Chapter 15: Threads of Rebellion
A heavy silence blanketed Blackspire's war room.
The stolen scrolls—each a thread pulled from the tapestry of fate—floated above the war table, pulsing with dim light. Kieran stood at the center, arms crossed, flanked by his most trusted: Selene, Veyra, Riven, and now, Iris.
"I've read through them all," Selene said, her voice tinged with awe and dread. "These aren't just records—they're commands. Instructions etched into reality."
Iris nodded. "They're known as Fateweaves. The Cathedral uses them to guide major events: royal assassinations, divine prophecies, even apocalyptic cycles. The 'Chosen One' narrative is just a tool."
Kieran stepped forward, pulling one scroll closer. He unraveled it carefully.
[Aleron Duskbane: Arc Three, Rise of the Sovereign Saint]
Atop the ruins of Blackspire, he shall slay the Cursed Sovereign and ascend to godhood.
The parchment trembled in his hand, as if aware of its betrayal.
"They've already written my death," he murmured.
"They've written all of ours," Riven added, his voice low. "The moment we broke free from their game, we became threats."
Iris moved beside him and opened a second scroll.
[Selene Morrin: Arc Three, The Betrayal of Frost]
Blinded by duty, she shall strike down her liege to save the realm.
Selene's hands clenched. "So they expect me to betray you."
"Would you?" Kieran asked, his gaze piercing.
Selene met his eyes. "Not unless you lose yourself."
That was enough for him—for now.
Kieran looked around the room, eyes gleaming with resolve. "We have proof. Fate isn't divine—it's fabricated. Every step Aleron takes is guided by the Cathedral's leash. And we now hold the knife to sever it."
Veyra slammed her axe into the floor, cracking the stone. "Then what's the plan?"
Kieran stepped to the map of Solaria.
"Phase two: we break the Hero."
---
The next few days were chaos.
Rumors of the Archon's death spread like wildfire. The Cathedral denied it, but their movements betrayed fear. Sanctified knights locked down the capital. Priests called for fasting and prayer. The sun no longer rose with comfort—it hovered with tension.
Meanwhile, Kieran's agents worked in silence.
Assassins infiltrated the eastern provinces. Scribes altered prophecies in minor shrines. Mages dispersed illusion-encoded documents, revealing glimpses of Aleron's falsified "divinity." Doubt began to seep into the hearts of the people.
But one place remained untouched: the Academy of Ascension.
There, Aleron trained. There, his bond with his harem deepened. There, his faith in the gods still burned bright.
"We need to reach him," Kieran said, pacing. "Not to kill him—yet. To infect his certainty."
"Send a message?" Riven asked.
"No. Send someone… disposable."
He turned to Iris.
Her smile was razor-thin. "You want me to walk into the lion's den."
"You've done it before. You were a priestess once, remember?"
"I remember too well." She looked at him. "And if they recognize me?"
"They won't," Selene interrupted. "Not if I cast a long-duration Glamour. Your face, voice, aura—everything will change. You'll be anyone we want."
Iris exhaled slowly. "Then give me a name."
Kieran paused. Then:
"Call yourself Elira. An emissary of the East, bearing a divine vision."
Iris tilted her head. "And the vision?"
Kieran smiled darkly. "That the Hero dies screaming, alone and abandoned by the gods."
---
The Academy of Ascension stood like a jewel on the highest mountain of Solaria—its spires pierced the clouds, gilded with sunlight that never faded. Magical wards shimmered like halos around it.
Iris—no, Elira—walked through its golden gates under the watchful eyes of paladins. Her gown flowed like moonlight, and her hair shimmered with silver enchantments. Around her neck hung a forged relic, humming with falsified divine resonance.
She was escorted to the central sanctum, where a dozen acolytes studied sacred scripts. And at the altar stood Aleron.
He turned at her approach, golden eyes filled with suspicion.
"You carry godlight," he said. "And yet I do not know your face."
"I come bearing a vision, O Chosen of the Flame," Iris replied, bowing slightly. "From the eastern shrine of Sol'hareth. A divine whisper rode the wind, screaming your name."
Aleron tensed. "And what did it scream?"
"That the Cursed Sovereign shall not fall in battle," she said solemnly. "But rise again… from your ashes."
The room stilled.
His companions stirred—Kaela the swordmaiden, Lira the seer, and Aria the cleric. Each had heard the words. Each felt the chill.
"Who sent you?" Aleron asked, stepping forward.
"I am but a vessel," Iris said. "But mark this: the gods have begun to doubt."
Aleron's face twisted. "Impossible. I am chosen."
"Chosen once," she replied softly. "But even the script can change."
He stared at her, fury and uncertainty wrestling in his gaze.
Then, he whispered, "Leave."
Iris bowed and did just that.
But as she passed the temple's mirrored walls, she caught a glimpse of his reflection.
He was shaking.
---
Back in Blackspire, the moment she returned, Iris dropped to her knees in the war room.
"They're cracking," she said, exhausted. "He hides it well, but the doubt is there. I've seeded it."
Kieran placed a hand on her shoulder. "You did well."
Riven grinned. "So what now? Time for war?"
"Not yet," Kieran replied. "We've shaken the tree. Now we wait for the fruit to fall."
He turned to the scrolls once more, staring at one labeled:
[Empire's Fall: Arc Four, The Sovereign's Triumph]
It was blank.
Nothing had been written beyond that point.
"The system doesn't know what comes next," Selene whispered, seeing it too.
Kieran smiled.
"Then we write it ourselves."