Five years had passed since the sun set for the last time over the peaceful village of Oakhaven. To the rest of the world, Oakhaven was nothing more than a minor footnote—a story of "purification" of a lowly region. But for Erebus, every second of those five years had been a fire consuming his soul. The boy who once trembled beneath the floorboards was dead. What remained was a young man with a body tempered by the harshness of the wild and a heart frozen by vengeance.
Erebus stood at the crest of a hill, gazing down at the city of Gale-Point nestled in the valley below. The city looked like an open wound upon the earth. At its center, a massive cathedral of white marble loomed high, its spires seemingly trying to pierce the heavens. Golden light radiated from its towers—a symbol of the grandeur of the 15 gods who claimed to be the givers of life, but to Erebus, it was the mark of tyrants.
"Enjoy that light while you still can," Erebus whispered. His voice was hoarse, rarely used except to mutter oaths in the dead of night.
He pulled his black cloak tighter, concealing a face that now bore a small scar beneath his left eye—a souvenir from a mountain wolf that had nearly taken his life three years ago. He began his descent toward the city gates.
Gale-Point was a city of contradictions. On the main streets, nobles dressed in expensive silks offered gold to the priests. Yet, in the narrow, dark alleys, the poor huddled like animals, fighting over scraps tossed from the cathedral kitchens. Erebus walked past them all; his eyes sought no sympathy—they sought a target.
He stopped in front of a grimy tavern called The Rusty Anchor. The stench of sour ale and tobacco smoke reached him even before he pushed open the rotting wooden door.
Inside, the atmosphere was boisterous. Erebus took a position in the darkest corner, his back to the wall. He ordered a glass of tasteless water simply to avoid suspicion. From beneath his hood, he observed a group of men sitting at the center table. They wore light armor adorned with the 15-rayed sun crest on their shoulders.
"And then, I plunged my blade into the old man's gut!" one of the soldiers—a stout man with a booming laugh—shouted while raising his tankard. "He begged me to let his daughter go. His daughter? Quite a beauty for a lowly villager. We took her to the portal, and the rest... well, you lot know what happens in the heavens."
His comrades roared with laughter. They were soldiers of the Sanctified Order, the raiding unit sent five years ago to "cleanse" the region of Oakhaven.
Erebus felt his palms sweat. His heart hammered against his ribs, not from fear, but from a rage that was moments away from exploding. That stout man was the same one who had dragged his mother out of their house. He recognized the scar on the man's hand from when he had gripped Elena's hair.
"Oakhaven was the most satisfying cleansing I've ever done," the soldier continued, his face flushed from drink. "Especially that brat who tried to fight back with a wooden spear. I butchered him like a chicken. His head rolled right toward a pile of straw!"
The laughter of the soldiers was like a jagged blade slicing through Erebus's ears. The memory of Kael's lifeless, staring eyes returned to haunt him. Erebus closed his eyes for a moment, taking a long, deep breath to force himself into a cold calm. Not yet, he told himself. Wait until they are alone.
An hour later, the soldiers stumbled out of the bar with unsteady steps. The stout man, whose name he heard mentioned as Boros, separated from the group. He walked toward a dark alley behind the cathedral, intending to relieve himself.
Erebus moved. He didn't run; he flowed like a shadow between the dim stone walls. His movements were silent—the result of years of hunting in the quiet of the woods.
Boros was humming arrogantly when a shadow stood directly behind him. "Who's there?" Boros turned, his drunken eyes struggling to focus on the tall, hooded figure before him.
Erebus did not answer. He stepped forward into a sliver of moonlight, letting his hood fall back slightly.
"You... I've seen those eyes before..." Boros reached for the sword at his hip, but his hands were too slow.
Erebus moved with a speed that surpassed ordinary humans. His left hand clamped over Boros's mouth with a force that could break a jaw, while his right hand plunged his father's rusted dagger deep into the soldier's throat.
Crat!
Warm blood sprayed onto Erebus's hand. He did not flinch. Instead, he leaned closer to Boros's face as the man gasped for air, his eyes bulging in agonizing pain.
"Do you remember the wooden spear?" Erebus whispered, his voice as cold as mountain ice. "The boy you beheaded was my brother. And the woman you dragged away was my mother."
Boros tried to groan, but only blood surged from his mouth. Erebus twisted the blade within the wound, ensuring every nerve in the man's neck was severed.
"Die knowing that your gods did not come to save you," Erebus said before finally pulling his blade free and letting Boros's body slump into the filth of the alley.
Erebus stared at the corpse for a moment. There was no relief, only an ever-growing thirst. One was dead. Fourteen gods and thousands of followers remained.
The next day, Gale-Point was like a disturbed hornet's nest. Cathedral bells rang out loudly. The news of a holy soldier murdered in a slum was treated as a grave insult to the gods. Wanted posters with a vague sketch of Erebus's face were plastered on every corner.
"Wanted: The God-Blasphemer," read a large man in worn knightly attire at a guard post outside the city. The man had one blind eye and chain scars around his wrists.
Erebus, attempting to take the forest paths to avoid patrols, was intercepted by this man and a young girl with short hair carrying a bow.
"You're the one who killed that silver pig last night, aren't you?" the large man asked. His name was Vane. He was a former royal knight exiled for refusing to execute civilians on church orders.
Erebus gripped his dagger, ready to strike. "If you intend to turn me in for gold, you'll die before you can touch the pouch."
Vane laughed—a bitter laugh devoid of joy. "Gold? I'd rather see that cathedral burn than have all the gold in the world. They cut out my brother's tongue and gouged my eye because I questioned their justice."
The girl beside him, Sora, lowered her bow. "My family was taken as slaves for the construction of the sky-temple. I watched them work until they died under the priests' whips. If you are an enemy of the gods, then you are a friend of ours."
Erebus looked from one to the other. He saw the same fire in their eyes—the fire of a hatred he had nurtured alone for so long.
"I am not looking for friends," Erebus said flatly.
"You cannot bring down the heavens alone, lad," Vane countered. "You need people who know how to hold a blade, and we need someone brave enough to start this slaughter."
Erebus fell silent. He looked up at the vast sky. For the first time in five years, he realized he wasn't the only victim. There were thousands of other Oakhavens out there. Thousands of Kaels, Linas, and Milas who were suffering.
"Fine," Erebus said at last. "But remember this. On my path, there is no room for mercy. We won't just fight them. We will erase their names from history."
Vane and Sora nodded in unison. That night, in the dim light of a hidden cave, a blood pact was made. Erebus was no longer just a lone wanderer. He began to build his following—people whose hearts were shattered but whose souls thirsted for a bloody justice.
The fugitive now had allies. And for the gods sitting upon their golden thrones, this was the beginning of the storm that would tear down paradise.