The announcement came not with a trumpet, but with the frantic, terrified shrieks of Fendrel, the new overseer.
"Down! On your knees, you filth! She comes!"
His weaselly face was pale, his eyes darting around the courtyard as if the Saint's gaze itself could set him on fire. The castle staff, from the cooks in their stained aprons to the guards polishing their helms, dropped what they were doing. A ripple of motion spread through the lower bailey as dozens of people scrambled, pushing and stumbling, to line the path from the main gate to the dragon stables. They fell to their knees on the cold, muddy cobblestones.
Arthur was hauling a barrow of soiled straw. He simply let the handles drop, the wooden legs thudding into the muck, and knelt beside it. He was just another shadow in a long line of them, his head bowed, his matted hair hiding his face from the world.
"Heads down!" Fendrel screeched, his voice cracking. He scurried along the line, kicking at the heels of anyone who wasn't prostrated low enough. "No one looks! The Lady Annelise arrives! Do not defile her with your wretched eyes!"
A hush fell over the courtyard, thick and heavy with a mixture of reverence and fear. The only sounds were the distant creak of the main gate and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the dragons in their stalls.
"It's truly her," a scullery maid whispered from somewhere to Arthur's left, her voice trembling. "The living Saint."
"They say one touch from her hand can regrow a lost limb," a one-eyed stable hand nearby breathed in response.
Such concentrated belief, Su Ling noted from the silent throne of Arthur's mind. They worship an idea, not a person. They build their god's power with their own submission.
The air changed. The familiar smells of mud, sweat, and dragon musk were pushed back by a clean, sharp scent, like cold mountain air after a lightning storm. A gentle warmth washed over them, a stark contrast to the morning chill. Arthur kept his head down, his nose nearly touching the grimy stones.
But his eyes were open.
And through them, Su Ling looked.
Her `Gaze of Truth` was active. The world was no longer a flat tableau of shapes and colors. It was a swirling, vibrant tapestry of energy, of meaning, of intent. The kneeling servants were flickering gray candles of fear and hope. The guards were dull iron, rigid with duty. The castle itself was ancient stone saturated with generations of human emotion.
Then, Annelise came into view.
To the naked eye, she was a figure in white silk gliding over the mud, her feet seemingly untouched by the filth. Her face was obscured by a thin veil, a gesture of humility that only amplified her mystique.
To the `Gaze of Truth`, she was a sun.
A blinding, overwhelming nova of pure white and gold light poured from her. It was the crystallized faith of millions, a power so immense it warped the very air around her. It was the energy of the crystal Arthur had found in the dragon dung, magnified a millionfold. It was a beacon of what this world called 'holy.'
An impressive display, Su Ling's thoughts were calm, analytical. A masterfully crafted vessel for a vast amount of power. But power must have a source. A focus.
Her Gaze narrowed, pushing past the blinding corona of light, tracing the torrents of energy back to their origin. The focal point was a spot on the Saint's forehead, hidden by her veil. The Sacred Mark. It was the supposed sign of the god's favor, the conduit through which all her miracles flowed. Su Ling's Gaze pierced the silk and the skin. She saw the Mark.
It shone with the intensity of a dying star.
But at its absolute center, at the very heart of the miracle, was a flaw.
It was not a crack. It was not a stain of darkness or corruption. It was a point. A single, infinitesimally small point of absolute black. It was a pinprick of void. Of nothing. It did not radiate evil; it simply was not there. It was a lie, woven into the very structure of divine truth.
A forgery, Su Ling concluded with the certainty of a master appraiser finding a tool mark on a flawless gem. This 'Sacred Mark' is not a gift from a god. It's a construct. An incredibly sophisticated one, but a fake nonetheless. It doesn't generate faith; it only gathers it. A beautifully crafted dam holding back a river of belief.
At that moment, as Su Ling's focus reached its sharpest point, the Saint stopped.
Her procession of priests and guards halted behind her. The oppressive silence in the courtyard deepened. Annelise tilted her head, a slow, graceful movement. She had felt it. A flicker. The sensation of being seen. Not worshipped, not adored, but analyzed. It was an alien feeling, like a jeweler realizing a fleck of dust was examining his prize diamond.
Her gaze, even through the veil, swept across the line of kneeling servants. She saw a sea of bowed heads, trembling shoulders, and filthy rags. Her eyes passed over the pathetic form of Arthur, a scrawny boy hunched by a wheelbarrow of dung, shaking more than any of the others. She saw only what she was meant to see: a worthless, terrified slave. The sensation vanished, dismissed as a figment of her imagination.
She turned and continued her glide toward the dragon stables, where Leon stood waiting, his silver armor polished to a blinding sheen, his chest puffed out with pride.
"Lady Annelise," he boomed, dropping to one knee in a practiced, theatrical bow. His own aura was a chaotic splash of arrogant orange and ambitious gold. "Your presence brings light to this humble place."
"Rise, Sir Leon," Annelise's voice was like the chiming of a tiny silver bell. "I am here on behalf of the Radiant Church. The annual Ceremony of Sacred Blood requires a guardian of suitable might and majesty. Your Redflame is legendary."
Leon rose, his face flushed with triumph. He gestured grandly toward the massive cavern where his bronze dragon, Redflame, was chained. The beast was stirring, its massive head lifting as it scented the unfamiliar purity of the Saint.
"He is a beast of fire and fury, My Lady, but he is loyal to a fault," Leon declared. "He understands honor. He understands glory."
"His strength is what is required," Annelise said, her tone polite but distant. She did not approach the dragon. She did not need to. Her gaze was enough. "He will serve as a magnificent testament to the power of faith when he stands guard by the holy altar. Make your preparations, Sir Leon. You will have the honor of escorting me."
"It will be my life's greatest achievement," Leon stammered, so overcome with joy he could barely speak. "Redflame and I… we are your servants."
Annelise gave a slight nod, a dismissal disguised as a blessing. She and her entourage turned and swept out of the courtyard, the brilliant sun of her aura receding, leaving the world feeling colder and grayer in its absence.
The moment she was gone, the courtyard erupted. Servants scrambled to their feet, chattering excitedly.
"Did you see her? She looked right at me!"
"Sir Leon! He gets to guard the Saint herself!"
"Such an honor for the Dragon Knight order!"
Arthur stood up slowly, his movements unnoticed in the commotion. He grabbed the handles of his wheelbarrow. The weight felt like nothing. He looked toward the cavern where Redflame was settling back down, the clink of its massive chains echoing in the stone. He looked in the direction the Saint had departed.
The Saint. The Knight. The Dragon. The Ceremony.
All the actors are in place, Su Ling thought, a cold, sharp amusement forming in the depths of her consciousness. A stage is set for a grand performance of faith and glory. A celebration built around a lie.
She recalled the torrent of biological data she had stripped from the Dragonblood stone, the understanding of its chaotic, fiery nature. She remembered the insights gleaned from its half-digested dung, the pathways of its energy, its weaknesses. The creature's inner workings were an open book to her.
A perfect stage for a perfect farce, she mused, a plan beginning to spin itself into existence, intricate and beautiful in its simplicity. The Knight is arrogant. The Saint is a fraud. And the Dragon… the Dragon just ate.
A hint of a smile touched the lips of the filthy stable boy.
Let's see what happens when the star performer gets a little indigestion.