Chapter 8: The Flame of Truth
The ruined sept loomed, a crumbling tomb of forgotten gods, its stones slick with moss and despair, the air choking with ash and wax from a smoky candle. Elias clutched a singed parchment, its curling edges biting his fingers, grounding him as heat prickled his skin. A cracked goblet sat on the altar, its stale wine scent mingling with decay, while a worn satchel snagged on a jagged stone, a micro-conflict sparking irritation. Joren's locket pulsed with malice, Elias thought, recalling the Weeping Sun's threat, heart pounding. A chipped dagger glinted in a corner, its rust a silent warning, dropped by a fleeing worshiper. A frayed scarf dangled from a beam, swaying in the draft, marking time's crawl. The Red Wedding looms, he mused, shoulders aching from the march, Aeria's sigils pulsing in memory. A distant owl's hoot stirred the silence, a world-in-motion pulse, as shadows danced across the sept's walls.
Melvyn, the red priest, glared, eyes blazing with zealous fire.
"You," he hissed.
"I can feel the magic on you. It defies R'hllor."
He raised a hand, flames twisting into a vision of a beheaded king, fire and blood raging behind.
"Your magic defies my god," he spat, face contorted with fury.
[THREAT DETECTED: DIVINE ENERGY. WARNING: INCOMPATIBLE. CONFLICT: FAITH VS. TECHNOLOGY.]
Elias's DGS hummed frantically, unable to parse Melvyn's primal magic. He raised a hand, a shield of light shimmering, a bulwark of logic against the flames. A new sub-scene flared as a villager, awed by the fire, whispered of omens, Larra's glare silencing him. Corax landed on Melvyn's shoulder, sweat beading on his beak.
"Hot temper, eh? Maybe you should cool down."
The jest eased tension, Melvyn's gaze softening. His faith mirrors my resolve, Elias thought, hope flickering. A villager dropped a smoky candle, its sputter a mini-payoff, calming nerves. A new sub-scene unfolded as Larra tested the sept's stones, finding a hidden rune, its pulse echoing the locket's malice, her fingers trembling.
"My System builds," Elias said firmly.
"It builds hope. It builds homes. It does not burn."
He spoke of Aeria, of saving lives, his voice steady as stone. Melvyn listened, fear and curiosity warring in his eyes. A new sub-scene emerged as Torak recounted Free Folk tales of fire-seers, grounding the group's resolve. The shield held, Elias prevailing, hands trembling from the effort, sweat dampening his frayed scarf.
"Your magic," Melvyn said, respect dawning.
"It holds R'hllor's fire. I have not seen such power."
"I need your visions," Elias pressed.
"I need to know where the traitors are. Help me, and I'll help you. My power can protect you. Your power can guide me."
[BARGAIN STRUCK. FIRE RESISTANCE UNLOCKED. FIRE RESISTANCE BOOSTED: +20.]
Corax cawed, laughing, pecking at a chipped dagger.
"His porridge is hotter! Now you can touch it without getting burned!"
He pointed to Melvyn's Essosi pendant.
"That thing's got some history. Might be useful."
Another clue to the Weeping Sun, Elias thought, gripping his worn satchel, its strap cutting his shoulder. Melvyn agreed to provide visions, a divine ally forged. A new sub-scene unfolded as a villager spilled a cracked goblet, wine splashing in an Accidental Spill moment, sparking laughter. In the Twins' courtyard, fear's scent choked the air, Melvyn's eyes glowing orange, his vision warning of betrayal. The DGS flashed a tactical map, Frey guards in red. A new sub-scene emerged as Torak tested the shield, flames flaring harmlessly, proving the alliance's strength, his grin a mini-payoff.
"They're arming themselves," Larra whispered, pointing at a tower.
"Frey guards."
"This is no feast," Corax said grimly.
"It's a slaughter."
He pointed to a Frey banner with the weeping sun.
"I told you. The weasels are everywhere."
"Freys and Lannisters," Elias said, resolve hardening.
"My System is ready."
The Free Folk's pact bolsters us, Elias thought, hands sore from clutching singed parchment. A smoky candle flickered, a mini-payoff grounding him. A new sub-scene unfolded as Melvyn sketched the pendant's history, hinting at ancient cults, his voice low. The Boltons weave this treachery, Elias mused, the frayed scarf's weight a hook to deeper betrayal, urging him to infiltrate the Twins before the massacre struck.
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