Chapter 16 — Heretic by Morning
The proclamation was nailed to the gates at dawn.
It was written in immaculate script, sealed in gold wax, and surrounded by the Church's insignia—radiant sigils meant to inspire awe and obedience. It named Adrian Falkenrath as a Public Heretic, an enemy of ordained destiny, and a destabilizing presence whose continued existence threatened divine order.
Below it, in smaller text, were the consequences.
Harboring.
Aiding.
Withholding information.
All punishable by death.
By the time the sun rose fully over Blackridge Dominion, the parchment had been copied, distributed, and read aloud in marketplaces, docks, and crossroads.
The city reacted exactly as expected.
Fear first.
Then anger.
Then calculation.
Adrian watched from the upper floor of Mirela's warehouse as a small crowd gathered near the river bridge, murmuring as a Church herald recited the charges with ritual precision. The man's voice carried unnaturally far, amplified by minor divine enhancement.
"…a corrupter of fate…"
"…a blight upon providence…"
"…a willful distortion…"
Helena stood beside Adrian, arms folded, jaw tight.
"They've crossed the threshold," she said.
"Yes," Adrian replied. "They've made me visible."
Helena exhaled slowly. "You knew they would."
"I hoped they would," Adrian corrected.
She glanced at him sharply. "You wanted this?"
Adrian turned slightly, meeting her gaze.
"Containment failed," he said calmly. "Silence failed. The next step was legitimacy."
Helena frowned. "Legitimacy?"
"They needed to name me," Adrian explained. "Once they do, they're bound by their own process. No more quiet assassinations. No more deniable corrections."
He looked back toward the bridge.
"They've made me a symbol," he continued. "Which means they can no longer pretend I don't exist."
Helena was silent for a long moment.
"You're forcing them to fight on terrain they don't control," she said finally.
"Yes."
She shook her head faintly. "You're insane."
"Probably."
"And yet," Helena admitted, "this is exactly how they lose."
The underground did not panic.
It adjusted.
Mirela Quince moved quickly, quietly, her information web tightening like a net drawn inwards. Messengers ran between dock syndicates. Smugglers rerouted goods. Safehouses shifted locations.
By midmorning, the river district was no longer neutral.
It was alert.
"They're offering bounties," Mirela said, placing a rolled parchment on the table. "Church-backed, but payable through intermediaries."
Helena scoffed. "Cowards."
"Smart cowards," Mirela corrected. "They're trying to let greed do the work."
Adrian scanned the document without touching it.
"They'll fail," he said. "Not because of loyalty. Because of timing."
Mirela arched a brow. "Explain."
"They're offering certainty," Adrian said. "But the underground lives on probability. People here don't like guarantees unless they can verify them."
Helena smirked. "And no one's verified killing you yet."
"Exactly."
Mirela folded the parchment away. "There's more."
She hesitated, then continued. "They're also cleansing records. Anyone tied to you—past, present, theoretical."
Adrian's gaze sharpened. "Clara?"
Mirela nodded slowly. "Not arrested. Not accused. But watched."
Helena cursed under her breath.
Adrian was silent.
The pressure returned.
Not sharp.
Not overwhelming.
Persistent.
The Loom reacting to scale.
"I need time," Adrian said.
Mirela shook her head. "You don't have it."
"I'll make it," Adrian replied.
Helena's past surfaced that night.
Not through confession.
Through recognition.
They were crossing the old stone quarter near the abandoned shrines when a man stepped into their path. He wore mercenary leathers, well-maintained, with a long scar running diagonally across his face. His hair was dark and pulled back tightly, his posture alert.
He stopped short when he saw Helena.
"…Voss?" he said.
Helena froze.
Her hand moved instinctively toward her sword.
The man's eyes widened. "You're alive."
"Unfortunately," Helena replied coldly.
Adrian observed silently, every detail catalogued.
The man swallowed. "They told us you died. Temple purge. Collateral."
Helena laughed once, bitter. "They tell many stories."
"You ran," the man said. "Left us."
"I survived," Helena corrected.
Silence hung heavy between them.
"Who is he?" the man asked, glancing at Adrian.
Helena did not answer immediately.
"He's not your concern," she said at last.
The man studied Adrian more closely. "Church is hunting him."
"Yes," Adrian said calmly. "They are."
The man hesitated. "You should leave the city."
Adrian tilted his head slightly. "Why?"
"Because," the man said quietly, "they're deploying Templars."
Helena's eyes hardened.
"Already?" she muttered.
The man nodded. "Three units. Purity squads. No negotiation."
Adrian exhaled slowly.
"Thank you," he said to the man.
"For what?" the man asked.
"For choosing not to attack us," Adrian replied.
The man hesitated, then nodded once and stepped aside.
As they walked on, Helena's shoulders were tense.
"Temple purge?" Adrian asked gently.
Helena did not look at him. "I was raised by them. Church auxiliary. Sword arm."
"Chosen?"
"No," she said sharply. "Used."
She stopped walking.
"They trained us to enforce outcomes," she continued. "To kill anomalies before they became problems. No trials. No mercy."
Adrian waited.
"I broke formation during a purge," Helena said quietly. "Pulled civilians out instead of executing them."
She laughed without humor. "That made me a variable."
Adrian met her gaze. "And variables must be removed."
"Yes."
A pause.
"You didn't tell me," Helena said.
"You weren't ready," Adrian replied.
She studied him. "Am I now?"
Adrian nodded. "Yes."
She exhaled slowly. "Then stay close tomorrow."
The first Templar unit struck at noon.
Not at Adrian.
At the river.
They sealed bridges, sanctified the waterway, and declared emergency purification. Boats were seized. Workers detained. The district strangled economically in hours.
Crowds gathered.
Fear turned to anger.
Adrian stood on a rooftop overlooking the chaos, Nullblade resting against his shoulder.
This was fate's counterstroke.
Large-scale.
Impersonal.
Corrective.
"They're punishing everyone," Helena said quietly.
"Yes," Adrian replied. "They want me to respond emotionally."
He did not.
Instead, he waited.
When the Templars moved to arrest dock leaders, Adrian descended.
Not alone.
Helena followed.
So did others.
Men and women from the underground—armed, wary, uncertain—but present.
Adrian stepped into the open.
The lead Templar, clad in heavy sanctified armor etched with scripture, turned.
"Adrian Falkenrath," the man intoned. "You are ordered—"
Adrian raised his blade.
Not threatening.
Declarative.
"This ends now," Adrian said calmly.
The Loom surged.
Harder than before.
This was a nexus.
Templars charged.
Adrian moved.
Nullblade unfolded.
Not as a flurry.
As inevitability.
Each step severed options.
Each cut removed futures.
Helena fought beside him, precise and controlled, covering angles, eliminating flanks.
The underground surged forward—not heroically, but pragmatically.
The Templars fell.
Not dead.
Defeated.
When it ended, silence spread like ripples.
Adrian stood amid the aftermath, blade lowered.
"Leave," he told the remaining Church forces. "And take your doctrine with you."
They did.
That night, the city whispered a new name.
Not heretic.
Not villain.
Ruinbringer.
Fatebreaker.
The Man Who Refused.
Adrian did not correct them.
He stood by the river, Helena beside him, watching the lights reflect on dark water.
"They'll escalate again," Helena said.
"Yes," Adrian replied. "And so will I."
Far away, within the Loom's sanctum, Magister Alaric Fenrow stared at the unraveling projections.
"It's no longer avoiding fate," he whispered.
Verena Holt's golden eyes were grim.
"No," she said. "It's replacing it."
And for the first time since destiny had learned to write itself—
The system was afraid.