The Soul Anchor became a new kind of warning system.
Elias did not need ravens or wraith-form to know that Elara was worried. A persistent, low-grade thrum of anxiety emanated from her, a constant hum beneath the surface of her daily thoughts. He sifted through the ambient feelings, the fragments of conversation he could glean from the connection. She wasn't worried about the Hegemony anymore. She was worried about him.
Her logic, the simple, brilliant logic of the Warden-Touched, was unassailable. The Hegemony was a worldly power. Twice, her Warden had defeated them in ways that defied mortal understanding. Therefore, the Hegemony would not send worldly power again. They would send something else. Something tailored to fight a god, or a demon.
In the Sunstone council meetings, she began to argue for a new kind of preparation. Not strengthening the walls, but deepening their understanding.
"The offerings of fruit and stone are not enough," she told the elders, her voice ringing with conviction. "The Ashen King is our shield. But every shield must be maintained. We do not know what price he pays for his protection. We do not know what wounds he suffers in these battles he fights for us. We need... to offer him something more."
The elders were confused. "More than our finest harvests? More than our unwavering faith?"
"He has no need for food," Elara reasoned. "And he commands our faith whether we give it or not. No. We must offer him strength. We must pray for him."
The idea was revolutionary, almost heretical. Pray for the dark god of the woods? Pray for the health and strength of the necromancer king?
"That is... blasphemy," one old elder stammered.
"It is practicality," Elara countered. "We pray to the sun for warmth, do we not? Why would we not pray for the continued strength of the storm that keeps the fire at bay? His power is our survival. Therefore, his strength is our most vital resource. We will set aside a stone in the heart of the village. And every day, we will offer our thoughts to it. Not for our sakes. For his."
Elias, miles away in his Spire, felt this debate as a series of emotional shockwaves. He was deeply unsettled. He did not want their prayers. Their fear was a tool. Their awe was a shield. But their active, focused, emotional support? It was a variable he couldn't quantify. It was a messy, human complication.
Despite the initial resistance, Elara's logic, as always, won them over. A single, large, flat river stone was erected in the center of the village. The Sunstone. It became the Warden's stone.
And they began to pray.
They did not pray as the Hegemony did, with organized chanting and scripture. They prayed as a people of the forest, with quiet, focused thought. The hunter, before stalking his prey, would touch the stone and think, 'Be strong, Shield of the Wood.' The mother, tucking her child into bed, would think, 'Be vigilant, Silent King.' Elara would sit before it for an hour each evening, her hands on the cool surface, and pour her worries, her hopes, and her unwavering belief into it.
The first time it happened, Elias almost staggered. He was in his forge, working on a new Golem of pure, obsidian glass, when he felt it. It wasn't an attack. It wasn't a message. It was a wave of pure, unadulterated psychic energy. Warmth. Hope. Belief. It flowed through the Soul Anchor and washed over his consciousness.
[System Alert: Incoming metaphysical energy stream detected.]
[Source: 'Sunstone' populace. Nature: Benign, supportive.]
[Analyzing energy... The collective faith and focused will of a grateful populace are coalescing into a tangible stream of 'Votive Essence'.]
[Votive Essence can be absorbed to slowly restore spent Soul Essence or fortify existing psychic structures. Warning: This energy is life-aspected and may have unpredictable interactions with death-aspected Dominions.]
He had just stumbled upon a new form of power. A passive income of faith. It was a slow trickle, nothing like the torrent he could Harvest from a battlefield, but it was clean, constant, and freely given. He had inadvertently cultivated a congregation that was now actively fueling the very 'dark god' they revered.
The irony was so profound he had to sit down. For years, he had operated on the principle that fear was his greatest shield. And now, he was learning that his subjects' love—for that's what it was, a form of grateful, terrified love—was a source of actual, measurable power.
This new energy source changed his calculus. He could now undertake grand projects that consumed Soul Essence without needing to go to war to replenish it. His kingdom was becoming self-sustaining.
He poured his new power into his defenses. The runes on his Spire glowed brighter. He began a colossal project, using Geist-Binder and his new energy surplus to slowly, patiently awaken the spirit of the mountain itself on which his fortress was built. He wasn't just living in a fortress anymore. He was teaching the fortress to be alive.
And then, his ravens brought him news of the new arrivals.
They came from the east. A column of men, not in iron, but in brilliant white and gold robes. They marched beneath banners depicting a blazing sun. At their head rode a man on a white charger, his face alight with a beatific, fanatic's smile. They carried no siege engines, only gleaming spears and holy symbols that pulsed with a clean, searing light on Elias's Sense Life/Death map. The Order of Sol had arrived.
They did not make camp outside the Blackwood. They marched right in, their leader holding a golden astrolabe that hummed with power, guiding them. They moved with a chilling purpose.
Elias focused his Wraith Walk, intending to scout them, but the moment his ethereal form drew near their column, it was hit by a wall of searing, white-hot energy. The very air around them was anathema to his death-aspected nature. He recoiled with a psychic hiss of pain, snapping back to his body.
These were not soldiers. These were exorcists. They were an antibody, designed specifically to eradicate an infection like him. His necro-steel golems would be vulnerable to their holy magic. His fear tactics would be blunted by their unshakeable faith.
The Hegemony had not just sent an army. They had sent a metaphysical countermeasure. A holy weapon aimed at his heart.
He stood in the highest chamber of his Spire, looking out over his domain. He could feel the prayers of Sunstone flowing into him, a warm, steady river of strength. It was a power born of goodness, of gratitude, of life. And he, the Ashen King, the lord of dust and death, was about to wield that life-force as a weapon, to fuel his unholy war against the soldiers of the light.
The ultimate paradox was now at his gate. To protect his people, the necromancer would have to become their holy champion. And to survive, their holy champion would have to delve deeper into the darkness than ever before.