The golden city rose on the horizon like a mirage of light made solid.
Sanctum had never looked more beautiful—or more doomed.
From the northern ridge the four vessels watched the walls gleam under the midday sun, spires piercing a sky that seemed too blue, too perfect. Pilgrims streamed through the gates in endless white lines, carrying candles and banners for the Feast of Final Purification—a new holy day declared only days ago, when the High Prelate had proclaimed that the Lord Himself would descend to cleanse the kingdom of shadow once and for all.
Elias lowered the hood of his cloak. The sigil on his chest burned steadily now—not in pain, but in readiness.
"They expect us," he said quietly.
Liora's shadows stirred at her feet. "They expect a miracle. We'll give them several."
Elara scanned the approaches. "The gates are triple-guarded. Ballistae on every tower. Inquisitorial cohorts stationed at every major street. They've turned the city into a fortress."
Behemoth cracked stone along his forearms. "Fortresses fall."
They descended in broad daylight—no attempt at stealth this time.
Liora walked at the front. Shadows peeled away from her in widening rings, darkening the road ahead until it looked like spilled night. Pilgrims who saw them coming froze, then scattered—some screaming "heretics," others falling to their knees in confused awe.
Elara raised both hands. Water rose from the roadside ditches, from fountains, from the very dew on the grass—forming a shimmering curtain that flanked them like living walls, refracting sunlight into blinding prisms.
Behemoth strode between them, each step sending tremors through the earth. Cracks spiderwebbed outward from his boots; cobblestones buckled and rose into makeshift barricades behind the group, cutting off retreat for any pursuers.
Elias walked in the center—black flames licking low around his ankles, not burning, only waiting.
The main gate loomed.
Guards in white-and-gold armor formed ranks, pikes lowered, crossbows raised. An inquisitor-captain stepped forward, staff blazing.
"In the name of the Lord of Light, halt! You are—"
Liora laughed—soft, delighted—and the shadows lunged.
They wrapped the pikes, snapped them like dry twigs, coiled around wrists and throats. Men dropped weapons, gasping, blinded.
Elara's water crashed forward in a single, controlled wave—knocking the front line flat without drowning them, sweeping them aside like driftwood.
Behemoth simply walked through the gate.
The iron portcullis groaned as he set one massive shoulder against it. Metal bent. Stone cracked. The gate tore free with a sound like thunder and crashed inward, flattening the barricade behind it.
The four stepped over the wreckage into the city.
The streets beyond were chaos.
Pilgrims screamed and ran. Bells tolled wildly. Inquisitors poured from side streets, golden light flaring from raised staves. Soldiers formed shield walls.
But the vessels moved as one.
Black flames surged from Elias in sweeping arcs—cold rings that forced soldiers back without killing, herding them toward alleys and away from the main boulevard. Water followed, flooding streets to slow pursuit. Stone rose under Behemoth's command, lifting cobblestones into walls that sealed off side passages. Shadows thickened under Liora's will, turning day to twilight, sowing confusion and fear.
They marched straight toward the Grand Cathedral.
Word spread faster than their steps.
From windows, from rooftops, from hidden doorways, people watched.
Some prayed.
Some wept.
Some—very quietly—smiled.
By the time they reached the cathedral plaza, the crowd had grown—not all hostile. Mixed among the white-robed faithful were others: the hidden pagans who had survived the purge, the doubters who had seen villages burn, the ones who had read the smuggled records or heard the stories from Ironwatch.
They stood at the edges, silent, waiting.
The cathedral doors stood open.
Inside, the High Prelates waited—arrayed on the steps before the altar in a semicircle of gold and white. At their center stood Lucian Vale.
He wore fresh robes, silver hair shining, hands folded in perfect humility.
But his eyes—when they met Elias's across the vast nave—were molten gold.
Lucifer smiled through the boy's mouth.
"You came," he said. The voice carried to every corner without effort. "As I knew you would."
Elias stepped forward. The black flames around him rose higher—still controlled, still cold.
"We came to end this," he said. Loud enough for the gathered crowd to hear. "To show them who you really are."
Lucifer spread his arms.
Golden wings unfurled once more—six vast pinions of blazing light that filled the transepts and cast long shadows across the stone.
"Then show them," he answered. "Show them the truth you think you carry."
The Prelates began to chant—binding rites, banishment hymns, prayers of purification.
The air thickened with golden power.
Elias raised one hand.
Black flames answered—rushing upward in a roaring column that met the golden light halfway up the nave.
The two forces clashed.
Light cracked against darkness.
The cathedral trembled.
And outside, in the plaza, the watching crowd held its breath.
The march on Sanctum had reached its heart.
Now came the moment of truth—or the moment everything burned.
End of Chapter 19