LOCATION: HOLLOW CREED — INNER SANCTUM (CONTINUED)
The blade at Verrick's neck still gleamed.
He hadn't moved.
Neither had Rivenna.
And in the stillness that followed, something deeper cracked—louder than steel. Quieter than breath.
Not trust.
The Creed.
Lucan lowered his sword. Not in peace. In choice.
"Don't," he said, voice low, aimed at Rivenna. "We don't need another body on the floor to prove what's already broken."
Rivenna didn't flinch. But she pulled her blade away, slow and sharp.
Verrick exhaled like he'd been holding war in his lungs.
He didn't thank Lucan.
Didn't need to.
Lucan turned now—not toward Verrick. Toward them.
The Creed.
All of them.
The loyalists who hadn't drawn swords. The newbloods with shaken stances. The old blades with regret in their eyes. Even the silent ones in the shadows—watching like they still hadn't decided what version of the Creed they believed in.
Lucan stepped forward.
One step.
Just enough to feel the floor's weight.
"I'm not here to play king," he said. No shouting. No rally. Just fact. "And I'm not here to beg you for loyalty."
He looked around. Let the words settle like ash.
"If you're afraid—leave. I won't stop you."
A few eyes dropped. No one moved.
"If you want safety," Lucan continued, flicking a glance toward Verrick, "then kneel to the man who sent shadows to kill me in secret instead of facing me in the open."
Verrick tensed, jaw clenched—but said nothing.
Lucan let the silence breathe.
"But if you're done kneeling to anything that bled us for its order… if you're ready to burn the world that made us…"
He raised his sword—not in threat.
In offering.
"Stand."
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then—
One stepped forward.
Then another.
And another.
Not a wave. Not a flood.
Just a handful.
But enough.
Rivenna didn't move. But her eyes never left Lucan.
Jareth stood already. He never sat.
Verrick said nothing. Didn't command. Didn't counter.
Because what could he say?
The room wasn't his anymore.
Not completely.
Lucan didn't smile.
Didn't gloat.
He just lowered the blade. Let it rest against the floor like a line in the sand.
The Creed was splintered.
And whatever it would become next—
Would be forged in fire.
Verrick watched them—the ones who stood for Lucan.
Then he looked at the rest.
The loyal.
The cautious.
The ones who still believed his way was safer, stronger, cleaner.
He turned.
And they followed.
Not all. But enough.
Steel echoed as boots scraped against stone, as shadows peeled from the chamber walls.
He didn't beg. Didn't bleed. Didn't break.
Just before vanishing into the dark, he left a whisper behind:
"You'll wish you let me kill you clean."
And then he was gone.
Not defeated.
Just dividing the war.
---
LOCATION: THE SANCTUM – INNER PRAYER VAULT, FIRST THRONE
The room was quiet.
Not empty. Just... waiting.
Candles burned upside-down. Dust hung in the air, unmoving. Seven circles carved into the stone floor—six dim, one still lit.
Cardinal Vael knelt in the center.
He wasn't praying.
He was listening.
Above him, three glyphs lit up in the dark.
Ezekar Nythe. Halix Varn. Dren Voskar.
The glyphs spun once, flared, then vanished.
Vael opened his eyes.
Ash-grey. Unblinking.
He said nothing.
He didn't have to.
Across the lands, the message was already moving:
"The First Throne calls council."
And when Vael calls—
no one disobeys.
Not unless they want to see how quietly kingdoms die.
---
LOCATION: ASHVALE — INNER LIBRARY, NIGHTFALL
The flame in the oil lamp flickered, struggling against the cold.
Aelira sat alone in the forbidden wing—where the ink ran dry, and the books were chained to the walls.
She wrote slowly, each word carved in glyph-ink that would vanish after the message was read.
No name. No signature. Just intent.
> "If what you've built is real…
Then I need to see it myself.
Not as a spy. Not as a weapon.
As someone who once believed.
And maybe still does."
She folded the page. Sealed it with an echo mark—a sigil the Creed hadn't seen since she helped carve their walls shut.
The name she wrote on the back?
Not a friend. Not an ally.
Just someone she'd once spared.
Then she turned.
The door was slightly open.
Halix stood there, veiled in shadow, watching.
She didn't speak.
She didn't step in.
Just watched, her face unreadable.
Aelira met her gaze.
And slowly, calmly, slid the letter into her cloak.
Halix said nothing.
She turned without a word.
Closed the door behind her—softly, deliberately.
Not because she approved.
But because she understood something far worse.
Faith wasn't the only thing breaking.
---
LOCATION: HOLLOW CREED — INNER CHAMBER, POST-STANDOFF
The fire hadn't died.
It just burned quieter now.
Lucan hadn't spoken since the chamber emptied of swords.
Not all blades. Just the ones that mattered.
Rivenna was gone.
No word. No farewell. No sides claimed.
Just gone.
Like she'd done her part—and vanished before anyone could ask why.
Lucan didn't take it as betrayal. Not exactly.
But he felt it.
She was loyal, yes.
But never one to be held.
The council reconvened hours later.
One of the elder Creed voices—Councilor Nareth, parchment-thin and knife-eyed—stepped forward, voice like dry bone.
"Lucan Malryk. The Hollow Creed stands splintered. You stood when Verrick fell. For now, you hold command. Accept it."
Lucan didn't.
Not with pride. Not with anger.
He just looked at the room like it wasn't a prize—but a weight.
"I didn't fight to lead," he muttered.
"Just to stop bleeding for someone else's war."
But the chamber wasn't empty yet.
A figure stepped forward—young, gaunt, eyes flared with glyphfire.
One of the Sinforged initiates.
Barely seventeen.
"Then prove it wasn't luck."
He drew his blade.
Not for war.
For rite.
Creed law.
Lucan turned—tired.
"You're serious?"
The boy nodded. Sharp. Proud. Angry.
"If you're meant to lead, you should've died standing. Let's see why you didn't."
Lucan didn't answer.
He just stepped forward.
One hand on his blade, the other hanging loose like the threat didn't matter.
The young Sinforged—Zekk, if Lucan remembered right—moved first. Fast. Angry. Burning for purpose.
His blade came in a high arc—
Lucan blocked it.
And then…
[SYSTEM SURGE: COMBAT SYNC — RESIDUAL GLYPH-HEAT DETECTED]
[SHADOWBURN CORE — ACTIVE]
[+10% DEX | +8% STR BOOST INITIATED]
His body lit up.
Not visibly. Not outward.
But inside—his muscles screamed with borrowed flame. His reflexes snapped like a trap on instinct.
He moved before thinking.
Slipped behind Zekk's guard.
Elbowed him once in the ribs—hard enough to crack bone.
Kicked his leg out.
The boy fell, rolled, struck back—but it was like fighting lightning with rope.
Lucan's sword came down, angled for the shoulder.
Pulled last second.
Not a slice.
A blunt hit to the shoulder that dropped Zekk to his knees, gasping for breath.
Lucan stood over him, blade hovered at the boy's throat.
The chamber had gone dead silent.
Even the walls held their breath.
Lucan spoke.
Not with pride.
Not with mercy.
Just… truth.
"Don't draw on me unless you're ready to die by it."
He turned away—mid-combat—shouldering his blade again.
"And I don't want more graves in this room."
Zekk coughed. Didn't stand. Didn't speak.
But he didn't rise to challenge again.
Councilor Nareth gave a slow nod—more to himself than anyone else.
And Lucan walked toward the shadowed corridor—alone again, but not unbacked.
The room didn't cheer.
But it didn't resist.
He didn't win them all.
But he didn't have to.
Not anymore.