The shrine's light had not yet faded when Fenrir issued his next command.
"You've taken the oath, Elden. Now take the message."
His voice echoed within the Paladin's mind, calm but resolute.
"Go to my followers—those who've carried my name in prayer, even before you knew me. Find them. Tell them I have chosen you. That you are my will made flesh."
High above, Fenrir stood in the divine veil, gazing through the veil of clouds as Elden bowed once more and turned from the altar. The new sword—his sword—rested firmly in the man's hand.
A few steps later, and he was gone from the shrine, back into the world.
Days passed.
Elden moved swiftly across the southern valleys, heading toward the heartlands where Fenrir's early followers had gathered after the Foundation Festival.
What had once been a small faith was now an organized order—settlements built near shrines, priests appointed, rituals performed. Their devotion had earned Fenrir karma by the hour.
But something was wrong.
