In the crumbling eastern slums of Veldenhar, there was no peace.
Only silence.
Not the kind born of calm.
The kind born of absence.
Of watchful doors. Of prayers said in private.
Of footsteps that stopped before reaching certain streets.
There, in the ruin-shadowed quarter known as Erithe Hollow, a fire had been lit.
Not on rooftops.
But in minds.
⸻
The whispers began like dust.
"He walks again."
"The one who judged gods."
"The one with no name but ten voices."
They called him the Ash Saint.
A god who had vanished before temples ever wrote his name.
A god of wrath, not balance.
A god who punished mortals and immortals alike.
A god who was said to have once dragged angels from the sky and left their wings burning in judgment.
And now?
He was back.
⸻
Or so said the man in red.
He wore a cracked mask.
Stood atop a crumbled statue at midnight.
And spoke to the broken, the poor, the exiled.
"He has returned," the masked figure said.
"Not to save you—but to unmake the world that made you suffer."
People listened.
Because hope in pain is still hope.
⸻
But here's the problem:
It wasn't you.
Eclipse Raven still slept under a warm blanket at the Dustpetal Inn.
And if the Ash Saint ever existed… he wasn't divine.
He was pretending.
⸻
Back at the palace, Saela received the first report:
A secret gathering.
An old god's name resurfacing.
And rumors of a cloaked figure healing wounds—
but leaving his followers marked in ash.
Her blood ran cold.
Not because she believed in the god they worshipped—
But because she'd seen strangeness before.
Kindness that moved like precision.
Stillness that held too much weight.
And in her bones, she feared what often follows silence:
Impersonation.
*
The morning was ordinary.
Market crowds.
Fresh bread.
One broken wheel on a cabbage cart.
The usual.
Aether, hood half-raised, wandered the lower district with a basket tucked under one arm and a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
He liked these streets.
They didn't ask anything of him.
Just coin for fruit and a nod for good figs.
⸻
But something had changed.
Posters were going up on alley walls.
A symbol—an eye inside a flame—painted in red chalk.
And from corners and crates, cloaked figures were whispering words not meant for public air.
"He returns to unmake the makers."
"The Saint of Ash will burn the throne of false justice."
"He will walk as man, and none shall recognize the storm."
Aether raised a brow.
"Huh."
⸻
That's when the child appeared.
Dusty face. Big eyes. Too many pockets.
She tugged his sleeve and offered a folded parchment.
"Sir! Want to meet the god?"
Aether blinked.
"I'm already on bad terms with a few."
"This one's different!" she said proudly. "He's quiet! And really old! But looks young!"
He took the paper.
Unfolded it.
Read the title.
"THE RETURN OF THE ONE WHO JUDGED GODS"
His expression didn't change.
Not at first.
Then—
a single, sharp breath.
And a hearty, undignified laugh.
"Oh stars above," he said, doubling over. "They really think he wears red robes?"
He handed the flyer back.
"Careful," he told her with a wink. "He's probably allergic to linen."
⸻
He walked off.
Back toward the inn.
Still chuckling to himself like someone who just saw a pigeon deliver a love letter to a statue.
⸻
Back at the Dustpetal Inn:
He folded towels.
Stirred stew.
Fixed a hinge.
Watered a dying fern that perked up just a little too fast.
The flyer?
He used it to line the birdcage in the corner.
"Let them worship," he muttered.
"The real thing's busy."
*
By dusk, the eastern slums of Erithe Hollow were almost completely deserted.
Except for the courtyard beneath the broken spire.
The heart of the cult.
There, hundreds gathered in silence.
Hooded. Hushed. Hungry for something older than mercy.
And standing atop the old fountain, arms raised high—
The Ash Saint.
Or at least… the man pretending to be one.
⸻
"You feel abandoned," he declared. "Because the gods have grown weak."
"You feel judged," he whispered. "Because justice has gone blind."
"But I see you."
"I have returned."
He did not give a name.
He let the crowd name him.
And they did.
They called him Ash Saint. Flame-Walker. God-Killer.
And for those with no food, no shelter, no hope—
he gave something to believe in.
Even if it was a lie.
⸻
Meanwhile, in Veldenhar's royal chamber:
A scout knelt before Queen Saela, face pale, eyes wild.
"They're holding sermons now. Dozens at first. Then hundreds."
"Where?"
"Erithe Hollow, Your Majesty. They've taken the old ruin."
She nodded once.
"Anyone recognize the leader?"
"He wears a mask."
"And the boy?"
"Aether?" The scout shook his head. "Nowhere near it. We watched. He was at the market the entire time. Bought… jam."
Saela paused.
Something in her steadied.
"Send two more to observe the next gathering," she said. "Unarmed. Quiet. I want reports. I want names. I want truth."
"And if they resist?"
"Don't provoke. Just… disappear."
The scout hesitated.
"One more thing," he said softly. "The first scout you sent… hasn't returned."
*
The scout was supposed to return by nightfall.
His name was Callen.
Twenty-five. Precise. Trusted.
He'd never failed to report back.
Until now.
⸻
Saela stood alone in the royal observatory when the news came.
A knock.
A message.
A name, spoken softly.
"Callen."
That was all.
⸻
She didn't speak for a moment.
Didn't move.
Then—
"Where?"
"Near the hollow shrine, Majesty. His sigil ring was found. His blade too. Still sheathed."
"And no body?"
"None."
She turned to the captain.
"How many people know?"
"Only the retrieval team and myself."
She nodded once.
"Good. Keep it that way."
⸻
Down below, in the silent hall of mirrors, she summoned her war advisors.
She laid no blame.
She gave no grand speech.
She simply circled Erithe Hollow on a worn map…
and tapped the circle twice with her finger.
"We prepare a shadow cell," she said.
"Six agents. No colors. No names. No trace."
"If the Ash Saint is building something… we'll know what it is before he finishes the first altar."
⸻
Outside, the bells rang for evening prayer.
But they rang faintly in the eastern quarter.
Because the sound couldn't pass through faith too thick to question.
⸻
Meanwhile, across the city, Aether leaned out the window of the Dustpetal Inn, watching two street cats fight over a slice of radish.
He said nothing.
He yawned once.
And went back inside to mop the floor.
*
The first shadow agent entered Erithe Hollow under a false name.
No armor. No badge.
Just a smudge of soot across her face and a limp that made her seem older than she was.
Her name for the mission: Mara.
Her goal: observe, identify, disappear before dawn.
What she found… was not faith.
It was preparation.
⸻
In the basement of the ruined shrine:
Rows of crates.
Knives. Crossbows.
Dust-covered tomes wrapped in blood-spattered cloth.
Men and women whispered oaths—not to gods,
but to vengeance.
They weren't praying.
They were training.
⸻
The cult wasn't just growing.
It was arming.
And at the back of the shrine, surrounded by flickering oil-lamps and makeshift curtains of ash-soaked silk—
Mara found the altar.
Black stone.
Jagged. Humming faintly.
It wasn't carved with the flame-eye symbol the cult used on its flyers.
It was something else.
A circle. A scale. A single eye above both.
Burned into stone with such unnatural precision that Mara nearly turned and fled.
"Who made this?" she whispered.
"Not one of ours," a voice said behind her.
She spun. But the speaker had already vanished into the veil of ash smoke.
⸻
Back in the palace:
Saela stared at the sketch Mara delivered.
Her hand trembled, just slightly.
She'd seen it once before.
Etched into a cliff wall near the avalanche site.
The scouts called it a freak burn mark from falling debris.
But this?
This was deliberate.
⸻
She said nothing to her council.
Only sent Mara back with new instructions:
"Don't report to the nobles anymore. Not even the court priests."
"And if anyone asks about this symbol…"
"…tell them you've never seen it."
⸻
Meanwhile, across the city—
Aether wiped down a table at the inn.
Hummed a tune no bard had ever played.
And paused.
Just once.
Because he felt it.
Not danger.
Not threat.
Just…
a whisper of his own memory trapped in stone far from where it should be.
⸻
He smiled.
"Mortals really do get bored quickly."
*