The streets of Velmire turned gray with silence.
The Inquisition's edict was absolute.
MARTIAL LAW.
All temples closed.
All sermons outlawed.
No gatherings of more than six.
Confession mandatory under divine oath.
Those found preaching unsanctioned miracles will burn.
The bells no longer rang for prayer.
They rang for surrender.
Ashen listened from the palace gardens, seated beneath a dying oak tree. A falcon circled overhead. He didn't look up.
Beside him, Lira knelt and set down a scroll—smuggled reports from across the city.
He unfurled it slowly.
Three Scourge sympathizers had been caught. Two executed. One escaped.
The inquisitors were growing smarter.
But Ashen was already three steps ahead.
That night, he entered the Temple of the Third Sun—an abandoned church now patrolled only by silence and old incense rot.
Corren waited inside.
The priest's robes were stained with ash. He had taken to drinking again. But his eyes, once dull, now flickered with purpose.
"You're playing with fire," Corren said.
"I'm playing with gods."
Corren tossed him a scroll.
"Three noble houses just swore fealty to Tahlon."
Ashen scanned the seals. "Fear of Virelle makes strange allies."
"They're afraid the Inquisition will bleed the city dry."
Ashen nodded.
"Good," he said. "Then we bleed first—but not blood."
He held up a vial.
Inside swirled a living confession—a spoken lie made solid through forbidden rites. A priest's whispered doubts, crystallized into black smoke.
"We spread these through the church."
Corren paled. "That's high heresy."
Ashen smiled. "Not if we deliver them as miracles."
Across the next week, strange events plagued Velmire's churches.
A priest collapsed mid-sermon, mumbling truths he swore he never believed.
A holy relic wept black tears before shattering.
A hymn, sung by a choirboy, drove three nobles to madness.
Each event whispered the same unspoken message:
The gods are listening. But they are not merciful.
Meanwhile, Ashen began appearing in dreams.
Not in full form—only a presence.
He inserted echoes into prayer.
A farmer, begging for rain, saw ash fall instead.
A grieving widow heard her dead husband whisper, "The thrones have forgotten us."
A monk, meditating before light, heard a second voice in the sun.
The voice said:
"We suffer because we kneel."
🔸 You have infiltrated the Divine Dreamscape (Tier I)
🔹 + Echo Rank: C (Apostate)
🔹 + Corruption: 23.1%
🔹 + Divine Infamy: 15 (Regional Watchers Aware)
🔹 + Followers: 46 (Cult spreading to nearby townships)
🔹 Cult Upgrade: "Blight Whisperers"—Can plant heresy in dreams
🔹 Divine Awareness Risk: High (Inquisitor's Dream Bound to Serathiel)
Tahlon was crowned Lord-Provisional of Velmire under emergency edict.
A puppet prince.
A voice of calm against the Inquisition's blade.
And Ashen stood behind the throne, a servant still—but now the pulse of the city beat in his hand.
Inquisitor Virelle stood at the altar of her temporary war chapel, her blade drawn, the light around her dimming.
"The enemy is not in the gutters," she said to her assembled knights.
"It is in the hearts of those who once believed."