Chapter 18 – The High Father's Whisper
The sanctum of the Radiant Spire was a cathedral of silence. High above the mortal city, its vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadows where only candlelight flickered like trembling stars. The air was heavy with incense, sweet at first, but cloying enough to choke. It was here that the High Father, Maltherion, received his chosen servants.
He leaned upon his scepter — the jeweled rod that gleamed faintly even in darkness, its golden head shaped into the likeness of a blazing sun. His steps echoed as he moved, tall and solemn, his long white hair flowing like a mane. To the faithful, he was a saint in mortal flesh. To those who served him in shadow, he was something far greater — and far more terrible.
Before him knelt three figures cloaked in white, their heads bowed. The Seraphic Blades. Silent executioners. Maltherion's voice rolled through the chamber, calm and soft, but every syllable carried the weight of command.
> "Durelin stirs."
The three assassins exchanged brief glances but said nothing.
> "The gallows have not been enough," Maltherion continued, pacing slowly, his scepter tapping against the marble floor. "Fear still festers, but now — hope begins to crawl back into the hearts of the rabble. I will not have it."
He stopped, his gaze cold as winter steel. The scepter thrummed with faint light as though it, too, awaited his judgment.
> "There is a hand moving in the dark, gathering whispers, embers of rebellion. Find it. Break it. Leave no ashes that can reignite."
One of the Blades finally spoke, his voice muffled by the hood. "Do we hunt openly, Most Radiant Father?"
Maltherion turned toward him, and for the briefest moment, the mask of mercy fell away. His eyes glowed faintly gold, like two shards of the sun.
> "No. The people must believe the fire of justice burns only for heretics, not dreamers. If these embers are snuffed out before they catch flame, there will be no need for pyres."
He raised his hand, and light shimmered across the marble floor, forming the faint outline of Durelin's streets. His fingertip, glowing, circled the Gallows Square.
> "It begins there. Always there. The place of death has become their place of whispers. Find who kindles this defiance. Bring me their heads… or their souls."
The Blades bowed lower. "As you command."
When they vanished into the shadows, Maltherion stood alone again, leaning upon his scepter. His smile was faint, carved from cruelty.
> "Hope," he whispered, as though to himself, "is a disease. And I am its cure."
The bells of the Spire tolled midnight. Somewhere far below, Lucian was making choices that would soon draw the Blades to his very shadow.