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Chapter 5 - Void

The dawn came quietly over Aelhurst.

No triumphant sunrise, no chorus of birds — just the dull glow of a sky still bruised with smoke. The ruins of the village lay half-awake beneath it, smoldering in slow ribbons of steam. Roofs sagged, fences blackened, wells shattered by the weight of desperation.

The wind carried the stench of burnt grain and blood — the scent of survival.

Lucien stood atop what remained of the chapel's bell tower, his bare feet pressing against stone still warm from fire. His golden hair, streaked with ash, caught the dim light of morning like a fading ember. Below him, the villagers began their slow, painful routine of rebuilding — hauling beams, sweeping rubble, burying the dead.

He could still feel their fear like a pressure in the air — heavy, choking. Yet beneath it, faint and flickering, something else began to pulse: faith.

Not in the gods.

Not anymore.

But in him.

Lucien's chest tightened. The Heavenforge within him — that living fragment of divine essence — thrummed softly, reacting to the villagers' emotions. The faintest threads of light shimmered in the air, invisible to mortal eyes. They connected people to him — slender filaments that glowed and quivered with their belief, like the strings of a celestial instrument.

He crouched and touched one, brushing his fingers through the air. Warmth tingled through his hand. The faith-link pulsed once, responding. When he smiled, it brightened. When he frowned, it dimmed. He realized he could pull on it — ever so slightly. Bend it. Strengthen it.

"Faith is the fuel of Heaven," he murmured to himself. "Emotion… its spark."

He remembered saying those words during the battle. Back then, it had been instinct — a fragment of forgotten divinity. Now he saw what they truly meant. Faith wasn't prayer. It was trust. Emotion given form.

And he could see it.

Serena's voice broke his thoughts.

"Lucien!"

He turned. She stood below the bell tower, her auburn hair tied messily behind her head, streaked with soot. Her sleeves were rolled up, hands wrapped in linen, face pale but resolute.

She looked nothing like the devout woman he'd met days ago.

She looked alive.

"We need you at the well," she said. "The water's tainted. The healer says it reeks of ash and iron."

Lucien leapt down without hesitation, landing lightly beside her. "Then let's fix it."

The villagers stepped aside as the two approached the cracked stone well. The water inside shimmered dully, reflecting the dull red of sunrise. Lucien knelt beside it, closing his eyes.

He reached for the Heavenforge. It stirred within him like a second heartbeat.

When he dipped his fingers into the water, light rippled out — faint, pure, steady. The taint hissed and burned away, replaced by clarity. The water brightened, clean and blue once more.

The villagers gasped. Serena stared, her breath catching.

Lucien looked up at them and smiled faintly. "There. Drink without fear."

One by one, they knelt to test it. When the first villager — a boy no older than ten — drank and smiled, the entire square seemed to exhale. Relief spread through them like sunlight through mist.

The Heavenforge pulsed again.

The threads of faith thickened.

Lucien could feel their gratitude feeding him — not as power, but as warmth. It filled the cracks of his soul, the hollow places left by divine exile.

Serena caught his expression and frowned. "You're feeding on their faith, aren't you?"

Lucien hesitated. "…I'm sustained by it. That's different."

She crossed her arms, skeptical. "It doesn't sound different."

He smirked. "Would you rather I wither away? Someone needs to bless your fields and fix your roofs."

Despite herself, she smiled. "Fair point, 'divine intervention.'"

By midday, the village was alive with motion. Lucien moved among them, his presence both commanding and comforting. When he passed, people straightened their backs, lifted heavier loads, worked faster. Not because he demanded it — but because he inspired it.

Children followed him, whispering about the "man who shone like dawn." Elders watched in silence, torn between reverence and fear. And Serena — ever practical — kept him grounded.

She organized the rebuilding with military precision.

Lucien reinforced her words with miracles.

Together, they restored what the gods had abandoned.

He helped raise the main hall's beams with bursts of invisible force, his palms glowing with gentle light. He touched cracked planks and willed them to mend. He healed wounds and set broken limbs. Yet each miracle left him weaker — his body trembling afterward, his breath shallow.

Faith, he realized, wasn't endless. It was borrowed energy — drawn from their belief and his resolve.

At one point, he stumbled after lifting a collapsed roof. Serena caught him before he hit the ground.

"Easy," she said softly. "You don't have to prove anything."

Lucien looked up at her, sweat tracing the lines of his scarred face. "I do. If I don't… they'll stop believing."

Serena tightened her grip on him. "Then let them believe in something real. In themselves. Not just you."

He studied her, eyes gleaming like fractured sunlight. "You sound like someone who's lost faith."

She gave a sad smile. "No. Just someone who's tired of unanswered prayers."

The afternoon passed in weary labor. They buried the dead together — twenty-one villagers, each name read aloud by Serena. Lucien stood beside her in silence, hands folded, wings absent but memory heavy.

When they lowered the final body — a young farmer — into the earth, Lucien knelt beside the grave. His hands, once made to weave constellations, now sank into dirt. He felt its cool weight beneath his nails. The act was humbling. Holy, in its own way.

He whispered, "In Heaven, no one dies. No one lives either. We just are." He looked at Serena. "Mortality… it gives every moment a meaning we never had."

Serena looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached down and placed a single flower on the grave. "Then maybe that's why you were sent here. To learn what living means."

Lucien chuckled softly. "Sent? No, Serena. I was cast out. Heaven doesn't send — it discards."

"Maybe," she said, standing. "But even discarded stars still shine."

Lucien stared at her, uncertain whether to smile or fall silent.

---

As dusk fell, torches lit the rebuilt square. Villagers gathered around the central fountain — now restored, its waters glowing faintly from Lucien's earlier blessing. Music hummed softly, improvised from flutes and strings.

It was not a celebration.

It was survival — sacred in its quiet joy.

Lucien stood at the edge of the crowd, watching. Children played near the fountain, laughing for the first time since the attack. Serena handed out bread to the hungry, her face illuminated by torchlight.

She noticed Lucien lingering apart and walked over. "You're avoiding them again."

"They look at me like I'm something holy," he said. "It's… uncomfortable."

"Maybe they just see hope."

"Hope," Lucien murmured, "is a dangerous thing to build on one man."

"Then don't be just one man," she said. "Be their teacher. Their guide. You said faith was the fuel of Heaven — maybe you can teach them to burn it brighter, together."

Lucien glanced at her. The Heavenforge pulsed faintly in his chest. "You speak like a priestess."

"I'm not," Serena said with a faint smile. "Just someone who finally got an answer to a prayer — even if it came from a fallen angel."

For a brief, fragile moment, the weight of everything lifted. Lucien almost felt at peace.

However that very peace shattered with the sound of hurried footsteps.

A figure stumbled into the square, limping, bloodied, face pale with terror. His clothes were torn, his breath ragged.

"Help—!" he gasped. Serena rushed forward, catching him before he fell.

Lucien appeared beside her in an instant. The man's skin was cold, his pulse erratic.

"They're coming," the man croaked. "From… the northern woods. The Hollowmere pass. Spirits… black as ash… they devour prayers."

Serena blinked. "What do you mean, devour?"

The man trembled violently. "Our priests tried to bless the fields… every prayer we spoke, every plea we made — they fed on it. Grew stronger. Our faith made them hungry."

He coughed blood, clutching at Lucien's sleeve. "They whisper in the dark… they said… the gods abandoned this world because something else is claiming it…"

Lucien's face went still. The Heavenforge flickered, dimming for the first time since he arrived in the mortal realm.

Serena looked between them, fear creeping into her voice. "Lucien… What is he talking about?"

Lucien didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted north, toward the line of dark trees on the horizon. The wind shifted — cold, hollow, carrying a sound that was almost like breathing.

He finally spoke, voice low, distant.

"It means…"

The Heavenforge pulsed once, a faint echo of power stirring within him — responding not to faith, but to familiarity.

"…something from the Hollow Void followed me here."

The torches around the square flickered, their flames bowing as if before a silent wind. The villagers fell quiet, one by one, as though the night itself had begun to listen.

Lucien's eyes narrowed. The peace he'd built — the fragile hope he'd nurtured — trembled like the edge of a candle flame.

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