Chains of Divinity

Dawn broke over the fortress with the color of spilled blood. As Dain oversaw the rounding up of Orin's followers, their screams and curses echoed off ancient stone. Each clash of chains seemed to mock the divine insignias being torn from their armor.

"Is this how you repay faith?" Captain Varen, once Orin's most trusted lieutenant, spat blood as guards forced him to his knees. "We gave everything to the gods!"

"You gave everything to madness," Dain's voice carried the weight of steel meeting flesh. He knelt before his former brother-in-arms, eyes hard as mountain stone. "Tell me, Varen—when you planned to slaughter sleeping allies, did you truly believe the gods smiled upon you?"

"They needed to be purged!" Varen struggled against his bonds, eyes wild with desperate conviction. "The gods' silence demanded action! You've doomed us all with your weakness!"

Dain rose slowly, something like pity crossing his weathered features. "No, old friend. You doomed yourself when you chose fanaticism over honor."

In the great hall, the alliance leaders' debate carried the heat of fresh grievances. Lady Sylvaria's movements were liquid grace wrapped in barely contained fury, her ancient eyes burning cold as starlight.

"Your mercy mocks justice," she declared, rounding on King Aldric. "They would have painted our halls with elven blood, and you speak of exile?" Her laugh was sharp as breaking ice. "Perhaps humans have forgotten how to punish treachery."

Thane Duran's axe split the council table in two, silencing all discussion. "My people remember betrayal for ten thousand years," he growled, beard quivering with rage. "Each breath these traitors draw is an insult to our alliance. Give them to me—I'll show you how the mountain kingdoms deal with oath-breakers."

King Aldric rose from his throne, crown gleaming in morning light. "And what then? Shall we match betrayal with butchery? Show our soldiers that questioning orders leads to the headsman's block?" His voice dropped dangerously. "Or shall we make their punishment serve a greater purpose?"

"Purpose?" Lady Sylvaria's sneer could have cut glass. "What purpose does mercy serve when—"

"This is not mercy." Dain's interruption carried absolute certainty. He turned to face each leader in turn. "Death is quick. Exile is forever. Strip them of rank, of purpose, of the right to ever serve again. Let them wander the wilds as living warnings of faith twisted into poison."

The silence that followed held the weight of judgment. Finally, King Aldric nodded. "Let it be done."

As the fortress gates opened, the line of disgraced warriors shuffled forward like a funeral procession. Their proud armor replaced with beggar's rags, their weapons confiscated, their futures scattered like ash in wind.

"Remember this moment," King Aldric's voice rolled like thunder from the battlements. "Remember how your faith in one man's madness led you here. The gods may forgive you—but we never will."

Far from the fortress, atop a hill where nothing grew, Kael watched with eyes that had seen centuries of war. Around him, reality rippled like heat waves, responding to the void-marks pulsing beneath his skin.

A commander in shadow-black armor approached, uncertainty in his stance. "My lord, they weaken themselves with every passing hour. Surely now is the time to—"

"To what?" Kael's smile held centuries of patience. "Strike them while they bleed? Rush in like common predators?" He turned to his subordinate, golden eyes reflecting ancient amusement. "Do you know why I've survived so long, commander?"

"Your power, my lord."

"Patience." Kael's voice caressed the word like a lover. "The greatest victories aren't won with blades or magic. They're won in moments like these—when faith turns to poison, when allies turn to enemies, when armies..." His smile widened. "When armies devour themselves."

The commander shifted uneasily. "But they are vulnerable—"

"They are destroying themselves better than I ever could." Kael turned back to watch the distant fortress, his cloak moving in winds that seemed to respond to his will. "Let them suffer. Let them break. When the time comes, conquest will be nothing more than collecting the pieces they've already shattered."

Above the fortress, vultures circled in ever-tightening spirals. Whether drawn by the metaphorical death of faith or the promise of real carnage to come, only the gods knew.

And they, as always, remained silent.