The grand city of Vortalis, capital of the Empire, shimmered under the morning light—its obsidian spires catching the sun like bdes. But beneath the marble streets and sacred towers, unrest coiled like a serpent. The Prophet’s whispers had become scripture to the discontent.

  Kael strode through the Imperial Pace’s vaulted corridors, his cloak trailing like a shadow at his heels. Every courtier who passed bowed—not out of loyalty, but from something colder. Recognition of power.

  At his side, Empress Selene walked with her signature grace, though Kael detected it—the rigid poise, the careful control. Fear, perhaps. Not of death, but of irrelevance.

  They entered the High Council Chamber, a dome of gold-veined obsidian. Ministers and lords filled the circur gallery, each masked in diplomacy, some trembling beneath velvet robes of power.

  A man stepped forward, his crimson robes rich with sigils of the old gods. He did not bow. His voice poured across the hall like dark silk.

  “The Empire drifts, Your Majesty. The people seek purpose, not puppets. They no longer kneel to titles born of conquest.”

  The room stilled.

  Kael said nothing, but his golden gaze dissected every reaction—every twitch of a brow, every silent nod. The infection had spread far.

  Selene responded, her voice sharp as a bde’s edge.

  “They will kneel to strength. And they will remember who brought peace while others promised illusions.”

  The Prophet smiled without warmth.

  “Peace born of fear is not peace. It is dey. I offer revetion. A world freed from chains—yours among them.”

  Kael stepped forward, voice calm yet resonant.

  “You speak of liberation, but your methods are shadows in disguise. Revolt wrapped in scripture. You do not guide. You incite.”

  The Prophet’s smile deepened.

  “And yet... they listen. Ask yourself why, Lord Kael. When men fear kings, they obey. But when they believe gods walk among them... they follow.”

  A dangerous idea. Not a man, but a myth.

  Later, in Selene’s inner sanctum, silence reigned. She poured wine with hands steadier than her heart.

  “He’s wormed his way into my provinces. Even my generals question which crown holds true authority.”

  Kael took the goblet from her hand, pcing it aside.

  “Then remind them. Not with fire—but with doubt.”

  He unfurled a map. Atop it were symbols, names, secrets.

  “We don’t need to kill the Prophet. We need to kill the faith.”

  Selene arched a brow.

  “An idea is not so easily sin.”

  Kael smiled faintly.

  “No. But it can be unmade.”

  Operation Silencefire began before the next dawn.

  Kael’s agents seeded whispers of contradictions in the Prophet’s teachings. Dreams of betrayal. Paranoia. He infiltrated the speaker circles, pnting a trusted acolyte—a zealot turned informer, whose loyalty Kael had broken and reforged.

  The Pilrs of Faith, ancient monoliths older than the Empire, once silent relics, now pulsed with new meaning under the Prophet’s sermons. Kael would twist that symbolism.

  A public ritual was arranged: Selene’s re-sanctification at the Imperial Cathedral. On the Prophet’s stage. His altar. His crowd.

  But Kael had turned one of the Prophet’s own speakers—a man whose voice had once converted thousands—into a weapon.

  That night, from the highest tower, Kael watched the city breathe.

  Torches lit the streets like veins of fire. The people gathered beneath the Pilrs, waiting.

  Ravyn joined him, cloaked in dusk.

  “You’re lighting a match in a powder chamber.”

  Kael didn’t look away.

  “I’m showing them who holds the fme.”

  She hesitated.

  “And if he counters?”

  Kael turned, eyes burning like the sun behind obsidian gss.

  “Then I’ll bury him in ash.”

  The first blow had been struck—not with a bde, but with truth crafted to wound deeper than steel.

  The Prophet had made his gambit.

  Now Kael would reshape the gameboard itself.

  And on this battlefield of belief—Kael would not merely survive.

  He would reign.

  To be continued...