It began with a scream in the Hollow.
Not of pain.
Of denial.
A single follower, robed in ash-stained cloth, stood before the altar and threw down the red sigil charm every convert wore.
"Lies!" he shouted.
"The Ash Saint is a shadow! He is not the one in the dream!"
The crowd parted around him.
Weapons raised.
Whispers flared.
He didn't run.
He lifted a shard of black stone, cracked and warm, marked with a symbol none of them could read.
A circle.
A scale.
An eye above both.
⸻
"I saw it," he said. "In my sleep. In fire that did not burn."
"He doesn't judge like the Ash Saint."
"He watches."
"He waits."
"And he does not speak—because he already knows."
The crowd grew uneasy.
Half turned away.
Half drew closer.
And from the rafters, hidden beneath a curtain of incense smoke, the Ash Saint watched.
His hands tightened.
His mask remained still.
⸻
Meanwhile, in the palace:
Queen Saela stood beside Mara as she laid the stone shard on the velvet-lined desk.
The sigil glowed faintly, as if remembering something.
"He says he dreamt it," Mara reported.
"Said it burned into his mind after looking into a mirror that cracked."
Saela said nothing at first.
But then:
"Summon Aether."
"Your Majesty—"
"Don't send guards. Don't make a scene. Just… invite him."
"To what end?"
She stared at the sigil.
"To see if he flinches."
⸻
Back at the inn:
Aether was halfway through ironing linens for no reason other than "it was crooked," when a palace page stepped in awkwardly.
"Sir, um, Her Majesty would… uh, like to speak with you."
"Me?"
"Yes. You've been very helpful around the city, and she… would like to personally thank you."
"Ah," Aether replied, setting the iron down.
"Royal gratitude. That always ends well."
He wiped his hands on a towel, smiled gently, and turned toward the door.
"Let's not keep her waiting."
*
The palace felt different at night.
Colder.
Quieter.
Less like a fortress, more like a tomb that learned to sing.
Aether was guided through side halls and empty chambers.
No guards flanked him.
No weapons glinted.
Just the sound of his footsteps and the flame of a single lantern ahead.
At its end: a room.
Round. Simple. Clean.
And at its center—Saela.
No crown.
No court.
Just her, seated at a table with two chairs, a single candle, and a black stone shard resting between them.
⸻
"Aether," she said as he entered.
"Your Majesty," he replied with an easy nod. "Pleasure as always."
He took the seat offered.
Not too relaxed.
Not too rigid.
Just enough to appear mortal.
⸻
The silence lingered for a beat too long.
"Would you like wine?" she asked.
"I'm more of a tea person. But I'm flattered."
She didn't smile.
But her eyes flickered.
To him.
Then to the shard.
Then back.
⸻
"This came from the slums," she said, nudging the stone slightly but never explaining what it was.
"Strange paperweight."
"It's older than the language it's marked in."
"I've seen older," Aether replied, picking imaginary lint off his sleeve.
Saela leaned back.
"You didn't flinch."
"Should I have?"
"Most people do when they sit across from something they don't understand."
"Ah," Aether said softly. "That explains a lot about my life."
⸻
Another pause.
This time, she watched him more closely.
"There's a cult forming," she said, tone even. "They call their leader the Ash Saint. But some within the group say they've seen someone else. Dreamed of him. A figure who… watches."
Aether tilted his head.
"Sounds lonely."
"They drew a symbol. One I saw once, near the avalanche site."
She didn't accuse him.
She didn't point at him.
But her voice dropped.
"You were there."
"So were a lot of people."
"Only one walked away clean."
⸻
She reached for the candle beside the shard.
Lit it.
The flame flickered briefly—then bent, just slightly, toward Aether.
As if pulled.
Aether said nothing.
Just stared into the candlelight like it was an old memory.
⸻
"You saved this city," Saela whispered. "But I don't know why."
"Maybe I like bakeries too much to watch them burn."
"And maybe I've let you walk too freely without knowing what walks beside me."
⸻
A pause.
Then—so softly she almost didn't ask:
"Are you here to help us?"
He looked at her.
Truly looked.
The kind of look that weighed centuries and morality and kindness and judgment…
but arrived wrapped in the smile of a teenage boy.
"I'm just here to fold towels."
*
The assault began at dawn.
Three companies moved into Erithe Hollow from three sides—quiet as fog, swift as thunder.
By the time the cultists realized they were surrounded, it was already over.
⸻
Some tried to fight.
They were cut down.
Some tried to run.
They were dragged back.
Some simply knelt, chanting the name of the Ash Saint, as if the lie would protect them.
It did not.
⸻
The shrine fell by midmorning.
The red banners were torn down.
The false altars smashed to gravel.
And those strange, ash-soaked robes?
Burned.
⸻
But not without cost.
Twelve soldiers dead.
Three more wounded.
And one captain missing an arm—
because a follower threw himself onto a glyph carved in blood and lit the air on fire.
It took them an hour to put the blaze out.
It never touched the map wall.
Only the names.
⸻
When Saela stepped through the wreckage, she said nothing.
Not of victory.
Not of justice.
She only approached the remnants of the inner sanctum—
where a cracked mirror hung crooked above a blackened altar.
There, in the dirt beneath it—
another shard.
Perfectly intact.
Marked with the same scale-circle-eye symbol as before.
⸻
"How long has this been here?" she asked.
"We don't know," her general said. "But it's cold."
"Cold?"
"Everything else burned, Your Majesty. But this?"
He placed it in her hand.
"Feels like… judgment."
⸻
She took it. Silently.
Didn't show it to the court.
Didn't log it in the official war ledger.
She kept it in a small velvet pouch in her cloak.
Next to the first one.
⸻
Meanwhile, Aether sat outside the Dustpetal Inn with a cup of tea, eyes closed, soaking in the late-morning sun.
A child ran by, waving a stick like a sword.
Someone shouted about "finally cleaning out that cult nonsense."
And he smiled slightly.
But when the breeze shifted—
he opened his eyes.
Because something cold brushed the edge of his awareness.
Not fear.
Just…
the sound of a stone remembering.
*
The dungeon beneath Veldenhar's citadel was made of old stone and older secrets.
Queen Saela walked it alone.
No guards.
No robes.
Just the weight of two shards in her cloak and a question lodged deep in her bones.
They brought the prisoner to her in chains—
but he barely moved.
Thin. Pale.
Eyes bloodshot, lips cracked.
Yet… smiling.
⸻
She sat across from him at a rusted iron table.
Didn't speak at first.
Let the silence become a noose.
Finally—
"Name."
"Gone," he rasped.
"You had one once."
"Doesn't matter now. He named me different in the dream."
Saela narrowed her eyes.
"Who did?"
"The one who watches. The one who doesn't speak unless the world tilts."
She said nothing.
He laughed softly. It echoed like glass breaking.
"You think I'm mad."
"I think you're dangerous."
"Then why are you here alone?"
She leaned forward.
"Because I've seen stranger things walk my kingdom lately."
His smile faded.
"Then you've seen him."
A pause.
Her throat tightened.
"Describe him."
"He doesn't wear gold. Doesn't demand worship. Doesn't glow."
"Then how do you know he's divine?"
"Because when he looks at you…"
He trembled.
"…you remember every sin you've ever convinced yourself was justified."
⸻
Saela's hand clenched under the table.
"You dreamed of him?"
"No," the man whispered.
"He dreamed me."
⸻
She stood abruptly.
Turned to leave.
He called out behind her—
"The Ash Saint is a lie. But he's awake now. He's listening. I hear his voice in the wind."
She didn't look back.
"Then pray he keeps listening," she said coldly, "and not answering."
⸻
As she stepped out into the corridor, she didn't breathe until the door was locked behind her.
In her palm, the second shard felt warmer now.
Or maybe her hands were just shaking.
⸻
Meanwhile, Aether finished sweeping the inn's common room.
The wind brushed through the window.
He paused.
Tilted his head.
Then quietly muttered,
"…I didn't dream him."
*
The royal archive hadn't been touched in decades.
Not truly.
Oh, scholars used it.
Priests borrowed scrolls.
But no one had ever read it all.
Because some things were hidden in the quiet.
Not sealed.
Not locked.
Just… placed where no one with a normal mind would keep looking.
But Saela wasn't normal anymore.
⸻
She descended into the sub-archive—the deepest level of the palace library.
A place where the stone sweated, and the air tasted like wax and rot.
Two guards offered to accompany her.
She refused.
Some things needed to be read alone.
⸻
She brought the two shards.
Placed them on the table beneath a rusted iron lamp.
And began pulling scrolls.
Not recent ones.
Ancient ones.
Before Veldenhar.
Before the Divine Council.
Before the gods were known by name and statue.
⸻
It took hours.
Ink faded.
Parchments too brittle.
Languages that hadn't been spoken in over a thousand years.
Then—
a scrap of vellum. Folded thrice. Tucked inside a priest's weather log.
On it:
"Beware the Eye Above Scales."
"He judges what gods cannot."
"He will not speak when you call. But when he does…"
"…you cannot lie."
⸻
There was no name.
Only the symbol.
The one on the shards.
The one in her dreams.
The one she had seen reflected in a flame that bent toward a boy who smiled too calmly.
⸻
She sat back.
Shards in one hand.
Ancient scrap in the other.
And whispered—
"What are you…?"
⸻
Meanwhile, Aether leaned against the inn's open window.
Eyes closed.
Breathing steady.
The wind shifted. Just slightly.
And somewhere, a candle lit in a room he hadn't stepped into yet.
*