The silence in High Priest Theron's study was a living thing. It pressed in on Captain Eva, heavy and cold, a physical weight in the air. For a long moment, the three of them were frozen: Theron, a statue of despair in his chair; Praxus, the weary messenger whose burden was finally shared; and Eva, the soldier whose world had just been redefined as a battlefield.
Her training cut through the shock. A crisis did not allow for paralysis. She was the ranking officer of the Guard in this room, and the situation demanded command.
"High Priest," she said, her voice clipped and devoid of its usual deference. He did not respond, his face still buried in his hands. Eva's gaze shifted to Praxus. "You are no longer a heretic. You are a source of critical intelligence. You will remain under my protection." She then turned and unsealed the heavy oak door. "Joric."
Her second-in-command, who had been standing guard outside, snapped to attention. "Captain."
"Escort the High Priest to his chambers. He is… unwell. Do not let anyone see him until I return." To Praxus, she commanded, "You are with me. We are going to the palace. The King must be told."
The walk from the Great Observatory back to the royal palace was a journey through a different world. The familiar marble corridors and torchlit halls now seemed fragile, a thin veneer of order over a chasm of terrifying truth. Theron, leaning heavily on Joric's arm, looked like a man a hundred years old, his white robes hanging on a frame that had been emptied of its purpose. Praxus walked with a quiet, grim determination, the chains on his wrists a mockery of his new, terrible importance.
They were met with alarmed and questioning looks, but Eva's stony expression and the authority in her stride silenced any potential inquiries. She was a weapon aimed at the heart of the kingdom, and she was bringing the bad news with her.
The King's private council chamber was a room of quiet, masculine power, paneled in dark wood and dominated by a large map of Aethelgard. King Valerius, General Kyrus, and Lord Emmon looked up as they entered, their faces etched with the anxiety of their long wait.
"Theron?" the King asked, his voice sharp with concern as he saw the state of his High Priest. "What happened? What was the Oracle's message?"
Theron could not speak. He sank into a chair, his gaze fixed on the floor.
Eva stepped forward, her helmet tucked under her arm. She gave her report with the brutal efficiency of a field commander. "Your Majesty, the Rite of Celestial Invocation has failed. Utterly. The Oracle left only cold ash. There was no message."
A wave of despair washed over the room. Lord Emmon let out a soft groan.
"But we have an explanation," Eva continued, her voice hard. She gestured to the ragged scholar beside her. "This is Praxus. He arrived at the North Gate this evening. What he has to say will sound like the ravings of a madman. I have heard it, and I believe it to be true. I ask that you hear him out completely before you pass judgment."
King Valerius's eyes narrowed, shifting from his broken High Priest to the strange, wild-eyed scholar. "Speak, then," the King commanded, his voice a low growl. "Explain this silence that has crippled my kingdom."
And so, for the second time that night, Praxus told his story. He spoke of the Two-Who-Were-One, the Builder of Light and the Carver of Silence. He spoke of the First Civilization, the first war, and the banishment of Ghra'thul. He spoke of the patient, eon-long corruption, the unraveling sky, and the final, unseen battle that their beloved god had lost.
As he finished, the chamber was silent. General Kyrus was the first to speak, his voice a rasp. "An enemy we cannot see," he stated, not as a question, but as a tactical assessment. "An entity that has seized the very source of our world's stability. What are its capabilities? Can it manifest physically? Can it be fought?"
"If this news becomes public…" Lord Emmon whispered, his face pale. "The panic, the riots… the city will devour itself. Our civilization will not survive the truth."
King Valerius had not moved. He listened to Praxus's entire account without interruption, his hands gripping the arms of his oaken throne. His reaction was not the spiritual despair of Theron, but the cold, rising fury of a sovereign monarch whose domain had been invaded, and his people preyed upon like livestock.
"So we have been praying to a monster," the King said, his voice dangerously soft. "For a year, my people have been whispering their hopes and fears to their own executioner. This is not a divine mystery. This is an act of war."
He rose from his throne, his presence filling the room. "We are fighting a war on two fronts. The first is against this… Ghra'thul. The second is against the fear that will destroy us from within. We must win the second war before we can even begin to fight the first."
He began to pace, his mind, trained for statecraft and command, working through the impossible options. "We cannot tell the people. Not yet. Emmon is right; the truth would be a more efficient killer than Ghra'thul himself. We need control. We need time. We need a strategy."
He stopped and looked at his council, his decision made. "We will fight silence with silence."
He issued his first decree of the new age. "From this moment, a Royal Mandate is in effect. All public prayer gatherings are forbidden. The Guard will disperse them. The official reason," he looked at Theron, whose head was slowly rising from his chest, "will be that the High Priest has received a message. That this is a time of Divine Contemplation, and Qy'iel has requested our collective, respectful silence to complete His great work. Our silence is not an act of fear, but the highest form of faith. You will make this so, Theron."
The broken priest simply nodded, accepting the new lie he would be forced to live.
"Praxus," the King continued. "You are no longer a heretic. You are an advisor to the crown. You will be given chambers in the palace, access to the Royal Library, and anything else you need. Your single task is to find a weakness. Learn everything you can about this Ghra'thul. There must be a way to fight him."
Praxus bowed his head, accepting his new role.
Just as the King was about to issue another order, the heavy doors to the chamber burst open. A young Royal Guard, his face slick with sweat and terror, stumbled into the room, falling to one knee.
"Your Majesty!" he gasped, breathing in ragged sobs. "Forgive the intrusion… but it has happened again. A death. In the weavers' district. Just moments ago. A man fell dead in his own home, for no reason."
The news hung in the air, a final, brutal confirmation. The three-day cycle was still active. Ghra'thul was still hunting.
King Valerius looked at the faces of his council, at the broken faith of his priest, the grim reality of his general, the economic fear of his treasurer, and the terrible knowledge of his new scholar. He had just declared a policy of silence to control the chaos, to give them a moment to think, to plan.
But the enemy was not waiting.
The Great Silence was over. The Age of Fear had begun. It had been heralded by a royal decree, and answered, instantly, with a fresh corpse.