The Forsaken Hero

The Shard of Omniscience was housed in a cathedral within the Brithlite Capital. It was early evening, but the streets were crowded. Merchants, adventures, and regular townsfolk moved about, their faces lit with cheerful smiles. The crowds parted before our company, bowing respectfully until we had passed.

I scanned the crowds, unable to find a single person who wasn’t human. There were a few Beastkin and elven slaves, but those were far and in between. By the time we reached the castle in the central district, it became clear this city was far more pure-blooded than even the Divine Throne.

The castle was a mass of soaring spires and towers. Pennants and flags flapped tautly in the brisk autumn breeze, every other window was made from the same, flamboyant stained glass patterns. The entire castle felt very similar to the Divine Throne, save it focused far more on the ornamental decorative architecture. While breathtakingly beautiful, the Divine Throne was primarily designed as a fortress, a principle that was lost in the construction of this place.

The heavy iron gates opened just long enough to allow us through, before shutting with a harsh clang. Stone-faced guards saluted our every move, their attentive gazes making my skin crawl. Any admiration they held while observing Soltair and Alex was lost the moment their eyes passed on to me, replaced with an overbearing air of suspicion and hostility.

The interior of the castle mirrored that of the Divine Throne, save it was even more barren and cold, something I hadn’t imagined possible. Our footsteps echoed hollowly through the arched stone corridors, rising to fill the emptiness. Occasionally, we would pass a servant or slave, but those were far and in between. Whenever the silence grew too oppressive, Lady Elinore took occasion to point out a significant room or explain the importance of a painting or statue. Every depiction was of an important priest, pope, or main god. It wouldn’t be surprising to learn if the painting, too, were copies of those in the Divine Throne.

As we drew near the banquet hall, traffic in the halls increased. Minor nobles and priests joined in the influx of servants, all greeting us politely. They stepped aside, allowing us to pass, before following along behind us. Surprisingly, the priests seemed to be held in greater esteem than their aristocratic counterparts, something I’d only ever seen at the Divine Throne.

Upon our entrance into the banquet hall, those assembled, filling about half the seats, stood and clapped, their faces painted with wide smiles. Despite the united enthusiasm, their eyes shifted about, seeming to weigh the responses of the others against their own. Many smiles faltered as they caught sight of my horns and tail, but they smoothed the creases in their brows as though nothing was amiss.

That is, all except for one person. A young man with long, black hair and eyes, dressed in a dark cloak, jerked to his feet, his chair clattering to the ground. His eyes widened in shock and fear, and his hand shot out. A crackling beam of black lightning extended from his palm, forming a viciously curved scythe with a bone-white blade. A seventh-level aura swept out, seizing everyone mid-clap.

I gasped as the power shook me, tearing at the partially healed rends in my soul. My vision wavered as his pressure squeezed my chest, forcing the air from my lungs. The dark figure strode forward like death himself, though the image was broken by the unmistakable tremor in his legs.