The King's council chamber, once a place of measured debate, had become a nerve center for a war defined by shock and desperation. The emergency council convened just after nightfall, the air thick with the residue of the day's chaos. The smell of fear, a scent of sweat and panicked humanity, seemed to drift in from the city streets below, a constant reminder of the pandemonium Ouen had unleashed.
Captain Eva stood before the great map of Aethelgard, delivering her report. Her voice was as steady and dispassionate as a winter morning, a stark contrast to the horror of her words.
"The event occurred at midday in the Merchant's Forum. High Scrutator Ouen officiated. An elderly civilian woman, distraught over her sick grandson, made the public offer of her life. The miracle was reportedly fulfilled, we are still trying to confirm the child's status. The woman died instantly. Ouen was unharmed." She paused, letting the last, most crucial fact settle in the silent room. "The gathering has been contained, but not dispersed. Ouen's followers, who now call themselves The Covenanters, have taken over the forum. They treat the dead woman as a martyr. The area is a powder keg, Your Majesty."
King Valerius stood by the hearth, his face grim. "He performed the rite himself, yet the woman paid the price. How?"
"It is a trick," General Kyrus snarled, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "He is not a priest; he is one of the enemy's creatures, a demon wearing a man's face, immune to the very rules it promotes."
"Or perhaps," Lord Emmon offered, his voice trembling, "he has some special blessing. A prophet's immunity. If the people believe he can command miracles without cost…"
"Then he becomes more powerful than the King," Kyrus finished, the tactical implication hanging poisonously in the air.
Praxus had remained silent throughout the report, his eyes closed as if in deep concentration. He had been listening not to the strategic problem, but to the details of the event, the grammar of the enemy's actions. A lifetime of studying patterns had taught him that no detail was insignificant.
He looked up, his gaze finding Eva. "Captain, your memory is precise. You were there when the King's proclamation was drafted. You heard Ouen's sermon. I need you to tell me his exact words. The prayer he made for the woman. Every word you can recall."
Eva met his intense gaze. She took a moment, her military training allowing her to replay the scene with stark clarity. "He was theatrical," she began. "He did not Whisper. He shouted to the sky. He said… 'Oh, God of Bargains, who hears all prayers! This woman, in her love and her faith, makes the covenant! She offers her soul for the life of her grandson! Heal the boy! Accept her sacrifice!'"
As Eva finished, Praxus's eyes widened. A look of dawning, sickening comprehension crossed his face. He didn't hear a prayer. He heard a legal declaration.
"The contract…" Praxus whispered, turning away from the council and stumbling towards his satchel of scrolls. The others watched, confused, as he frantically unrolled his brittle, hand-copied transcription of The Lament of the First Scribe. His finger traced desperately along the faded, archaic script.
"What is it, scholar?" King Valerius demanded.
"The language…" Praxus muttered, his eyes scanning the text. "I thought it was poetry, an allegory… but it's not. It's a legal document. It's a constitution of tyranny." He stopped, his finger resting on one particular passage. He looked up at the council, his face pale with the horror of his discovery.
"We have misunderstood our enemy," he said, his voice a low, trembling whisper. "We thought him a being of chaotic, brutal power. We were wrong. He is a being of monstrous, unyielding law."
He held up the scroll, though the others could not read its ancient text. "Listen," he said, and he read the passage aloud.
"For the Carver of Silence coveted not the speaker's breath, but the signatory's soul. His is not the power of gifts, but of debts. The contract, sworn in will and offered in spirit, is the foundation of his law. The voice is but the herald; the soul is the coin."
He lowered the scroll, his eyes meeting the King's. "Do you see? It is not a test of faith. It is a transaction. Ghra'thul is a god of contracts. He is bound by his own terrible rules. The power is not triggered by the person who speaks the words, but by the person who has willingly, with intent, offered their soul as the payment."
He pointed a trembling finger in the direction of the city. "That woman in the square, when she cried out 'I will pay the price!', she signed the contract. She offered her soul, the coin, to be exchanged. Ouen was merely the herald. The scribe who read the terms of the deal aloud and witnessed its execution. He risked nothing, because he offered nothing."
The horrifying logic of it descended upon the room. High Priest Theron let out a choked sound, a priest seeing the sacred act of intercession twisted into a demonic legal proceeding.
"So Ouen is a weapon," General Kyrus said, the pieces clicking into place with a grim tactical understanding. "A weapon that uses the desperation of our own people as its ammunition."
"Worse," King Valerius said, his voice cold with fury. "He is a predator. A broker of souls. He has given the people a tool to destroy themselves, and he has positioned himself as the only one who can teach them how to use it."
The council was silent, grappling with the new, terrifying dimension of their war. Their enemy was not just a powerful monster; he was a cunning, legalistic tyrant. And Ouen was not just a fanatical splinter group; he was the earthly agent of that tyranny, a man who could now offer miracles to the desperate at no cost to himself. He was building an army of martyrs, a congregation of willing sacrifices.
"The War of Truth just became infinitely more critical," Eva said, finally breaking the silence. "The people must be made to understand the nature of this trap."
The King nodded, his expression grim. "They must. But to a starving man, a poisoned meal is still a meal."
He looked around at his council, at their tired, frightened faces. Their enemy was no longer a silent, invisible force. He had a voice, a law, and now, a prophet. And he had just taught them that his greatest weapon was not his own power, but their own, deepest, most human hope.