The proclamation arrived with the dawn.
It came on white-winged messenger falcons—dozens of them—wheeling over every town square, every village green, every crossroads shrine from the northern fjords to the southern salt flats. The birds landed in perfect unison, talons gripping iron posts or stone ledges, and unfurled scrolls sealed with golden wax bearing the triple cross of the Holy See.
The High Prelate's voice spoke from every scroll, amplified by minor miracles so that even the deaf could feel the words in their bones:
"Beloved children of the Light, hear the decree of the Lord's anointed.
The ancient shadow has awakened. The World-Eater, Abaddon, walks free among us, clothed in mortal flesh. His vessels spread like plague—carrying ruin, deception, flood, and unyielding stone.
They are not men. They are prisons for primordials long banished by divine will.
In the name of the Lord of Light, who banished darkness at creation's first breath, we declare a Holy Crusade.
Every pagan bloodline shall be examined. Every whisper of unnatural power shall be silenced. Every hidden vessel shall be brought to Sanctum for judgment—or cleansed by fire where they stand.
No mercy for the unclean. No quarter for the shadow.
The Light endures. The Light purifies.
So speaks the Holy See. So commands God."
The scrolls ignited after the final word, burning to ash in seconds. The falcons took wing again, leaving only the smell of scorched parchment and the echo of divine command.
In the hamlet of Ashenford, Elias watched from the edge of the market square as the scroll burned. Around him, people fell to their knees—some weeping in terror, some praying in fervent agreement. A mother clutched her two small children closer. An old man spat on the ground and muttered curses too low for the inquisitors already arriving to hear.
Elara stood beside Elias, hood deep, face unreadable.
"They're not wasting time," she said quietly.
Behemoth loomed at the back of the crowd, cloak pulled tight to hide his size. Even so, people edged away from him instinctively.
Liora smiled—small, sharp, delighted.
"Look at them," she whispered. "Half praying for salvation, half praying they're not next. The lie is cracking faster than we could ever break it ourselves."
Elias felt the sigil burn hot against his chest—not in warning, but in anticipation.
Abaddon's voice rolled through him like gravel underfoot.
The board is cleared. The pieces are in motion. Now we answer.
They slipped away before the first inquisitorial cordon closed the square. By noon they had reached the crest of a low ridge overlooking three valleys. Smoke rose from two of them—fresh pyres. In the third, distant figures in white-and-gold robes moved house to house, dragging people into the street.
Elias stopped.
"We can't just watch," he said.
Elara looked at him. "We're four against an army. We go in now, we die fast."
"We don't go in to fight," Elias answered. "We go in to free. To show them they're not alone."
Liora's eyes lit. "Propaganda. I like it."
Behemoth cracked his knuckles. Stone whispered along his arms. "Stone does not ask permission."
They descended into the third valley under Liora's shroud of shadow—light bending around them, footsteps muffled, presence erased. The inquisitors had already gathered two dozen villagers in the central square: men, women, children. Some bore faint marks—scars that glowed under holy water tests, eyes that flickered unnatural colors.
A captain in silver-trimmed armor stood on a makeshift platform, reading from a smaller scroll.
"—identified as potential vessels. By order of the Holy See, you will be transported to Sanctum for examination. Resist, and you will be cleansed here."
One woman—middle-aged, trembling—stepped forward.
"Please," she said. "My daughter—she's just a child. She sees things sometimes. Dreams. It's not evil—"
The captain raised a hand. A subordinate lifted a torch toward a waiting pyre.
Elias moved before he could think.
He stepped out of the shadow shroud. Liora hissed, but too late.
The sigil flared bright beneath his tunic—black light bleeding through fabric.
Every head turned.
The captain's eyes widened. "You—"
Elias raised both hands. Black flames erupted—not wild this time, but controlled, a perfect ring encircling the inquisitors without touching them. The flames gave no heat, only darkness that swallowed torchlight.
The villagers gasped.
The inquisitors drew swords, but their blades trembled.
Elias spoke—his voice his own, steady for the first time.
"They've been lying to you," he said. Loud enough for the square to hear. "Pagans aren't monsters. We're not demons wearing human skin. We're people—like you—who carry something the Church fears. Something they've hunted and burned for centuries to protect their lie."
He looked straight at the captain.
"Read your own records. They're not cleansing. They're collecting. Studying. Imprisoning. Because they don't know how to kill what we carry without risking their own God."
The captain snarled. "Heretic! In the name of the Light—"
Elara moved then—water surging from the village well, rising in a wall behind the inquisitors, cutting off retreat.
Behemoth stepped forward. The ground trembled as stone flowed up his legs, hardening into living armor. He raised one massive fist.
Liora laughed—soft, delighted—and shadows peeled from the ground, wrapping around the pyre chains, snapping them like thread.
The villagers stared—fearful, hopeful, stunned.
Elias lowered his hands. The black flames dimmed but did not vanish.
"Run," he told them. "Hide. Tell everyone what you saw here. Tell them the Church is burning its own people to keep a throne that was never theirs."
The woman who had spoken for her daughter grabbed her child and bolted. Others followed—scattering into alleys, over walls, into the fields.
The inquisitors lunged.
Behemoth met them first. One swing of his arm sent three flying like dolls. Elara's water crashed down, sweeping another five into the mud. Liora whispered and the shadows thickened—blinding, choking, driving the rest to their knees.
The captain alone stood his ground, sword raised.
Elias walked toward him.
"You can still leave," Elias said. "Tell your Prelates what happened here. Tell them we're coming."
The captain spat blood. "The Light will burn you all."
Elias looked at him—really looked—and saw not hatred, but terror.
"Maybe," he said quietly. "But not today."
He turned away.
The black flames flared once more—higher, brighter—then collapsed inward, leaving only scorched earth in a perfect circle around the broken inquisitors.
The four vessels vanished into the treeline as the first screams of the freed villagers echoed behind them.
The crusade had begun.
But it was no longer the Church's alone.
And in Sanctum, far to the north, a silver-haired boy knelt in the Garden of Ashes, red moonlight painting his face.
He touched one blackened rose—long dead—and smiled sadly.
"So it starts," he whispered.
Inside him, golden eyes opened wider.
And waited.
End of Chapter 13