The Cardinal's lantern did not cast light. It imposed reality. The air in the lower dungeon grew thick, heavy, each breath a struggle. The frantic blue-white fire of the alchemist's aura guttered, compressed by the lantern's overwhelming presence. The man, Theron, shrank back from the bars, his manic grin replaced by a snarl of pure hatred.
"The anchor," Theron hissed, his voice a dry rattle. "The Warden's lock. He comes to nail the world back in place."
Valerius descended the stone steps. His movements were unhurried, each step a final, damning judgment. His Inquisitors fanned out behind him, their black armor absorbing the very shadows. They moved as one, a many-limbed creature of absolute obedience.
The anchor is crude, Su Ling's thought cut through the oppressive energy inside Arthur's mind. It screams its presence, announcing its function. A true master of rules bends them without a sound. This is the work of a jailer, not a creator.
Valerius stopped. His gaze swept over the babbling, terrified form of Malachi, then to the empty space where the iron lock used to be. A small pile of gray dust was the only evidence of its existence. His eyes, cold and sharp, finally settled on Arthur.
"You have caused a great deal of trouble, little rat," Valerius said. The words were not loud, but they resonated in the stone, in the bones.
The Cardinal raised the lantern. The swirling sphere of light within it pulsed. The power of the Ash Hand, the subtle, seeping entropy that flowed from Arthur's palm, was smothered. It felt like a hand clamping over his mouth, cutting off a silent word. The stolen dragon essence roiling within Arthur's body recoiled, caged by this foreign, absolute order.
"And you, Theron," Valerius's gaze shifted to the man behind the bars. "Still whispering your poisons in the dark. It seems I have found the root of the infection."
"Your light is a lie!" Theron shrieked, lunging at the bars again. "A gilded cage for sheep! This boy… he holds the key! The power to un-make!"
"He holds heresy," Valerius stated. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
The Inquisitors moved. They did not rush. Two went to Theron's cell, their movements efficient as they worked the rusted levers, forcing the gate open with the groans of tortured metal. Two more seized Arthur. Their grip was absolute, the power of the Cardinal's lantern flowing through them, a circuit of control. There was no struggle. The boy's body was simply an object to be moved.
"A public disturbance requires a public solution," Valerius announced to the shadows. "The people's faith was shaken. It must be restored. They witnessed a disgrace. Now, they will witness a miracle." He turned, his red robes sweeping the filthy floor. "Bring them."
They were dragged from the depths, back into the world of noise and light. Theron fought every step, his curses echoing up the stone corridor. He called Valerius the Parasite's Dog, a herder of souls for a gluttonous god. Arthur remained limp, his head bowed, a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The Grand Plaza had been cleared of the chaos, but the scars remained. Black scorch marks marred the dais. A shattered statue lay in roped-off ruin. But the people had returned, thousands of them, their numbers swollen by morbid curiosity. They packed the square, their faces turned to the newly erected platform in the center. It was a circular stage of dark, freshly cut wood. A purification altar.
The crowd saw the prisoners emerge, and a wave of sound washed over them. Hisses for the wild-eyed, screaming old man. A mixture of fear and contempt for the filthy stable boy.
Valerius strode to the center of the plaza, his voice magically amplified, booming over the masses. "People of the Holy City! You witnessed a blasphemous act! An attempt by the forces of the Abyss to defile our most sacred ceremony!"
A roar of anger came from the crowd.
"The Champion, Sir Leon, was sabotaged by dark magic!" Valerius continued, his arm gesturing to the prisoners being forced onto the altar. "The agent of that darkness stands before you now! A demon in human skin, aided by a mad heretic who has festered in our dungeons for decades!"
On the high balcony overlooking the plaza, Lady Annelise stood, a vision in white silk. Her veil hid her expression, her posture one of serene observation. Beside her, Sir Leon leaned forward, his hand gripping the stone balustrade. A dark, vengeful satisfaction twisted his handsome features. His eyes were locked on Arthur, hungry for the cleansing fire.
"But fear not!" Valerius's voice thundered. "For where darkness rises, the light shines brighter! To wash away this stain, to reaffirm the covenant between our God and His people, we shall offer these impurities as a sacrifice! We shall call upon the heavens to deliver the ultimate purification! A living offering to cleanse the land!"
The crowd erupted. They were no longer just spectators. They were participants. Their cheers were a prayer, a feeding of the great beast of collective faith.
On the altar, the two Inquisitors shoved Theron to his knees. "Fools!" the old alchemist screamed, his voice raw. "You cheer for your own chains! He offers you a show while he drinks your souls! The Saint is a fraud! The Cardinal is a liar! Your God is a…"
An Inquisitor moved. He carried a branding iron, its tip glowing a dull cherry red from a nearby brazier. Without a word, he pressed it against Theron's lips.
There was a sickening sizzle, a smell of burnt meat. Theron's scream was cut short, replaced by a muffled, agonized choking. He collapsed, smoke rising from his face. The crowd fell silent for a moment, then a smattering of cheers broke out, growing louder. They were applauding the silencing of the truth.
The Inquisitors turned to Arthur. He offered no resistance as they forced him to his knees beside the twitching form of the old alchemist. He did not look at the crowd. He did not look at the Cardinal. He simply raised his head and looked at the sky.
The afternoon sun was bright. A few clouds drifted lazily. A perfect day for a burning.
The timing is nearly perfect, Su Ling's consciousness noted, a detached amusement in her thoughts. The audience is rapt. The stage is set. The high priest has promised a miracle. He intends to offer a sacrifice to his god. A fine idea. A sacrifice is indeed required. But he has misunderstood his role. He is not the one making the offering. He is simply ringing the dinner bell.
Valerius ascended the steps to the altar. He now held a scepter of twisted gold and silver, topped with a crystal that pulsed with blinding white light. The Purification Scepter. He raised it high.
"Oh, great and glorious Sun of Heaven!" he began to chant, his voice resonating with power. "Source of all that is pure! Giver of the Sacred Flame!"
The energy in the plaza shifted. The fervent belief of thousands of souls was being drawn, funneled by the Cardinal's words, into the scepter. The crystal on its tip blazed, a miniature sun absorbing the light of the real one.
"We, your humble servants, have captured an agent of the Void! A stain upon your perfect creation!"
He pointed the scepter at Arthur.
"We offer this vessel of corruption to you! We beg you, send forth your fire! Send forth the Celestial Flame that scours all impurity! Show your people your power! Burn the heresy from our sight!"
He thrust the scepter toward the heavens. A beam of focused, blinding energy shot from the crystal, a pure white lance piercing the blue of the sky. The air itself hummed, vibrating with an impossible power. The crowd gasped, their faces filled with awe and terror. They were about to witness a true miracle.
For a moment, nothing happened. The beam of light simply hung there, a pillar connecting the altar to the heavens.
Then, the sky answered.
It did not glow. It did not brighten. It cracked.
A thin, jagged line of pure gold appeared, as if a master painter had slashed the canvas of the world. The crack widened, not with a sound of thunder, but with a deep, soul-shaking hum that vibrated in the teeth and bones of every person in the plaza. Golden light, thicker than honey, more brilliant than the sun, began to pour from the fissure.
With the light came a pressure.
It was not physical. It was a pressure on the soul, a weight of absolute, ancient divinity. It pressed down on the city, on every living thing.
Sir Leon, the vengeful knight, found his knees buckling. He fell to a kneeling position on the balcony, his pride shattered by a power he could not comprehend.
Lady Annelise, the Living Saint, sank gracefully to her knees, her head bowed. The blinding sun of her own aura seemed like a flickering candle in the face of this deluge.
In the plaza, the crowd collapsed as one. Men, women, children, guards, priests—all were forced to their knees, then to their faces, prostrated on the cobblestones. They did not scream. They could not. They could only tremble under the immensity of what was happening.
Even Cardinal Valerius, the high priest who had called for this, found his strength abandon him. The scepter fell from his nerveless grasp, clattering onto the wooden altar. He stumbled back, his legs giving way, and he fell to his knees, his face a mask of horrified awe. He had asked for a spark, and a supernova had answered.
The entire city was prostrate. Every soul bowed in submission.
All except one.
On the altar, surrounded by the golden, celestial downpour, the filthy stable boy remained kneeling for a moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stood up.
The divine pressure, which had forced an entire city to the ground, washed over him and through him, leaving him untouched. He was a stone in the path of a flood, unmovable, unconcerned.
He stood in the center of the miracle, a ragged silhouette against a waterfall of impossible light. He raised his head, the golden radiance illuminating the grime on his face.
And he smiled.
It was not a smile of defiance. It was not a smile of triumph. It was the calm, placid, terrifyingly amused smile of the host of a grand feast, finally welcoming the main course.