They came with paint, flowers, and silence.
No speeches. No banners. Just citizens walking quietly toward the central plaza where Caelum's monument stood—tall, elegant, etched in stone that had once gleamed beneath doctrine-lit skies.
The statue wasn't defaced.
It was drenched.
First, children painted spirals around the base—blue, gold, and violet. Symbols of curiosity, resilience, and grief. Then elders placed candles at its feet. Each flame represented a moment someone had felt shaped without consent by Caelum's empire.
And then—
They wept.
Not the people.
The statue.
A spell activated beneath the pedestal, cast anonymously. Slow rivulets of clear liquid began dripping from the statue's eyes. Enchanted tears—harmless, untraceable, but deeply symbolic.
It cried for every truth buried in myth.
Caelum stood at the edge of the plaza, cloaked, unrecognized. He watched as someone placed a plaque over the original inscription:
"Caelum Dross — Architect of Silence"
Was replaced with:
"He built. We remember. Now we choose."
The devil whispered near his shoulder.
"They've rewritten your legacy with kindness. That's more dangerous than defiance."
He didn't respond.
Because in that moment, watching a child rest their hand against the wet stone, he understood—
They hadn't removed him from history.
They'd made him human again.