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Rain hammered the cathedral bells of Eryndor so violently that the sound resembled war drums echoing across the capital.
Thousands crowded the sacred courtyard despite the storm.
Nobles stood beneath silver canopies.
Priests wrapped in white-and-gold robes lined the marble stairways.
Soldiers held the screaming crowd behind iron barricades while black execution banners whipped violently in the freezing wind.
At the center of the courtyard—
a man knelt in chains.
Blood dripped from his split lip onto the soaked stone beneath him.
His name was Garron Vale.
Former royal commander.
Declared traitor.
Declared heretic.
Declared cursed.
Above him towered the Sacred Sword of Saint Aureth—the holiest relic in all of Eryndor.
The blade gleamed unnaturally bright despite the dark sky overhead.
Scripture claimed it had been forged from divine fire by the First Saints themselves.
It had ended wars.
Judged kings.
Executed thousands.
And according to the Church—
the sword could never be resisted.
If the blade condemned someone, Heaven itself had already passed judgment.
The executioner lifted the sacred weapon slowly.
The crowd began chanting.
“Purify the cursed.”
“Purify the cursed.”
“Purify the cursed.”
Garron closed his eyes.
Then suddenly—
someone screamed.
A small figure pushed through the soldiers.
Thin.
Barefoot.
Drenched by freezing rain.
A boy no older than thirteen stumbled into the execution square.
“Move him back!” someone shouted.
But the child kept going.
The crowd recognized him immediately.
Whispers spread through the courtyard like wildfire.
“The plague survivor…”
“It’s that orphan…”
“The Black Winter boy…”
The child’s name was Lucien.
Though most people in Eryndor never used it.
To the city, he was simply the boy who should have died.
Three winters earlier, the Black Winter plague had swept through the lower districts.
Entire streets became graveyards overnight.
Bodies filled the canals.
Families locked themselves inside homes and burned alive together rather than face the sickness.
Lucien had lost everyone.
Mother.
Father.
Little sister.
Even the neighbors who once fed him scraps.
Only he survived.
And survival made people afraid.
The priests called him touched by death.
The citizens called him cursed.
Children threw stones at him in the streets.
Adults crossed themselves whenever he walked by.
Yet now—
that same boy stood directly between the sacred sword and its prisoner.
The executioner stared down at him in disbelief.
“Move aside, child.”
Lucien trembled violently.
Rainwater mixed with tears on his dirt-covered face.
But he shook his head.
“You can’t kill him.”
The crowd erupted furiously.
“He protects a traitor!”
“Drag him away!”
“Filthy plague rat!”
One priest stepped forward angrily.
High Priest Malachar.
Tall.
Thin.
Eyes like sharpened glass.
The gold sun-symbol of the cathedral gleamed across his chest.
“Boy,” Malachar said coldly, “step aside before you condemn your own soul.”
Lucien looked toward the chained prisoner.
Garron stared back in confusion.
The commander clearly didn’t recognize him.
Why would he?
They had never met.
But Lucien remembered him.
Three years ago during the Black Winter—
when soldiers sealed the infected districts—
Garron had secretly smuggled medicine into the quarantined slums against cathedral orders.
Lucien’s sister still died.
His mother still died.
But Garron had tried.
Nobody else had.
And now they were going to execute him for treason.
The executioner tightened both hands around the sacred sword.
“Last warning.”
Lucien’s breathing became uneven.
He was terrified.
Everyone could see it.
But somehow—
he still refused to move.
The executioner looked toward High Priest Malachar.
Malachar gave a slow nod.
“Do it.”
The sacred blade descended.
The crowd roared.
And Lucien raised one trembling hand instinctively.
The moment his skin touched the holy steel—
CRACK.
A thin fracture spread across the blade.
The courtyard fell silent instantly.
Another crack followed.
Then another.
Like ice breaking across a frozen lake.
The executioner stumbled backward in horror.
The sacred sword shattered apart in his hands.
Silver fragments exploded across the rain-soaked stone.
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Because the Sacred Sword of Saint Aureth was supposed to be indestructible.
Lucien stared at the broken pieces with wide terrified eyes.
Then softly whispered—
“It’s crying.”
Every priest in the courtyard went pale.
High Priest Malachar stepped backward.
“No…”
Lucien slowly lifted his head.
Tears streamed down his face.
“I can hear it.”
The wind suddenly changed.
The cathedral bells began ringing violently on their own.
Not by rope.
Not by human hands.
The bells screamed across the capital like warnings.
And beneath the storm—
the shattered sword began bleeding.
Not metaphorically.
Not symbolically.
Dark crimson blood seeped from the cracks in the holy steel.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
Women screamed.
Soldiers crossed themselves in panic.
Several priests collapsed to their knees praying desperately.
Malachar’s face had become deathly pale.
“Seize the boy,” he whispered.
Nobody moved.
“SEIZE HIM!”
The soldiers hesitated.
Lucien looked terrified himself.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Grab him!” Malachar screamed.
Then suddenly—
Garron moved.
Despite his chains, the former commander slammed into the nearest guard hard enough to knock him into the execution platform.
“RUN!” Garron shouted.
Lucien froze only a second before obeying.
The courtyard exploded into motion.
Soldiers chased after him through the storm while citizens scattered screaming in every direction.
Lucien sprinted barefoot across flooded streets, his lungs burning.
Thunder cracked overhead.
Behind him—
cathedral bells continued screaming.
And somewhere deep beneath the city—
something ancient woke up.
Lucien hid beneath the broken remains of an abandoned mill outside the lower districts.
Rain dripped steadily through the collapsed roof.
His body shook uncontrollably from cold and fear.
He still didn’t understand what had happened.
Sacred relics weren’t supposed to break.
Holy objects weren’t supposed to bleed.
And swords definitely weren’t supposed to cry.
Yet he had heard it clearly.
Not words exactly.
More like grief.
Agony.
Loneliness.
As if something trapped inside the blade had been begging to die for centuries.
Footsteps approached.
Lucien immediately grabbed a rusted metal pipe from the floor.
But instead of soldiers—
Garron stepped into the ruined mill.
Still wearing broken chains around his wrists.
Still bleeding from cuts across his face.
Lucien nearly dropped the pipe.
“You followed me?”
“You saved my life,” Garron answered. “I figured I owed you answers.”
Lucien backed away nervously.
“I didn’t save you.”
“You shattered the holiest weapon in Eryndor in front of ten thousand witnesses.”
Garron studied him carefully.
“You have any idea what that means?”
Lucien shook his head.
Garron exhaled slowly.
“It means the cathedral will never stop hunting you.”
Lightning flashed across the ruined mill.
For a moment, Garron’s expression darkened.
“I’ve seen priests kill entire villages to protect their secrets.”
Lucien swallowed hard.
“What secret?”
Garron looked toward the storm outside.
Then quietly said:
“The sacred sword was never holy.”
Silence filled the mill.
Rain hammered the broken roof.
Garron lowered himself onto an overturned crate with visible pain.
“Twenty years ago, I served the cathedral directly. I guarded relic vaults beneath the capital.”
His voice became quieter.
“One night… I heard screaming underground.”
Lucien frowned.
“Screaming?”
“Not human screaming.”
Garron’s face tightened.
“They kept something alive beneath the cathedral.”
Lightning illuminated the room again.
“I was ordered never to speak about it. Priests claimed it was an angel bound beneath the city.”
He looked directly at Lucien.
“But angels don’t cry like tortured prisoners.”
A cold feeling crawled down Lucien’s spine.
“The sword…”
Garron nodded slowly.
“The blade was feeding on it.”
Before Lucien could answer—
a deep cathedral horn echoed across the city.
Garron cursed under his breath.
“They’re already searching.”
Then he grabbed Lucien’s arm.
“We need to leave Eryndor tonight.”
But Lucien suddenly froze.
His eyes drifted toward the darkness outside the mill.
“I hear it again.”
Garron’s expression changed instantly.
“Hear what?”
“The crying.”
Lucien stepped slowly into the rain.
“It’s underneath us.”
The ground trembled.
Far away—
cathedral bells screamed again.
By dawn, Eryndor had become a city consumed by fear.
Posters bearing Lucien’s face appeared across every district.
THE BLASPHEMER CHILD.
THE CURSED ONE.
THE BREAKER OF SAINT AURETH.
Citizens whispered that demons walked beside him.
Others claimed the apocalypse had begun.
Inside the cathedral throne chamber, High Priest Malachar stood before the remaining bishops.
Their faces were pale.
Terrified.
One elderly bishop finally spoke.
“What if the boy truly heard the vessel?”
Malachar’s eyes hardened instantly.
“There is no vessel.”
“But the sword—”
“The sword broke because the child is corrupted.”
Malachar’s voice echoed violently through the chamber.
“Nothing more.”
The bishops exchanged uncertain glances.
Then another priest whispered:
“And if the prophecy is real?”
Silence.
Even Malachar stopped moving.
Because every priest in the room knew the forbidden scripture.
The hidden passage never spoken publicly.
When compassion breaks the divine blade, the buried saint shall awaken and the kingdom built on holy lies shall drown.
Malachar slowly clenched his fists.
“Find the boy before sunset.”
His expression darkened.
“Or Eryndor falls.”
Lucien and Garron fled through underground sewer tunnels beneath the city.
The deeper they traveled—
the louder the crying became.
At first it sounded distant.
Then unbearable.
Like thousands of voices mourning together.
Lucien eventually collapsed to his knees gripping his head.
“Make it stop…”
Garron helped him stand.
“We’re close.”
Ahead of them stood an enormous iron door hidden beneath centuries of rust.
Ancient symbols covered its surface.
Lucien stared at them.
And somehow—
understood them.
Not because he could read the language.
But because the voices whispered the meanings directly into his mind.
PRISON OF THE FIRST MARTYR.
DO NOT OPEN.
Lucien’s breathing became uneven.
“What is this place?”
Garron looked horrified.
“I thought it was a myth.”
The boy slowly reached toward the door.
The moment his fingers touched the metal—
the entire tunnel shook violently.
Massive locks began turning by themselves.
Dust exploded from the ceiling.
And the ancient door slowly opened inward.
Cold air poured from the darkness beyond.
Not normal cold.
Dead cold.
The kind found in tombs forgotten by time.
Lucien stepped inside first.
The chamber beyond was enormous.
Ancient.
Beautiful.
Thousands of candles burned despite nobody being there to light them.
And at the center of the underground cathedral—
hung a woman suspended in chains of gold.
Lucien froze.
She looked almost asleep.
Long silver hair drifted weightlessly around her pale face.
Her white robes were stained red across the chest.
And enormous golden spears pierced through her wrists and ribs, pinning her in place above a black abyss.
The crying stopped instantly.
The woman slowly opened her eyes.
Gold.
Blinding gold.
She looked directly at Lucien.
Then smiled sadly.
“You finally came back.”
Lucien staggered backward.
“What?”
Garron drew his dagger immediately.
“Stay behind me.”
But the chained woman ignored Garron completely.
Her eyes remained fixed on the boy.
“You don’t remember yet.”
Lucien’s heart pounded violently.
“Remember what?”
The woman’s expression became unbearably gentle.
“Who you are.”
Suddenly—
soldiers flooded the chamber.
Dozens of cathedral knights stormed through the broken doorway led by High Priest Malachar himself.
“There!” Malachar shouted.
The knights surrounded Lucien instantly.
But when they saw the chained woman—
every soldier froze.
Some immediately fell to their knees weeping.
Others stared in horror.
Because the woman looked exactly like the statues of Saint Aureth found across every cathedral in Eryndor.
The kingdom’s most beloved holy figure.
Except—
the statues always showed her holding a sword.
Not chained like a prisoner.
Lucien looked between the woman and the priests.
Confusion turned slowly into horror.
“No…”
Malachar’s face twisted with rage.
“Do not listen to her!”
The woman’s golden eyes never left Lucien.
“They used my body to forge their miracles.”
The chamber fell silent.
“They called me holy while feeding generations with murder.”
One bishop collapsed vomiting.
Another began sobbing uncontrollably.
Lucien stared at the broken spears piercing her body.
“The sword…”
“They forged it from my bones.”
Garron looked sick.
Malachar stepped forward desperately.
“She lies! She is the Betrayer!”
The chained woman tilted her head slightly.
“Then why are you afraid?”
Malachar’s voice cracked.
“Because you destroy faith!”
“No,” she whispered sadly. “Truth does.”
The chamber trembled violently.
The black abyss beneath her chains began glowing faintly red.
Lucien suddenly remembered something.
A memory.
Snow falling through broken rooftops during the Black Winter.
His mother holding him close while fever consumed her.
And a voice whispering softly in the darkness:
Live.
The memory shattered through him like lightning.
Lucien staggered.
The woman smiled through tears.
“You heard me then too.”
Malachar suddenly screamed:
“KILL THE BOY!”
The cathedral knights charged.
And everything changed.
The chains binding the woman exploded apart.
Golden light consumed the underground cathedral.
The soldiers were thrown backward violently.
Lucien shielded his eyes—
then slowly looked up.
Saint Aureth floated above the abyss freely now.
Not wrathful.
Not monstrous.
Only unbearably sad.
She descended gently toward him.
“You survived because I chose you.”
Lucien’s voice trembled.
“Why me?”
“Because when the world taught you cruelty…”
She touched his cheek softly.
“…you still chose compassion.”
The entire chamber shook harder.
Cracks spread across the underground walls.
Far above them, cathedral towers began collapsing across the city.
People screamed in the streets.
Malachar stumbled backward in terror.
“You’ll destroy Eryndor!”
Aureth finally looked at him.
And for the first time—
anger appeared in her eyes.
“No,” she said quietly.
“You already did.”
The abyss beneath them erupted open.
Not fire.
Not demons.
Bodies.
Thousands upon thousands of bones buried beneath the cathedral foundations.
Generations of sacrifices.
Children.
Prisoners.
The poor.
Anyone the Church declared cursed.
The crowd of knights recoiled in horror.
Because every miracle of Eryndor had been powered by death.
The holy kingdom had literally been built on corpses.
Malachar collapsed to his knees laughing hysterically.
“No… no no no…”
Aureth looked toward the terrified priests.
“I begged them to stop centuries ago.”
Her voice broke softly.
“They called mercy weakness.”
Lucien stared at the mountain of bones below.
Then understood the terrible truth.
The sacred sword had shattered because it had finally touched someone willing to protect another person instead of condemn them.
Compassion broke the curse.
Not power.
Not prophecy.
Human kindness.
And suddenly—
Lucien realized something else.
The crying inside the sword…
had never belonged to the weapon.
It belonged to Aureth herself.
For centuries.
Still chained.
Still suffering.
Still waiting for someone kind enough to hear her pain.
Tears filled Lucien’s eyes.
“You were alone this whole time.”
Aureth smiled weakly.
“Not anymore.”
Above them—
the cathedral ceiling began collapsing completely.
Garron grabbed Lucien urgently.
“We need to go!”
But Aureth shook her head.
“There’s no time.”
The abyss below had fully awakened now.
The dead were rising—not violently, but peacefully.
Countless pale spirits emerged from the darkness surrounding the chamber.
Watching silently.
Waiting.
Aureth looked toward them with sorrow.
Then at Lucien.
“One final choice remains.”
The boy swallowed hard.
“What choice?”
“If the truth reaches the surface, Eryndor burns.”
Outside, screams echoed across the collapsing city.
“The people will destroy themselves once they learn their faith was built on slaughter.”
Lucien stared at the frightened spirits.
“At least they’d know the truth.”
“Yes,” Aureth whispered.
“But truth without mercy becomes vengeance.”
Lucien looked toward Malachar.
The priest was crying now.
Broken.
Terrified.
Human.
And suddenly Lucien understood the impossible decision placed before him.
Expose everything…
or spare the innocent from endless bloodshed.
The entire kingdom balanced on his answer.
Everyone waited.
The dead.
The priests.
Garron.
Even Aureth herself.
Then slowly—
Lucien stepped toward Malachar.
The high priest flinched violently expecting death.
Instead—
Lucien offered him his hand.
The chamber went silent.
Malachar stared upward in disbelief.
“Why?”
Lucien’s voice trembled softly.
“Because somebody has to stop this from becoming another execution.”
Aureth closed her eyes.
And for the first time in centuries—
she smiled peacefully.
The golden light surrounding her began changing.
Softening.
The angry dead spirits slowly calmed around them.
One by one—
they began fading gently into light.
Not trapped anymore.
Not suffering anymore.
Freed.
The underground cathedral stopped shaking.
The abyss slowly sealed itself.
And Aureth herself began dissolving into thousands of glowing fragments.
Lucien panicked.
“No—wait!”
Her fading hand touched his forehead gently.
“You already saved me.”
Tears streamed down his face.
“What happens now?”
Aureth’s voice became softer.
“Now…”
The last fragments of light drifted upward like stars.
“…you teach them mercy.”
Then she vanished.
Completely.
Silence filled the chamber.
The bones beneath the cathedral crumbled peacefully into dust.
The remaining priests stared at Lucien with shattered expressions.
Not worship.
Not hatred.
Something far more frightening.
Hope.
Three months later—
the great bells of Eryndor rang again.
But this time—
not for execution.
The cathedral courtyard had changed completely.
The black execution platform was gone.
In its place stood a massive memorial garden filled with white flowers.
Names once erased by the Church had been carved into stone walls surrounding the courtyard.
Victims.
Forgotten people.
The condemned.
Citizens gathered quietly beneath warm spring sunlight.
Not to watch death.
But remembrance.
Lucien stood near the fountain barefoot as always.
Though nobody mocked him anymore.
Children now followed him through the streets asking questions.
Old women brought him bread.
Even soldiers bowed respectfully when he passed.
Garron approached carrying two cups of tea.
“You’re becoming impossible to avoid.”
Lucien laughed softly.
“That sounds terrible.”
“You have no idea.”
They sat together near the memorial garden while bells echoed peacefully overhead.
The cathedral still stood.
But differently now.
The priests no longer carried execution decrees.
The sacred laws had been rewritten.
And deep beneath the city—
the prison chamber remained sealed forever.
Not hidden.
Not worshipped.
Remembered.
Lucien stared toward the sunlight spilling across the courtyard stones.
“You think people can really change?”
Garron followed his gaze.
Children were playing near the flowerbeds where executions once happened.
“No,” Garron said honestly.
“Not easily.”
Then he smiled slightly.
“But maybe that’s why compassion matters.”
Lucien looked down at his hands.
The same hands that shattered a sacred sword.
The same hands that chose mercy when vengeance would’ve been easier.
Then quietly—
he heard something one last time.
Not crying.
Not pain.
A soft laugh carried gently through the wind.
And somewhere beyond sight—
Saint Aureth finally rested.
