The chant ceased.
The notes that filled the air broke the instant Ereon took the first step inside the temple.
The sound of the burning candles seemed to become louder, the murmur of the fountains turned into distant echoes, and the breathing of the priests became the only living noise in that sacred space.
The bishop, still standing over the altar, lifted his trembling gaze.
His eyes, once full of faith, now reflected the purple reflection that spread like a silent eclipse through the hall.
Ereon advanced unhurriedly, the boots resounding over the polished marble with a sound that blended with the very heartbeat of those present.
Each step seemed to fold the space, bend the light, disfigure the air.
"The temple..." murmured one of the priests, the voice failing, "...is a sacred place. No man can profane the altar of the Sons of Light..."
Ereon stopped. Only a look was enough.
The priest felt his body taken by a sudden stiffness, eyes widening as a dark veil covered his mind.
The sound of his own voice disappeared, swallowed by a silence that seemed to come from within himself.
The prince raised his hand, and the air around him trembled like water under pressure.
"No man," repeated Ereon, the voice calm, deep, firm. "Then it is good that you know... that I am not one."
The candles surrounding the altar went out at the same time.
The temple plunged into a half-light cut only by the violet glow of Ereon's eyes, reflecting like two stars in a dead firmament.
The bishop took a step forward, the trembling hand holding the golden symbol of the order — a circle wrapped by wings, engraved in pure silver.
"Who... who are you?" the voice wavered, a mix of fear and faith trying to coexist.
Ereon only observed him.
And, without answering, continued walking.
The weight of his presence made the priests' knees falter; the chants that remained dissolved into murmurs of supplication, but no prayer seemed to reach the heights.
Silence now reigned as an entity of its own.
Ereon sat in the first row as if he had always occupied that place.
He crossed his arms, the overcoat casting a perfect shadow over the marble, and kept his gaze fixed on the Emblem of the Crown of the Gods — the floating circular crown, the 24 points, the pulsating gem.
His voice was low, almost a comment, like one observing a rare piece in a museum:
"Human creativity has surprised me since... sixteen centuries ago."
The bishop arched his body, the hand trembling around the silver symbol.
The murmur in the hall grew, hesitant, as if Ereon's words were a stone thrown into still water.
Ereon tilted his head. The purple eyes shone, light, but sharp.
"Tell me, bishop," he said, paused, each syllable measured, "were you here when they arose, in 2018? I do not keep many pieces of information. Baron Silvanis left me fragments."
"Humanity lived a golden age of technology and reason... I wish I had seen that new world, even if only for a breath."
The priests exchanged glances. The bishop swallowed hard, forcing an expression that came undone.
"I am not here to relive the past," continued Ereon, with the coldness of one enumerating an uncomfortable truth, "the temple keeps the 'Codex of the Fallen and the Elevated', right? The one that records the Awakened..."
A silence cut through the hall. The bishop pressed the symbol against his chest, thin voice:
"Those are sacred records. They cannot be delivered. By faith, by order..." his words trembled, but did not yield.
Ereon smiled lightly, provocative.
"Tell me: how long did it take for the temple to bow completely to the queen of the North?"
The bishop widened his eyes. He looked toward the doors as if the answer were there. There was surprise, disbelief.
Ereon leaned slightly back in the seat, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed upon the altar.
"I heard that most of the templars accompany the high priest. That he is in the central kingdom, as is the queen. Curious." He made a brief pause, the irony now contained like a dull blade. "So: how long? Tell me."
Before the bishop could formulate any convincing response, his voice rose, trembling but firm — fervor overcoming fear.
"We will not accept bribery!" cried the bishop, inflamed by his own faith. "We are in the temple of Order and Justice. This is heresy!"
Ereon laughed, short, without a sound of relief — more like the crack of a feather falling on a book.
All turned toward him, surprised and confused.
"I am sorry," said Ereon, smoothing the words calmly, "I think you misunderstood me. What I want to know is: how many of you will I have to kill until you tell me what I want?"
Ereon's eyes glowed in a cold purple; the air around trembled and a magnetic hum ran through the hall, making candles sway and runes pulse. The silence thickened like smoke.
The closest faithful tried to run toward the door, desperate, as if he could tear the temple's fate with his own feet. The door closed before he reached the threshold.
Ereon opened his palm. Black filaments, thin as threads of shadow, drew themselves in the air, spinning like living webs. The chains of Atrahere appeared between his fingers, wrapping around the man's body.
The faithful was pulled back with the inevitability of a tide. There were no screams that echoed; the hall seemed to absorb even the panic. Ereon only tilted his wrist in a subtle movement — a ceremonial gesture that determined the end.
The man fell to his knees; the floor received his body without resistance. No sound. No protest.
Ereon wiped his fingers on the cloak, like one adjusting an ornament out of place. He smiled, dry, and spoke slowly, as if savoring each syllable:
"Please... take as long as you need."
The bishop remained motionless, eyes wide, breath trapped.
Ereon rose with almost ritual slowness, each movement calculated.
The fabric of the black cloak slid over his shoulders, the boots touching the marble with a contained but heavy sound — as if each step folded the space around him.
The faithful stepped back, hesitant. Fear spread even before any attack.
He walked to the center of the hall, the violet gaze fixed on those present. Each of their breaths seemed to suffer under the weight of silence.
"I hope the gods of Order and Justice are attentive." The voice came out calm, almost indifferent. "Because here... no one escapes."
Black filaments rose from the floor, surrounding the bodies in subtle and precise tendrils.
Ereon raised his hand, and in an almost imperceptible movement, pierced the first man, spreading blood and terror through the hall.
Outside, while the massacre happened, Éon remained still at the entrance, the hand near the Totsuka no Tsurugi.
From the shadows, a figure emerged bathed in the moonlight. Golden eyes fixed on Éon, cold and calculating.
"My name is Cassian," he said, voice contained and firm, each word measured. "Instead of presenting yourselves to the king, you chose to instigate the Queen's wrath before she even set foot in the North. I am here to take you back to the castle... where Ereon is."
Éon did not answer. The air around him distorted, lightly rippling as if he heard his own thought.
A dense energy seemed to envelop the space behind him, answering Cassian's question without the need to speak.
"You are making a mistake," said Cassian, advancing toward the door with calculated steps.
Éon smiled lightly, controlled, maintaining his serene posture. The katana slid smoothly from the sheath, emitting a precise and contained sound.
"Until he leaves, I cannot allow anyone to enter."
Cassian stared at him, golden eyes fixed on Éon, the moonlight reflecting on every angle of his face.
He gave a contained sigh and advanced with superhuman speed, the body leaning in a deadly arc.
Éon reacted instantly, sliding the katana diagonally to intercept the first attack.
The impact reverberated in the air, Éon's blade deflecting Cassian's wrist, yet maintaining the elegant, balanced posture, without losing the center of gravity.
Cassian rotated his hip and struck a short punch toward Éon's torso, followed by a lateral knee strike, aiming to break the prince's guard.
Éon stepped back, turning his body, dodging with a crossed step, diverting the knee blow and blocking the punch with his forearm, the impact hammering the skin, making the fabric of the clothes creak.
Without wasting time, Cassian lowered his body, extending his leg in a side kick that aimed at Éon's legs.
The prince rolled backward, almost grazing the ground with his body's side, and reversed the movement into a circular kick, aiming at the opponent's shoulder, which blocked with the forearm and stepped back once.
Cassian advanced with a quick sequence: punch to the chest, elbow to the shoulder, frontal kick.
Éon dodged the knee, rotated his torso, and sought to strike a short thrust with the empty hand toward Cassian's face, but he retreated and grabbed the blade, applying a quick and violent torque.
Éon's body was pushed, unbalanced; the katana fell from the prince's reach.
Cassian quickly advanced to retrieve it, but Éon, in an agile and precise movement, diverted the blade with a quick lateral strike — as if he had absorbed and redirected the opponent's strength.
At the same time, he struck a subtle touch on Cassian's arm, creating enough space to move away.
Both stepped back a few paces, breathing heavily, keeping distance. Neither withdrew their gaze; the charged air around seemed palpable, each muscle tense, each gesture calculated.
The confrontation had paused for an instant, but the tension was electric. They stood face to face, assessing, measuring strength — the silent prelude of what was to come.