The news reached us before the sun did.
A scout stumbled into the temple courtyard, dust on his face, terror in his eyes. "They're coming," he gasped. "The Church of the Shard… they're marching this way."
The courtyard fell into silence. All around me, my people—farmers, masons, wanderers, converts—looked at one another with a mixture of fear and disbelief. We had built walls, lit fires, and whispered prayers into the night, but none of us were ready for war.
I stepped forward, the cold stone biting through my bare feet. "How many?" I asked.
"Enough to make the ground tremble," he whispered.
⸻
We gathered inside the temple's half-built hall. The great beams above still lacked their ceiling, exposing the sky. Morning light spilled through like broken glass, scattering across the floor's unfinished runes.
Voices rose—angry, frightened, desperate.
"They'll kill us all."
"We should surrender Erynd."
"No—we'll fight."
"Fight with what? Stones?"
Their faith was real, but their hands were empty.
I climbed the steps to the unfinished dais, where the twin torches flanked me—one gold, one silver, their flames faint in the dawn. "Listen to me," I said. The noise died slowly. "They are men. We are men. But above us is something greater. Do not let fear make liars of your hearts."
A woman near the front shook her head. "Words won't stop their blades, Prophet."
Her voice cracked on the last word. It was the first time anyone had said it without awe.
She was right. Words alone wouldn't save us. But I had nothing else to give.
⸻
By the time the rival church's banners crested the ridge, the valley was bathed in pale light. Their procession was smaller than I'd feared but far more disciplined—rows of men and women in steel and dark robes, banners stitched with the jagged sigil of the Shard. At their head rode a commander in white, his eyes sharp and cold.
They didn't come to talk.
They came to claim.
The commander raised his sword and pointed it at our gates. "Bring forth the false prophet," he called, his voice carrying like thunder. "Renounce this heresy, and your lives will be spared."
A hush fell over my people. Dozens of eyes turned to me. For a heartbeat, I considered stepping forward and surrendering.
But my legs carried me somewhere else—down the steps, past the murmurs, onto the stone between the gates.
I knelt.
Not before them.
Before Him.
⸻
I closed my eyes. There were no grand speeches, no demands. Only a whisper that left my lips like breath in winter.
"Kaelíth… see us."
For a moment, nothing.
Then the torches roared to life.
The gold and silver flames leapt skyward, merging into a spiraling column that split the air with a sound like distant thunder. Wind swept through the valley, scattering dust and prayer alike. Mortals on both sides froze.
The column widened, unfurling into a veil of light and shadow—a living wall between us and them. Its surface shimmered like liquid dawn, threaded with black veins of silence.
And through it, a whisper fell upon the world.
"My gaze remembers."
The words didn't come from above. They came from within. Bones hummed, hearts stuttered, eyes widened. Even the commander flinched, his horse rearing back beneath him.
Some of their soldiers dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. Others screamed, clutching their heads as visions bled through their minds—fragments of Kaelíth's throne, rivers of light, silent stars.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a memory forced into their flesh.
⸻
Above the Veil
Far from the valley, two divine eyes opened.
In Elyndris, Seravyn stood at the edge of her radiant spire, the light of the miracle blooming against her skies. The golden pillar below reflected across her realm, scattering across her hair like living starlight. Her wings unfurled, instinctively drinking in the faith rising from below.
Across the cosmic divide, Nyxara watched in silence from Nethralis. The silver mists around her thickened, swirling like a tide drawn toward something ancient. She did not smile. She did not speak. But her gaze met Seravyn's across the veil.
For the briefest instant, the twins regarded each other—not as rivals, but as witnesses.
Their Father's gaze had turned toward mortals again.
And something had begun.
⸻
The veil trembled as the commander of the Shard church barked orders. His men hesitated. Fear gnawed at their formation, but fanaticism is a stubborn thing.
He raised his sword again. "Blasphemy," he spat. "The Shard will not yield."
The first arrow arced through the air.
It shattered harmlessly against the veil. But that was enough.
Chaos erupted.
They surged toward us in a storm of steel and shouts. Our people scrambled—some picking up stones, others barricading the gates. I stood frozen for a heartbeat as the world tilted around me.
Then I heard it.
Not Kaelíth.
Them.
My people.
"Erynd!" someone shouted. "Lead us!"
I turned toward the flames.
Something inside me—small, terrified—stepped aside.
And something else spoke.
I opened my mouth, and words came like flowing fire. "Stand. The gaze is upon us. Stand, and let the stone remember what flesh forgets."
The sentence wasn't mine, but the voice was through me.
Their eyes changed.
Fear didn't vanish—it transformed. It sharpened.
The first wave of the rival church met the temple's defenders not with trained soldiers, but with desperate, newly awakened faith. Stones flew. Torches blazed. Hands that trembled found strength.
The veil did not strike, but its light watched. Every scream, every clash, unfolded beneath its silent judgment.
⸻
The skirmish didn't last long. These were not great armies—only believers with different gods. When their front line faltered, their unity cracked. Some broke ranks, fleeing into the valley. Others dropped their weapons entirely, staring at the veil like it was the end of the world.
The commander tried to rally them, but his words fell flat beneath the lingering whisper.
He spat into the dust and pulled back his forces, retreating over the ridge with a final glare at me.
"This isn't over," he said.
No. It wasn't.
⸻
When the last echoes of their march faded, the valley fell into stillness. Smoke rose from scattered torches. The air smelled of sweat, blood, and something older—like lightning and silence woven together.
The veil faded slowly, curling upward like the last breath of a dying star.
I stood there, breathing hard, the world ringing in my ears. Around me, my people stared not at me, but at the place where the veil had stood.
Someone whispered, "The fire spoke."
Another, "The Prophet called the sky."
A third, "The gaze burned the wicked."
The words spread like sparks.
And for the first time, I understood: this wasn't my story anymore. It was theirs.
⸻
That night, fires burned brighter than ever. Songs rose for the first time—clumsy, uncertain, but full of something new. Faith no longer lived only in whispers and half-built stone.
It had seen flame.
It had heard a god.
And somewhere far beyond the stars, Kaelíth watched through the fracture, silent.