nor the blindness of shadow—
but instead live facing the one thing that remains: the truth."
Sephist appeared, walking toward them. His face was covered in ash from the heavens. His eyes were calm—but burdened with pain. He drove his sword into the earth and looked skyward.
"I lost my daughter too," he said. "But now… in this hollow world, we must live to find our truth."
Nevan arrived without pause. His hands bore burn marks from the spellfire, but his eyes were alive. He simply said:
"Yes. Worship not light… but truth. Light can lie. Truth cannot be denied."
Draven faintly smiled.
"Then let us begin the story of a new world."
The last black smoke drifted into the sky. The scent of fire faded into the wind. Asterra had become legend. But they... they remained—those few who stayed with the truth.
VIII. Blood-Dawn — The Fog of Choice
The sun did not rise. Instead, red shadow, soot, and smoke shimmered at the edge of the sky. Not sunlight—it was bloodlight. If this was the start of a new day, then it birthed not faith... but doubt.
Kraan knelt on a stone, his hands trembling. He leaned on his sword, supporting his weight. With every breath, he seemed to carry the burden of a past life—breathing not air, but regret, grief, and a sliver of belief.
"To survive does not mean to be forgiven," he whispered. "But... to live means it is not yet over."
Sephist stood beside him. Blood soaked the cracked stones beneath them, flowing like a map of crimson veins. His gaze was no longer fierce, but weathered—the gaze of one who had accepted the terrifying truth of life.
"We destroyed the temples. But we did not kill the gods," he said. "We only wanted people to believe in themselves."
Kraan glanced at him.
"And yet... we doubt. Don't we?"
Sephist shook his head, lifted his chest, and said:
"A man can live without light. But to live without belief... is a waking nightmare."
Sophia had come to stand behind them. A soot-colored mark, like sacred ash, stained her shoulder. As she stood against the wind, all that remained in her soul—faith, fear, fury—intertwined like a half-living flame, breathing with every breath she took.
"The light of the temples scorched us and taught us to fear the dark," she said. "Now we must pray not to the sky... but to our own hearts."
Suddenly, a great wind howled, as if tearing through the heavens. From the ruins of the temples, smoke thick with incense, scorched parchment, and the scent of blood rose skyward. The ashes fell like white snow—but pierced the heart like shards of ice.
Draven was walking from afar—step after step, never stopping. Though his old bow was broken, a new steel bow was slung over his shoulder. His eyes were those of a man who had fought an inner war. Eyes that whispered:
"I no longer believe, but I haven't stopped."
"I was meant to die not in light, but by the hands of those who destroyed it," he said. "Now I live. I don't know if that means anything... but I want to believe it wasn't just luck."
Nevan, alone, walked through the shattered remnants of the temple. Every step echoed across the earth. He walked with his gaze lowered—because there was no reason left to look up.
Suddenly, he shouted:
"They never wanted us to live freely! They only tried to shape us into what they desired!"
"But now... now we begin. Yes? New words. A new scripture. A new path!"
People began to gather—the survivors of ruin. They pulled black stones from the wreckage, lifting fallen walls. But they were not building a new temple. They were building a shared memory. Each stone held its own color, its own story.
Kraan watched them, breathed deeply, and said:
"Tearing down temples was easy. Rebuilding belief... that is our true trial."
Sephist nodded:
"We must live by belief of our own... to reach the truth."
In that moment, a young girl stood among the rubble. Blood and dust stained her hands, but she looked up to the sky and said:
"My mother once told me... light isn't just something you see.
True light doesn't force you to look at others...
It lets you finally see yourself."
All who heard her held their breath. The sky lightened ever so slightly, the smoke thinning. The first and truest light—the sun—broke through the wind and touched their hearts.
Sophia closed her eyes. Kraan smiled. Draven lowered his head—not toward the earth, but inward, toward his heart.
IX. And in the End… A Beginning
The story was not dead. Though the city had burned, the legend lived. The names of the gods faded—but the spark of truth remained in their hearts.
This was a new beginning—one that walked not blindly in the light, nor lost in shadow.
The last whisper melted into the wind:
"We would rather die in truth, than live beneath a false light."