The sky over the Kingdom of Solas didn't cry for Alistair Vane. It simply burned.
Alistair lay strapped to the Altar of Dawn, the very stone structure he had designed three years ago to channel holy energy. Now, it was slick with his own blood. His fingers, the ones that had drafted the blueprints for every cathedral and fortification in the realm, were shattered.
Standing over him was King Kaelen, the man Alistair had called a brother.
King Kaelen: "You look pathetic, Alistair. Where is that brilliant mind now?"
Alistair: (Coughing up crimson) "I built this world for you, Kaelen. I gave you the walls that keep the demons out."
King Kaelen: "And that is exactly why you must die. A man who knows how to build a fortress also knows where the cracks are. You are a security risk I can no longer afford."
Kaelen signaled to the High Priestess, Lyra, who stood at the edge of the altar holding a jagged obsidian dagger. She had been Alistair's fiancée until this morning.
Lyra: "Don't look at me like that, Alistair. Love is a fleeting draft. Power is the final build."
Alistair: "You'll regret this. Not because of the gods... but because of what I'll become when I stop trying to be "good."
Lyra: (Smirking) "Dead men don't become anything but dust."
Lyra plunged the blade into Alistair's chest. The "Gore" wasn't just a physical sensation; it was a spiritual tearing. As his heart pulsed its last, the holy silver of the altar reacted to his dying spite. The white light turned a sickly, bruised purple.
The ground groaned. The marble cracked.
King Kaelen: "What is happening? The ritual should be absorbing his mana!"
Alistair: (Voice rasping, inhuman) "You wanted... to find the cracks, Kaelen?"
Alistair's eyes didn't lose their light. Instead, they filled with a swirling, oily darkness the Chaos. His blood began to flow backward, defying gravity, weaving into the air like barbed wire.
Alistair: "I am the Architect. And today... I start the demolition."
With a sickening crunch of bone and stone, the altar exploded. When the smoke cleared, the King and Priestess were gone, fled to their inner sanctum. Alistair stood in the center of the crater, his chest wound leaking shadows instead of blood.
He picked up a shard of his own broken rib, sharpening it with a thought.
Alistair: "I built Solas in seven years. I'll tear it down in seven days."