Nevan's Path of the Forsaken Flame
The white marble of the Third Temple reflected moonlight like a mirror of the gods. Incense still lingered in the air—yet it was not enough to cleanse the scent of blood that was about to be spilled.
Nevan stood at the edge of the temple's southern steps. His black cloak flowed like the night itself. Around him, the holy guards formed a semicircle, swords drawn, their faces trembling with both fear and faith.
The captain of the temple stood firm, his armor glimmering with divine glyphs.
– "You dare set foot upon sacred ground?"
Nevan said nothing. He slowly drew his blade—a slender, curved sword etched with forgotten runes. Not a weapon of the gods… but of men who defied them.
– "You smell like death," the captain hissed. "Who are you?"
Nevan finally spoke, voice low, almost mournful.
– "I once believed. I once prayed for mercy. I once knelt before your gods and begged them not to take her."
The silence grew heavy.
– "But they took her anyway."
The guards exchanged uncertain glances.
– "My daughter. Sixteen. Dragged from our home. Branded by your holy priests. Told she would 'serve the light.'"
Nevan stepped forward, dragging his sword gently against the stone floor. Sparks whispered in its wake.
– "When I found her, she was already broken. And still… she smiled. She said she forgave them."
The captain's face tensed. He knew. The weight of the Church's sins had always loomed beneath their golden thrones.
– "I held her as she died. And I promised her… the Light would bleed for what it did."
– "Enough!" the captain roared. "You speak heresy. Die for your sins!"
The guards surged forward.
But Nevan did not move. He simply raised his sword—
And vanished.
Like a whisper of vengeance, he slid between the guards, and in seconds—
Six heads fell.
Their bodies followed like broken statues, blood pooling where prayers once echoed.
The captain's sword clanged as he backed away. He was no coward—but he had just witnessed something… unholy.
Nevan stood in the center of the courtyard now, eyes closed.
– "Light cannot exist without casting a shadow. I am that shadow."
With a sudden movement, he raised his hand—and the runes on his sword ignited. Not with flame, but with memories.
His daughter's laughter. Her screams. Her last breath.
Each cry became a flame—consuming him, driving him, strengthening the void in his chest.
– "Gods who demand silence… do not deserve prayers."
He charged.