Chapter 6 – Shadows Over Saint's Hollow
The flames of the underground chamber crackled softly, their light casting long shadows on the stone walls. A heavy iron door creaked open, and footsteps echoed down the carved stairs. Cloaked figures around the obsidian table turned as Morda emerged from the tunnel — face unreadable, eyes burning with silent thought.
His boots dragged a trail of dust behind him as he approached the table and lowered his hood. The tension was immediate.
One figure leaned forward."Well?"
Morda's voice was cold, precise."He survived."He pulled a crimson cloth from his cloak and tossed it onto the table. Bloodstained. "And worse — he won."
A murmur swept through the room.
"Rigorus Draeven is no longer the lost lamb they thought him to be," Morda continued. "I watched with my own eyes — that aura... that presence. It wasn't just strength. It was divine sorrow. The crowd... they didn't just see a fighter. They saw a Saint."
A chair screeched against stone as someone stood up — hulking, broad-shouldered, eyes gleaming with disdain.
"Saint?" he growled, stepping into the firelight.
Dreadmaul.A mountain of a man. His torso bare except for leather bindings and black gauntlets seared with claw marks. Scars lined his skin like warpaint, and when he spoke, it was like boulders grinding together.
"You always speak like that, Morda. So careful. So fragile. Talking about symbols... and saints... and public perception."He slammed his fist into the table, cracking the black stone.
"None of that matters. Power. Power is what decides the world. Brute strength. Fear. That is what moves kingdoms."He leaned in, voice rising like a storm."Send me. I'll crush Rigorus. Break his bones. Grind that halo into dust and remind the world what true power looks like."
Morda didn't flinch. He stared at Dreadmaul with eerie calm.
"You'll go when I say so. Not a moment before."
A pause. Tension thickened like smoke.
"If you move without my signal, and ruin the plan… Father won't hesitate to kill you."
The fire crackled.
Dreadmaul smirked."Then maybe I'll kill Father too someday. And you… once I'm done proving how useless your plans really are."
A long silence followed. Only the firelight moved.
Morda finally turned away."Let the boy enjoy his victory. Let him taste hope. That makes the fall so much sweeter."
Thunder rumbled overhead. Far above, Saint's Hollow slumbered — unaware of the darkness growing beneath its soil.
Elsewhere, within the chambers of the Draeven clan...
Candlelight danced against the stone walls as Naelira dipped a cloth into warm herbal water. She worked quietly, her brow furrowed in concentration as she gently rolled a strip of white cloth around Rigorus's back and shoulder, where his arm had been partially dislocated during the duel. His shirt was draped loosely over one side of his body, revealing fresh bruises and dried streaks of blood.
Naelira's voice was soft but firm."Hold still."
Rigorus winced as the cloth tightened."I'm trying. It just feels like you're wrapping my bones in thorns."
She raised an eyebrow."That's because you fight like someone with no regard for their bones."
He chuckled, but only slightly—pain still flickered behind every breath."You sound like my sister."
"Then maybe you should listen," she replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Just then, the chamber door creaked open.
Liora stepped in, arms folded, with an amused expression spreading across her face.
"Well, well…" she said slowly, raising a brow."I see you already have a girlfriend."
Naelira's hands froze mid-wrap. Rigorus immediately sat up straighter despite the sharp pain.
"We're not in that kind of relationship!" they both said at the same time.
A beat of silence. Then Liora burst into laughter, shaking her head."Relax. I'm teasing. Saints, you both sound like kids caught stealing honey."
Naelira's face flushed, and she quickly went back to wrapping the cloth. Rigorus rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, looking away.
Liora leaned against the doorway, her eyes softer now."I just came to tell you… Mother wants to see you. She said after you've rested a bit."She smirked."But knowing you, you'll probably be up walking around like nothing happened by tomorrow morning."
Rigorus smiled faintly."If I'm not, blame Naelira. She wraps my injuries like a vengeful priestess."
Naelira snorted."You deserve it."
All three laughed, and for a moment, the world outside the chamber — the schemes, the shadows, the sorrow — faded into the background.
The next morning...
The warm rays of dawn filtered through the silk curtains of the Draeven estate. The clan grounds were quiet, still reeling from the echoes of the previous day's duel. Whispers drifted through the halls like lingering smoke — whispers of Rigorus, of twin fangs, of monstrous aura.
Rigorus walked the quiet path to the private wing where his mother was kept. His steps were slow, not out of pain, but thought. The Morning Halo shimmered faintly around his head, invisible to most eyes but real to him — a quiet reminder of who he now was.
He knocked once.
"Come in," came the soft voice of Celestia Draeven.
She was seated by the window, bathed in light, draped in warm robes. Her eyes, tired but gentle, lit up as she saw him.
"You never stay down for long, do you?" she smiled.
He approached and knelt beside her chair.
"You called for me."
Celestia reached out and brushed a strand of his long hair behind his ear, a habit from his childhood she never unlearned.
"Yes... I wanted to speak with you while the house is still quiet."
She looked out the window briefly, then back at him — her tone lowering.
"There are people moving in the shadows, Rigorus.""Some want the Draeven clan to fall. Others want to control it."
He blinked, but said nothing.
"I thought you should know… since you probably don't yet. Not everyone is happy about what happened in the duel yesterday. Your return, your power, the way you carried yourself — it shook something."
She looked him in the eye, voice grave now."Your father and I… we didn't know who they were exactly. But we always knew they existed. Whispers. Shifting hands behind the curtain. Buying loyalty. Twisting tradition."
She leaned forward slightly, pressing her hand to his chest — just above his heart."But ever since your father died… they've grown bolder. They move more freely now. I don't want to frighten you — but I need you to be careful."
Rigorus closed his hand over hers gently."Why are you telling me this now?"
Her expression softened, even as her voice trembled.
"Because this time… they won't just whisper. They'll act. And if anything happens to you, Rigorus, I won't survive it. I just got you back."
A silence fell between them — sacred, fragile.
He nodded slowly.
"Then I'll be watchful. And I won't fall easily."
Celestia smiled, though a tear slid down her cheek."You sound more and more like a man of God."
Rigorus stood slowly and leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers.
"I carry their voices, Mother. I hear them still."
Celestia watched him with searching eyes, sensing that something remained unspoken.
Rigorus sat down at her side, his fingers tightening slightly.
"There's something else," he began quietly."Something I didn't tell anyone. Not even Liora."
He looked ahead — not at her, but at something distant… something burning in his memory.
"The place I stayed all these years… it's gone."
Her breath caught.
"Gone?"
He nodded once."Saint's Hollow… reduced to ash and ruin. Not by war, not by bandits. But by the aftershock of monsters calling themselves martial masters."
His voice cracked, but he didn't stop.
"They weren't aiming at anyone. They were just fighting. Testing their strength. And our church… our home… the children…"
His eyes shimmered, but no tears fell.Only a long silence… and then:
"Ever since then… I hear them."
Celestia tilted her head slightly.
"Hear who?"
Rigorus's eyes lowered."The fallen."
He placed a hand over his heart, where the resonance always trembled — cold, aching, and holy.
"They taunt me… not out of hatred… but sorrow. They weep through me. They bleed through me. And they won't stop… until I get strong enough to speak for them."
He turned to look at her now — his gaze no longer that of a boy, but something ancient, wounded, and awakening.
"I must become stronger… not for glory… but for the fallen. For the orphans. For the voices that no one else can hear."
Celestia's lips parted, but no words came. Just tears.
She reached out, placed her hand on his cheek, and whispered:
"Then let your strength be sanctified… and let their voices find peace in you, my son."