Backstory

Outline

I. Introduction

Aetherion's Background:
Aetherion, a young Tiefling raised in the faith of Oghma, is close to his adopted uncle, Alexion. Due to their similar ages, they grew up together, behaving more like brothers than uncle and nephew.
Aetherion’s father was also adopted by his grandfather, further strengthening the familial ties.
Family Structure:
Aetherion's Grandfather: The patriarch of the family and a devout follower of Oghma. He raised both Aetherion’s father and Alexion after adopting them.
Aetherion's Father: A deeply conflicted individual who struggled with his faith, never fully receiving divine favor from Oghma. He ultimately found peace in his final moments, casting a miracle to save Aetherion.
Alexion: Adopted by Aetherion’s grandfather, Alexion was deeply ambitious and hoped to use knowledge for power. He sought justice and truth through Oghma but eventually grew disillusioned when his father was poisoned.

II. Early Story Elements

Relationship with Alexion:
Aetherion views Alexion as both a mentor and a rival. Despite their closeness, Alexion’s increasing ambitions and eventual descent into Cyric's influence create a rift.
Alexion's Fall:
Alexion turns to Cyric after the poisoning of his father. He becomes corrupted by the allure of Cyric's promises of power and ambition, believing that Oghma's focus on knowledge was too passive to enact real change in the world.
Influence of Cyric: Cyric offers Alexion the power to reshape the world, away from the false promises of gods like Oghma. Through lies and manipulation, Cyric feeds Alexion’s desire for power, pushing him to commit dark acts like the assassination of ecclesiarchs and the murder of the governor.

III. Alexion’s Transformation to Thanir

The Ritual of Ascension:
Location: The ritual takes place in an underground city/sewer beneath the town, where Alexion performs a blood ritual using a Cyric relic known as the Visage of the True Sovereign.
Components of the Ritual:
- Blood of the Ecclesiarchs: Represents the betrayal of loyalty. Alexion pours the blood into the ritual bowl, symbolizing his break with the old order.
- Blood of the Governor: The governor is slain during the ritual, his blood symbolizing weakness and ambition.
- Blood of Aetherion: Alexion cuts Aetherion’s hand, adding the blood of innocence to the ritual.
- Blood of Alexion: Finally, Alexion sacrifices his own blood, completing the ritual and binding himself to Cyric.
Transformation into Thanir:
The ritual’s culmination causes Alexion’s body to undergo a monstrous transformation. His skin melts and reforms like wax, and black wings sprout from his back, signifying his new demigod form as Thanir, Sovereign of Death and Deception.
Personality Shift: Alexion, now Thanir, becomes more cold and calculated, embodying Cyric's will to reshape the world with lies, death, and power. His connection to Aetherion becomes twisted, as he sees him as a potential follower who could help shape this new order.

IV. The Collapse and Aftermath

Collapse of the Undercity:
As Thanir ascends, the ritual causes the underground city to collapse. Aetherion narrowly escapes, shielded by Thanir’s magic.
Aetherion’s Struggles: During the chaos, Aetherion finds the broken remains of his home and discovers the bodies of his parents, deepening his personal loss. He finds his father’s Pendant of Unseen Truths, symbolizing his father’s final acceptance of Oghma.
Thanir’s Departure:
Thanir flies away from the destruction, leaving Aetherion behind with a cryptic message that only the strong may join him in reshaping the world.
Aetherion, still grappling with his injuries and the emotional weight of his father’s death, resolves to stop Thanir, whether by redemption or justice.

V. The Rite of Enlightenment

Aetherion’s Ceremony:
After healing from his wounds, Aetherion undergoes the Rite of Enlightenment at the Great Library of Oghma. Here, his faith and wisdom are tested, and he recites the Oath of Truth, committing himself to the pursuit of knowledge.
The Scroll of Enlightenment: Aetherion writes his first truth—"No knowledge is complete until it is shared, for truth must be brought into the light, not hoarded in shadow."
Religious Name: Oghma reveals Aetherion’s name as Ignotus Veritas ("The Unknown Truth"), marking him as a seeker of hidden knowledge and truths yet to be uncovered.
The Grand Miracle:
During the ceremony, Oghma manifests in a rare divine presence, signaling his approval of Aetherion's path. The room fills with divine light, and Aetherion feels the weight of infinite knowledge briefly opened to him. This rare occurrence further confirms his role in the struggle ahead.

VI. The Final Vow

Aetherion’s New Path:
After the ceremony, Aetherion accepts that Oghma has chosen him for reasons he does not yet fully understand. Despite his doubts about his divine connection, he now knows that his purpose is tied to uncovering hidden truths and confronting Thanir.
Personal Conflicts:
Aetherion’s Motivation: His desire to save Alexion’s soul and bring justice drives him forward. He wrestles with whether his goal is to redeem his former "brother" or to destroy him, depending on what Alexion—now Thanir—has become.
Grandfather’s Role: Aetherion’s grandfather provides emotional support, mourning the loss of his adopted son while encouraging Aetherion’s path toward redemption and justice.

VII. Conclusion

The Vision:
After the ceremony, as Aetherion prepares to depart on his journey, he grabs both pendants—one from Alexion and one from his father. In a fleeting moment, Aetherion believes he sees Thanir watching from a distance. Whether it is a trick of the light or a real encounter, it cements Aetherion’s determination to see his mission through.
Aetherion’s Vow: He swears to himself that he will not stop until he fulfills his mission, whether it is to save Alexion or stop Thanir’s rise to power.

Character Breakdown

Aetherion

Role: Protagonist, a Tiefling/Human cleric of Oghma, chosen to stop Thanir.
Motivation: Aetherion is torn between his desire to save Alexion and his duty to stop Thanir. He struggles with his lack of visible divine favor from Oghma, yet he is resolute in his commitment to truth and justice.

Alexion/Thanir

Role: Antagonist, formerly Aetherion’s close "brother" and adopted uncle.
Motivation: Initially motivated by a desire for justice, Alexion grows disillusioned with Oghma’s passive nature and turns to Cyric. After his transformation into Thanir, his ambition becomes reshaping the world through power and deception.

Aetherion’s Grandfather

Role: Support figure, a devout follower of Oghma who raised both Aetherion’s father and Alexion.
Motivation: Mourning the loss of his adopted son, the grandfather supports Aetherion’s mission and encourages him to pursue Oghma’s path, whether it leads to redemption or justice.

Aetherion’s Father

Role: Aetherion’s late father, a man who struggled with his faith in Oghma but found peace and cast a miracle in his final moments to save Aetherion.
Motivation: Though he never fully connected with Oghma, he ultimately accepted his faith at the end of his life, leaving a lasting impact on Aetherion.

Cyric

Role: The god of deception and lies, the dark patron who manipulates Alexion.
Motivation: Cyric seeks to corrupt mortals, using them to sow chaos and lies. His manipulation of Alexion is central to the story’s conflict.

Part 1: Backstory and Family Conflict

Aetherion’s Childhood

The air inside their small home was thick with the scent of damp wood and ink. The walls, thin and worn from years of exposure to the elements, did little to keep out the cold, and Aetherion often found himself drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he worked by the dim light of a flickering candle. His quill scratched across the page, its ink barely visible in the soft glow, but he pushed on, determined to finish the transcription before the candle burned out.

From the other room, he could hear the soft murmur of his mother, her voice a gentle lullaby as she tended to his youngest sibling. Her voice was a constant comfort in their home, even when the world outside felt harsh and unforgiving. His father’s voice, however, was another story.

The door creaked open, and his father, tall and imposing despite his aging frame, stepped inside. His horns, once sharp and proud, were dulled and weathered with age, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—still burned with the intensity of a man who had seen too much and learned too many hard truths.

"Aetherion," his father said, his voice a mix of gruffness and warmth. "How goes the work?"

Aetherion paused, lifting the quill from the parchment. His hand ached, the muscles tight from hours of writing, but he forced a smile. "It’s... slow, father. But I’ll get it done."

His father nodded, stepping closer. He placed a hand on Aetherion’s shoulder, the weight of it grounding him in the moment. There was a softness in his father’s eyes, a kindness that often hid behind the man’s stoic exterior. But tonight, it was there, flickering just like the candlelight.

"Knowledge takes time, son," his father said, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "But remember this—it is not enough to simply know. You must also understand. Knowledge is meaningless without wisdom."

Aetherion nodded, but inside, a small knot of doubt tightened in his chest. His father was a man of knowledge—a scribe of great skill, once revered for his work in the temple of Oghma. But something had happened. Something had changed. Aetherion had heard the whispers, the rumors that floated through the temple halls like ghosts. His father, brilliant as he was, had never been able to make the divine connection required of a cleric.

And though his father never spoke of it, Aetherion knew the truth. His father’s pursuit of knowledge had always been tainted by his desire for power. He had sought not just to understand the world, but to control it. And Oghma, the god of knowledge and wisdom, had turned away from him.

As his father’s hand fell away, Aetherion forced himself to focus on the scroll in front of him, the candlelight casting shadows over the words. But that small seed of doubt remained, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

Alexion’s Introduction

The training grounds were empty, save for the early morning mist that clung to the grass like a shroud. Aetherion stood at the edge, his arms crossed over his chest, watching as Alexion paced back and forth, his eyes gleaming with excitement. The two had been training together for years, ever since their grandfather had taken them in and raised them like brothers. And though they were the same age, Alexion had always felt older, more sure of himself, more driven.

"Are you ready?" Aetherion asked, his voice quiet, though a hint of anticipation tinged his words.

Alexion stopped his pacing and turned to face him, a grin spreading across his sharp features. His light purple hued skin seemed to glow in the morning light, his black hair tied back in a loose knot. "Ready? I’ve been ready for this since the day I could hold a sword."

Aetherion smiled, though the knot in his chest tightened. The Rite of Enlightenment. It was all anyone in the temple had spoken of for weeks. The day when the acolytes would stand before Oghma and, if they were deemed worthy, receive the Blessing of Insight, marking their transition from seekers of knowledge to bearers of wisdom.

For Alexion, it seemed almost certain. He had always been the stronger of the two, not just physically, but mentally. He had a sharp mind, a quick tongue, and an unyielding desire to change the world. Small miracles had followed him for years—signs of Oghma’s favor, they said. But for Aetherion, the road had been less clear.

"You’ll be fine," Alexion said, his grin softening into something more sincere. "You’ve always been the smarter one. You see things others don’t. Oghma will see that too."

Aetherion nodded, but deep down, he wasn’t so sure. He had never experienced the divine signs that Alexion had. He had never felt the guiding hand of Oghma on his shoulder. And though he had studied hard, learned more than most, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somehow... lacking.

"I hope you’re right," Aetherion muttered, glancing toward the horizon where the first rays of dawn were beginning to break through the mist.

The Father’s Failure

That night, the house was quiet, the only sound the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. Aetherion’s father sat at the table, a half-open book lying forgotten before him. His hands, once steady and precise, now trembled slightly as they rested on the worn wood. His horns, though dulled with age, still cast sharp shadows on the wall behind him.

Aetherion hesitated at the doorway, watching his father in silence. He had seen this look before—the distant, haunted gaze of a man lost in his own thoughts, trapped by the weight of his past.

"Father?" Aetherion’s voice was soft, barely more than a whisper.

His father didn’t respond at first, his eyes still fixed on the book in front of him. Then, slowly, he spoke.

"You know," he began, his voice rough, "I could have been more."

Aetherion frowned, stepping into the room. "More?"

His father let out a low, bitter laugh. "Yes. More. I thought knowledge was power. I thought if I knew enough—if I understood enough—I could control everything. I could shape the world the way I wanted it to be."

He paused, his hands tightening into fists on the table. "But I was wrong. Knowledge isn’t about control. It’s about understanding, yes, but it’s also about acceptance. I didn’t understand that. And because of it... I failed."

Aetherion’s chest tightened. His father had never spoken so openly about his failure to become a cleric, but the weight of it had always been there, hanging over them like a dark cloud. His father had pursued knowledge with a singular intensity, but that pursuit had been tainted by ambition—by the desire for power, not just understanding.

"Oghma doesn’t care about power," his father continued, his voice barely more than a whisper now. "He cares about truth. About wisdom. And I... I was too blind to see that."

Aetherion swallowed hard, his heart aching for his father. He had always admired the man, despite his flaws. But now, hearing the regret in his voice, Aetherion felt a new resolve settle in his chest.

"I won’t make the same mistake," Aetherion vowed silently. "I will pursue truth, not power. And I will do whatever it takes to bring Alexion back from the darkness... or deliver justice if I must."

Part 2: Alexion’s Ambition and the Expedition

The Ambition

The temple’s stone halls were cold, their walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes and scrolls that whispered of untold knowledge. It was here, beneath the towering shelves of the Great Library, that Alexion stood, his voice sharp, resonating with conviction as he addressed the gathered elders. Aetherion watched from a distance, his arms folded tightly across his chest, as his friend spoke with the kind of passion that made others sit up and take notice.

"This city is rotting from the inside out," Alexion declared, his voice cutting through the still air. His sharp features were lit with a fire that seemed to burn from within, casting a glow in his dark eyes. "We’ve waited long enough for change, and yet the corrupt continue to thrive while the people suffer. How long will we let this continue? How long will we sit by and watch as the world crumbles around us?"

The elders shifted uneasily in their seats. These men and women, the Loremasters of Oghma, were the keepers of the temple’s wisdom, and they had heard such pleas before. Many young acolytes had come before them with ideas of reform, of change. But few had spoken with such conviction, and fewer still had dared to challenge the system so directly.

"You speak boldly, Alexion," one of the elders, a man named Loremaster Edris, said, his voice slow and measured. His gray hair framed his face like a crown, and his eyes, though tired, were sharp with wisdom. "But boldness alone does not bring change. What you propose is dangerous. You seek to challenge the very foundations of our order."

Alexion’s jaw tightened. "What I seek is justice," he said, his voice unwavering. "I seek to rid this city of its corrupt leaders, to expose their lies and deception for what they are. Oghma teaches us to seek the truth, to reveal it to the world. But what good is that truth if we do nothing with it?"

There was a murmur of agreement from some of the younger acolytes who had gathered to listen, their eyes wide with admiration. Aetherion, however, felt a growing unease in the pit of his stomach. Alexion had always been ambitious—more so than anyone else Aetherion knew. But there was something in his tone now, something that hinted at a darker path. A desire not just for justice, but for power.

"Oghma’s truth is meant to guide us," another elder, Loremistress Mara, spoke up, her voice soft but firm. "It is not meant to be wielded as a weapon. Be careful, Alexion. Ambition, unchecked, can lead even the brightest minds astray."

Alexion’s gaze flickered to Aetherion for a brief moment, a silent exchange passing between them. Aetherion could see the fire in his friend’s eyes, the determination to change the world. But he could also see the danger that lay beneath it—the temptation to use knowledge not just for truth, but for control.

Part 3: Alexion’s Last Days Before the Expedition

The Farewell

The sun had begun to set, casting a warm, amber glow over the city. The militia marched in a grand procession through the streets, their armor clinking with each step, their weapons gleaming in the fading light. Mothers and wives waved tearfully from the sidelines, while fathers stood with stoic pride, watching their sons march off to face the unknown. The air was thick with the weight of what was to come, an undercurrent of fear and uncertainty lingering beneath the surface of the parade’s triumphant facade.

Aetherion stood near the entrance to the temple, watching as the soldiers passed by, his heart heavy with the knowledge that his grandfather and Alexion were among them. This was not the first time the militia had been called to push back the Cyric cultists—a group of Tieflings and other races that had been growing in number and influence on the outskirts of the city—but this time, it was different. The scale of the deployment was unprecedented, the stakes higher than ever before.

Rumors had spread like wildfire through the town. Some said the cultists were planning an invasion, while others whispered of a valuable artifact hidden within the city’s walls—something the cultists would stop at nothing to obtain. Whatever the truth, the threat was real, and the militia was the city’s only line of defense.

As the procession continued, Aetherion’s gaze drifted to Alexion, who marched near the front of the column, dressed in the garb of a temple acolyte. Unlike most of the others in their order, Alexion carried a rapier beneath his cloak, a weapon that seemed almost out of place for someone in the service of Oghma. But Alexion had always been different—his divine connection with Oghma had been evident for years, and small miracles seemed to follow him wherever he went. His ambitions extended far beyond the walls of the temple, and Aetherion had no doubt that Alexion was destined for greatness. He had often spoken of rising through the ranks, perhaps even becoming a High Priest one day.

But now, as Aetherion watched his closest friend march toward battle, he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had settled in his chest.

The Last Game of Dragonchess

That night, before the militia was to depart, Aetherion and Alexion shared a quiet moment together in one of the temple’s secluded rooms. The noise of the temple—the rustling of parchment, the scraping of quills against scrolls—was distant here, leaving the two of them alone with their thoughts. A single candle burned between them, casting flickering shadows over the Dragonchess board that lay on the table.

The game had been going on for some time, both of them focused on the pieces before them. Alexion had always been the more aggressive player, pushing his pieces forward with a boldness that often caught Aetherion off guard. It was a reflection of his personality—strategic, yes, but also impulsive when he saw an opportunity. Aetherion, on the other hand, had learned to bide his time, to wait for the perfect moment to strike.

"You’ve gotten better," Alexion remarked, moving one of his pieces forward. His tone was light, but there was a hint of pride in his voice.

"I’ve had plenty of practice," Aetherion replied with a small smile, carefully considering his next move. He was beginning to see a pattern in Alexion’s strategy, a vulnerability in his aggressive playstyle that he could exploit.

As the game continued, they spoke in hushed tones about the upcoming Rite of Enlightenment. It was the ceremony that would mark their official transition from acolytes to clerics, assuming they were deemed worthy by Oghma. For Alexion, it seemed a foregone conclusion. He had shown all the signs of divine favor—the small miracles, the ease with which he grasped new knowledge. Aetherion, on the other hand, had always felt like he was falling short.

"I don’t think I’m going to make it through the ceremony," Aetherion confessed after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper. "I haven’t exhibited any signs of being favored by Oghma. Not like you."

Alexion looked up from the board, his expression softening. "You’re being too hard on yourself, ‘small horn.’" The nickname was a term of affection, not just a reference to their shared heritage, but to Aetherion’s unique appearance. His horns, smaller than most Tieflings’ due to his mixed lineage, had earned him the name. Despite the difference, Alexion had always treated him like an equal, but there was a hint of playful teasing in the way he said it.

"But what if I don’t have that connection?" Aetherion pressed, his doubts spilling out before he could stop them. "My father... he tried, and he failed. What if I’m cursed to follow the same path?"

Alexion leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Do you know the story of Larenthios the Humble?" he asked, his voice taking on the cadence of a teacher.

Aetherion frowned. "The one who started as a simple scribe?"

Alexion nodded. "Yes. He had no grand miracles, no divine visions. He was just an ordinary man, but he devoted himself to the pursuit of knowledge, to understanding the truth of the world. Oghma didn’t bless him with power immediately. It came later, when he had proven his commitment, his faith."

He moved another piece on the board, a subtle smile playing at his lips. "And then there’s Verathis the Boundless. They said he was the least promising of all the acolytes, barely able to keep up with the others. But when his time came, Oghma revealed his true potential, and Verathis went on to become one of the greatest scholars of our time."

Aetherion remained silent, the weight of Alexion’s words sinking in. He wanted to believe that there was a place for him in the temple, that his contributions could matter. But the doubts still gnawed at him.

Alexion, sensing his friend’s turmoil, leaned forward, his voice soft but firm. "We all have a place in Oghma’s temple, Aetherion. Each of us contributes to the greater understanding of the world. Your path may be different from mine, but that doesn’t make it any less important."

For a moment, Aetherion felt a flicker of hope. Maybe Alexion was right. Maybe there was a place for him, even if he hadn’t seen it yet.

As the night wore on and the game neared its end, Aetherion hesitated before making his final move. "Why are you going on this expedition, Alexion? Why take the risk?"

Alexion’s expression grew more serious. "Because I believe it will help me ascend faster through the ranks of the temple. The corruption in the city—it’s festering. The people in power use words not to seek truth, but to manipulate and control. They twist reality to serve their own ends, and the rest of us suffer for it."

He paused, his gaze flickering to the pendant hanging around Aetherion’s neck—the pendant their grandfather had given him, a symbol of their family’s faith. "I want to change that, Aetherion. I want to use knowledge the way Oghma intended—to expose lies, to bring justice. And if this expedition gives me the political and spiritual power to do that, then I have to take the chance."

Aetherion reached up, unclasping the pendant and holding it out to Alexion. "Take this," he said, his voice steady. "When you wear it, you’ll know that we’re with you. That you’re not alone."

Alexion smiled, accepting the pendant and tucking it beneath his cloak. "Thank you," he whispered.

The next morning, Aetherion stood among the crowd as the militia marched out of the city. He watched as Alexion disappeared into the horizon, a sense of foreboding settling over him. He wished he had known what was to come. Perhaps then, he would have tried to stop him. Perhaps he would have asked for one more game, one more smile, one more moment.

But it was too late. Alexion was gone. And when he returned, he would not be the same.

Part 4: The Return and Transformation of Alexion

The Return of the Militia

Two weeks had passed since the militia had left the city, and in that time, the air had grown heavy with anxiety. Rumors spread like wildfire—some said the Cyric cultists had been wiped out, others claimed that the militia had been ambushed and slaughtered. Aetherion had spent those long days waiting, his heart filled with an unsettling mix of dread and hope. Every morning, he made his way to the city gates, hoping for news of his grandfather and Alexion. But the gates remained closed, the horizon empty.

On the fifteenth day, that all changed.

It was mid-afternoon when the sound of marching reached Aetherion’s ears. The gates creaked open, and the survivors of the expedition began to trickle through. But it was not a triumphant return. The soldiers who passed through the gates were ragged, wounded, their armor dented and covered in grime. They did not march with the pride they had left with, but with a weariness that spoke of the horrors they had witnessed. The once vibrant banners they carried now hung limp, stained with blood and dirt.

Aetherion’s heart pounded in his chest as he searched the crowd, his eyes scanning the faces of the returning soldiers. Then he saw him.

Alexion stood at the head of the column, his once sharp and proud figure now shadowed by exhaustion. His face was pale, his Tiefling eyes, which had once gleamed with a bright purple hue, now appeared dull and sunken, as though the light had been drained from them. There was a strange smell that clung to him, faint at first, but unmistakable as Aetherion approached—the scent of bitter almonds, sharp and unsettling. It was a scent that seemed out of place, yet impossible to ignore.

As Aetherion drew closer, he saw the dark stains on Alexion’s fingers—almost black, like ink or poison, staining the already deep hue of his skin. His hands were clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword, but his posture was rigid, unnatural. And behind those eyes, Aetherion could sense something—something different, something wrong.

But it wasn’t just Alexion.

Aetherion’s breath caught in his throat when he saw his grandfather being carried on a stretcher, his face pale, his body weakened. A spear had pierced his shoulder, the wound still fresh and raw. Aetherion ran to his side, his hands trembling as he looked down at the man who had raised him, who had guided him and Alexion both.

"What happened?" Aetherion asked, his voice strained as he knelt beside the stretcher.

Alexion’s voice cut through the murmur of the soldiers, cold and sharp. "An ambush. The Cyric cultists were more prepared than we thought. We won, but... at a cost."

His words were clipped, devoid of the warmth they had once held. There was no joy in their victory, only a hollow bitterness that lingered in the air like the scent of death.

The Meeting in the Temple

Later that night, Aetherion received a note from Alexion, slipped discreetly into his hand as they passed each other in the crowded hall of the city barracks. The note was simple, yet filled with urgency: Meet me at the temple, midnight. We need to talk.

Aetherion’s heart raced as he read the words, his mind already spinning with questions. He had seen the change in Alexion—felt it in the coldness of his voice, smelled it in the air that clung to him. Something had happened on that expedition. Something terrible.

That night, long after the city had fallen into silence, Aetherion made his way to the temple. The hallways were empty, the only light coming from the dim flicker of the few remaining candles. The scent of parchment and ink filled the air, the familiar smells of the temple a small comfort in the oppressive darkness. But as Aetherion neared the backroom where Alexion had asked him to meet, that comfort was replaced by a growing sense of dread. The faint smell of bitter almonds hung in the air, stronger now, as if it clung to the very walls of the temple.

Aetherion pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the stone walls. Alexion stood near the far end, his back to Aetherion, his hands resting on the edge of a table littered with scrolls and books. His posture was tense, his shoulders rigid, as if he were holding something back.

"I’m glad you came," Alexion said, his voice low, almost a whisper. He didn’t turn to face Aetherion, but there was something in his tone that sent a chill down Aetherion’s spine.

"What happened out there, Alexion?" Aetherion asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of concern and fear. "You’re not... you’re not the same."

For a long moment, there was silence. Then, slowly, Alexion turned to face him. His face was cast in shadow, but the glow of the candles revealed the darkness that had settled in his features. His eyes, once so bright with ambition and life, now seemed hollow, filled with a deep, unsettling intensity.

"It wasn’t just a battle," Alexion began, his voice rough. "The governor... he lied to us. This wasn’t just about driving out the Cyric cultists. They weren’t just some scattered group of fanatics. They—the governor and his lieutenants—were searching for something. Something powerful. The governor knew about it all along, and he sent us out there to retrieve it."

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small tome, its cover worn and etched with strange symbols. Aetherion’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the dark sigil of Cyric emblazoned on its surface.

"They were after this," Alexion said, his voice barely above a whisper. "A book filled with secrets. Magic. Power. The governor wanted it for himself. He sent us into that battle to retrieve this tome, knowing it held the key to... something. I don’t know what yet, but it’s not good."

Aetherion stared at the book, a sense of foreboding washing over him. "Why do you have it?"

Alexion’s gaze darkened, his fingers tightening around the tome. "Because I couldn’t let him have it. Our grandfather... he almost died because of that man. The governor wanted to eliminate him, to cover up the truth. But now... now I have the truth. And I’m going to use it."

"Use it? Alexion, that’s... that’s madness!" Aetherion stepped forward, reaching out as if to take the book from him, but something in Alexion’s eyes made him hesitate. There was a darkness there, something far more dangerous than ambition.

"It’s not madness," Alexion snapped, his voice sharp. "It’s justice. You don’t understand, Aetherion. This book... it shows me things. The truth. The governor, the city leaders—they’re all part of it. They’ve been manipulating us, twisting the truth to serve their own ends. And Cyric... Cyric’s followers know. They understand the power of words, the power of perception."

Aetherion’s blood ran cold. "Alexion, this is wrong. Cyric is a god of lies and deceit. You can’t trust anything from that book!"

Alexion’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. "I don’t have to trust Cyric. I just have to use what he’s given me. And if that means changing the way things work around here, so be it."

Part 5: The Transformation of Alexion and His Dark Descent

The First Signs of Corruption

Aetherion felt a growing sense of dread as he stared at the tome in Alexion’s hands. The air in the temple room seemed heavier now, thick with the scent of burnt almonds and something else, something darker. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, adding to the suffocating tension in the room. For the first time in his life, Aetherion truly feared the man standing before him.

"It’s not justice, Alexion," Aetherion pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "That tome... it’s dangerous. Whatever power it holds, it’s twisted. Cyric’s followers are not seekers of truth—they’re agents of chaos, of lies. You can’t trust anything that comes from it."

Alexion’s eyes gleamed with an unsettling light as he clutched the tome to his chest, his fingers pressing into its dark cover. His lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. Only a cold, hollow bitterness. "You don’t understand, Aetherion," he said, his voice sharp and cutting. "The world isn’t as simple as you want it to be. Oghma may value truth, but truth alone isn’t enough to change the world."

Aetherion shook his head, struggling to find the words that might reach his friend. "There are other ways. There has to be. You were always meant for something greater, Alexion—Oghma chose you! You don’t need this darkness."

For a brief moment, Alexion’s gaze softened, but then he turned away, his hands gripping the edges of the tome tighter, betraying the inner conflict that still simmered beneath his composed exterior. "Oghma chose me?" he whispered, almost to himself, his voice low and contemplative. "Maybe... but Oghma is content with what is. He values knowledge, yes. But knowledge without action is nothing."

He turned back to Aetherion, his eyes burning with a strange intensity. "Cyric understands. He knows that power is needed to bring real change. The words we use to shape the world, to bend perception... that’s where true power lies. The governor and his lieutenants—they’ve been using their words to deceive, to control the people. But I can use this," he gestured to the tome, "to expose them. To make things right."

The Ambush and Finding of the Tome

Aetherion’s gaze drifted to the tome Alexion held so tightly, feeling the pull of its dark influence even from across the room. "How do you know all of this, Alexion? How can you know the governor’s secrets—the lies of his lieutenants?" Aetherion’s voice was laced with suspicion, his mind racing with the implications of what Alexion had revealed.

Alexion’s eyes gleamed with a quiet resolve as he slowly reached into his satchel. His long, purple-stained fingers pulled out the dark purple tome, its silver edges catching the flicker of candlelight. On its cover, a cracked silver mask—the unmistakable symbol of Cyric—glimmered ominously.

Aetherion’s heart sank. "That’s... Cyric’s tome," he said, the words barely escaping his lips.

"I found it during the ambush," Alexion explained, his voice calm, almost detached. "The Cyric cultists ambushed us during the expedition. We fought them off, but in the aftermath, we found this among the bodies. The governor’s lieutenants... they were beside themselves with excitement. They claimed it was to ‘purge the unholy,’ but it wasn’t that. They wanted this power for themselves."

Alexion’s voice grew darker as he continued. "I didn’t trust them. So I took it. I brought it back to my tent, intending to hand it over to the ecclesiarchs... but once I opened it, I couldn’t stop reading. I had to know what secrets it held."

His fingers traced the silver mask on the cover as he spoke, almost reverently. "It wasn’t just a history book. It was something more. It was a mix of celestial and infernal languages, recounting Cyric’s betrayal as self-defense. It showed me a side of the world I’d never seen. The passages... ‘Lies as a Tool of Wisdom,’ ‘On Power and Ambition.’ It all made sense, Aetherion."

Aetherion’s stomach twisted. "You can’t believe this, Alexion. It’s poison. Cyric’s philosophy is a distortion of truth, meant to lead people astray."

Alexion’s eyes hardened, and the bitterness in his voice returned. "Maybe. But I’ve seen the truth in it too. The governor’s men—they’re using these same principles to manipulate us. Why shouldn’t I use them against them?"

The Final Battle: A Dark Prayer

Alexion’s voice darkened as he began recounting the events that would forever change him. Aetherion’s heart sank, knowing that this was the turning point—when Alexion had fallen under Cyric’s influence.

"We marched into the valley," Alexion began, his voice bitter. "The cultists were entrenched—well-fortified, with earthworks, archers, and seasoned fighters at the ready. Anyone with common sense could see that a direct assault would be suicide. The sensible approach was to lay siege, cut off their supplies, and force them to surrender."

He paused, his jaw clenched in anger. "But the governor’s lieutenants... they were impatient, greedy. They weren’t interested in winning the battle slowly or carefully. They wanted the tome—and they wanted it immediately. So, instead of waiting them out, they ordered a frontal assault."

Aetherion’s stomach twisted as Alexion’s words grew heavier with each passing second.

"They sent us straight into a death trap," Alexion continued, his voice cracking slightly. "We charged forward, exposed and vulnerable, while the cultists rained arrows down on us. The air was filled with the screams of the dying, and every inch of ground we gained came at a terrible cost."

Aetherion’s breath hitched as he imagined the chaos and bloodshed of the battle.

"My father, your grandfather... we fought side by side," Alexion said, his eyes distant, as if reliving the scene in his mind. "We were pushing forward, cutting through the cultists' lines, but the further we advanced, the more it became clear—this wasn’t a battle we could win."

Alexion’s voice trembled as he described the moment his father was struck.

"The warlord leading the cultists... he was a giant of a Tiefling, his eyes filled with a burning rage. He stood at the center of their defenses, towering over everyone, directing the archers and the frontline soldiers. He saw us, saw my father, and he took aim."

Aetherion’s heart pounded in his chest, knowing what was coming next.

"The warlord hurled a spear," Alexion said, his voice thick with emotion. "It wasn’t meant for my father—it was meant for me. But one of our soldiers moved in front of us. The spear went straight through his skull... and then lodged itself in my father’s shoulder."

Aetherion’s breath caught in his throat as Alexion’s voice faltered.

"My father collapsed, gasping for air, blood pouring from the wound. I... I lost control. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t feel anything but rage. I saw the blood, heard his ragged breathing... and then I did something I never thought I’d do."

Aetherion’s blood ran cold as Alexion’s next words fell like a hammer.

"I called upon Cyric."

Aetherion stared at Alexion in disbelief, his mind reeling.

"I didn’t know what else to do," Alexion continued, his voice raw with emotion. "I could see my father dying in front of me. I wasn’t strong enough to save him. So I... I prayed to Cyric for help."

Aetherion’s voice trembled as he spoke. "And Cyric... answered?"

Alexion nodded slowly, his eyes filled with a strange mix of guilt and defiance. "He answered. I could feel his presence, his power, surging through me. And in return, I spoke the words from the tome—‘"Nharak il'zuruth, ul-karith ven marzal!"

The sound of the Infernal language hung in the air, cold and heavy.

Alexion met Aetherion’s gaze, his voice steady but distant. "It means in Common, ‘By your will, may I break the bonds of weakness and become the blade that shatters the false order of this world.’"

He paused, his hand trembling as he gripped the tome tighter. "When I spoke those words, it was as if time slowed. Everything around me seemed to fade, and I felt Cyric’s hand guiding me. I moved faster than I ever thought possible. I was no longer the one holding the sword—it was Cyric, through me. And as the warlord approached, I sidestepped his blow and drove my blade through his eye."

Aetherion shuddered as Alexion described the moment of triumph, tinged with the dark influence of Cyric’s power.

"The warlord fell," Alexion said, his voice hollow. "But it didn’t feel like a victory. The cost was too high. My father was still dying, and the battlefield was littered with the bodies of our soldiers."

He looked down, his eyes haunted. "I didn’t save anyone that day. I only brought more death."

Aftermath of the Battle

Aetherion’s mind swirled with conflicting emotions—grief, anger, disbelief. He could see the toll the battle had taken on Alexion, both physically and mentally. But more than that, he saw the subtle threads of Cyric’s influence beginning to take hold of his friend, twisting his mind, warping his perception of the world.

"You called on Cyric," Aetherion said, his voice soft, almost incredulous. "You... you let him in."

Alexion’s eyes were distant, as if he were struggling with the weight of what he had done. "I didn’t have a choice," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I had to save my father. But even now... I wonder if I made the right decision."

Aetherion shook his head, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "You didn’t have to do this. There were other ways, Alexion. Oghma could have helped you. We could have found a way."

Alexion looked at him, his expression filled with a deep, soul-crushing sorrow. "It’s too late for that now, Aetherion. I’ve already made my choice."

The Ecclesiarchs’ Denial

After the disastrous battle, the soldiers and clerics set up camp, their spirits broken by the immense loss. The campfires burned dimly, casting flickering shadows across the makeshift tents. Aetherion noticed that a group of ecclesiarchs had joined the war effort, their presence unannounced but not unexpected. It was clear that they had come to observe, to make decisions from afar. They sat in quiet contemplation, their expressions unreadable.

As night fell, Alexion approached them, his steps slow but purposeful. The tome of Cyric weighed heavily at his side, hidden beneath his cloak. He had heard enough whispers, seen enough of their false piety. It was time for answers.

Alexion stood before the ecclesiarchs, his voice cold and controlled. "I know the truth about the governor and his lieutenants," he said, his words cutting through the silence. "Their actions during the battle weren’t out of incompetence—they were deliberate. They knew the cultists were entrenched, and they ordered the assault anyway. They wanted the tome, the relics."

The ecclesiarchs exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. Alexion’s grip tightened on the tome.

"You knew, didn’t you?" Alexion pressed, his voice growing sharper. "You’ve known for years about the governor’s connection to Cyric, about his ambitions to gain power. And yet, you did nothing."

One of the elder ecclesiarchs shifted in his seat, his voice soft but firm. "You speak of dangerous accusations, Alexion. Be careful where you tread."

Alexion’s eyes blazed with fury. "I’m not here for your warnings. I’m here for the truth. My father—your fellow cleric—has fought against this corruption his entire life. He’s been on these expeditions to stop the governor and his lieutenants. And what have you done? Nothing."

One of the ecclesiarchs finally spoke, his voice trembling. "We had no jurisdiction. The governor never exposed himself directly. Without proof—"

"Proof?" Alexion spat, his face contorting in anger. "You’ve had proof for years. You’ve watched as the governor manipulated the people, as he built his power through lies and deceit. And you did nothing."

Another ecclesiarch stood, his face pale. "We feared what would happen if we acted too soon. The consequences—"

"The consequences?" Alexion’s voice cracked with rage. "The consequences are my father lying on a stretcher with a spear wound, poisoned by something none of your physicians can treat!"

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Aetherion’s heart ached as he watched his friend unravel, the weight of Alexion's anguish crushing him.

The Revelation and Alexion’s Wrath

The ecclesiarchs’ silence was deafening. Alexion stepped forward, his eyes dark with fury. "You could have stopped this. You could have prevented this entire battle. But instead, you let it happen."

The eldest ecclesiarch, his face pale and trembling, finally spoke. "We... we tried to stop him, Alexion. Your father has been working tirelessly to expose the governor’s ambitions. But without direct proof, we were powerless. We couldn’t act."

Alexion’s breath came in ragged gasps, his hands trembling. "You were never powerless. You were afraid."

The ecclesiarchs stood frozen as Alexion’s anger surged. "And now my father is dying because of your cowardice."

He turned on his heel, storming away from the campfire, his mind racing. The poison in his father’s wound was something they had never seen before—something dark, twisted. He knew it was no ordinary poison. It had to be tied to the cult, to Cyric’s dark magic.

And as he clutched the tome tighter, he heard it again—the whisper. The voice of Cyric, promising power, promising retribution.

A Desperate Search

Alexion sat alone in his tent, the tome of Cyric open before him. The dim light of his lantern flickered, casting shadows that danced across the pages. His mind raced as he combed through the text, searching frantically for something—anything—that could save his father.

Hours passed, and the night deepened. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembling as he turned each page. The histories, the enchantments, the spells—they were all there, woven into the tome with dark precision. But none of it was enough. Nothing could cure the poison that was slowly draining the life from his father.

Frustration and despair clawed at him. With a cry of anger, he slammed the tome shut, the sound reverberating through the tent. His breath came in ragged gasps as he closed his eyes, exhaustion washing over him.

And then... something changed.

He felt a strange sensation, as though his consciousness was being pulled away, drawn into a place far from the tent. His eyes remained closed, but it felt as though another set of eyes—distant yet intimately connected to him—had opened.

When he "saw" again, he was no longer alone.

The Vision of Cyric

Before Alexion stood Cyric, his form towering and terrible, radiant with a dark, malevolent light. His features shifted, a paradox of beauty and horror, both inviting and repulsive. His eyes gleamed with amusement, his smile sharp and dangerous.

Alexion’s heart pounded in his chest as he gazed upon the dark god, every instinct screaming at him to run, to flee this presence. But he was rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to speak.

"Ah, Alexion," Cyric’s voice purred, smooth and venomous. "I can feel your anger, your desperation. It’s almost... delicious."

Alexion clenched his fists, his thoughts wild and frantic. "It was your cultists," he spat. "They poisoned my father. You’re the reason he’s dying."

Cyric chuckled softly, the sound sending chills down Alexion’s spine. "Is that what you believe?" the god asked, his tone mocking. "That I would care enough about your father to orchestrate his demise? No, Alexion. My gifts are not so petty. They are meant for those strong enough to grasp them. And you... you are strong enough, are you not?"

Alexion felt his anger surge, but Cyric’s presence was overpowering, his words sinking deeper into his mind.

"You loathe them, don’t you?" Cyric continued, his smile widening. "The ones who sent your father to his death. The governor, the lieutenants... and the ecclesiarchs. They did nothing. They let it happen. Your father’s life means nothing to them. But to you, it means everything."

Alexion’s breath came in short gasps. "They deserve to pay."

Cyric’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Yes. They do. And you, Alexion, are the one who can make them pay. I can give you the power to dispense the law as you see fit. The power to bring justice to those who betrayed you."

Cyric extended his hand, his long, slender fingers reaching toward Alexion. "Join me, Alexion. Take my hand, and I will give you the strength to do what must be done."

Alexion hesitated, his gaze flickering between Cyric’s hand and the memory of his father, gasping for breath on the stretcher. "What about the poison?" Alexion asked, his voice trembling. "Can you cure him?"

Cyric’s smile widened, a glint of triumph in his eyes. "Of course," he said smoothly. "But there is a price. You will need the blood of a priest—unwilling blood. Two vials. One to cure the poison... and one for a ritual that I will instruct you on later."

Alexion’s mind raced. He loathed Cyric—his deceit, his lies. But the wrath he felt for those who had put his father in this position... that anger was stronger.

Cyric watched him intently, savoring the moment, as though Alexion’s inner turmoil was a feast laid before him. "Take my hand, Alexion," Cyric whispered. "And all that you desire will be within your grasp."

For what felt like an eternity, Alexion stared at Cyric’s outstretched hand. The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, with a trembling hand, Alexion reached out. His fingers brushed against Cyric’s, and in that instant, a searing pain shot through his hand, up his arm, and into his very soul.

Cyric’s smile widened as he placed his other hand over Alexion’s, marking his flesh with the symbol of his dark power—a silver and black skull etched into his skin.

The Assassination

Alexion woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat. He sat up quickly, his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, he thought it had all been a dream. But when he looked down at his right hand, he saw it—the mark of Cyric, glowing faintly in the dim light.

He stared at it, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what he had to do.

Grabbing a small, sharp knife from his belongings, Alexion moved with purpose. The camp was quiet, the soldiers and priests alike lost in uneasy sleep. He made his way through the tents, his eyes scanning the shadows for any signs of movement.

Finally, he reached the tent where the ecclesiarchs slept. He paused for a moment, his hand trembling as he gripped the knife. But the memory of Cyric’s words—of the power he had promised—pushed him forward.

With a swift motion, Alexion slipped inside the tent. The ecclesiarchs lay asleep, their faces peaceful, unaware of the doom that had come for them.

Alexion’s heart pounded in his chest as he moved to the first one, his breath shallow and quick. With practiced precision, he covered the priest’s mouth with one hand and slit his throat with the other. The warm blood spilled onto his hands, and he quickly filled the first vial, his movements mechanical, almost detached.

One by one, Alexion moved from priest to priest, repeating the ritual, collecting their blood in the vials. His hands were slick with blood by the time he finished, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

When it was done, Alexion stood over the bodies, his heart racing. He wiped the knife on his cloak and carefully staged the scene, positioning the bodies to make it look as though a Cyric cultist had crept into the camp and slaughtered them in the night.

He stepped back, surveying his work with cold detachment. No one would suspect him. No one would know that the assassin was not an enemy from outside the camp, but a traitor from within.

The Aftermath

As dawn broke, the camp was thrown into chaos as the bodies of the ecclesiarchs were discovered. Soldiers and clerics rushed to the scene, their faces pale with horror. Whispers of a Cyric assassin spread like wildfire, and the camp was gripped with fear.

But Alexion remained calm, his face a mask of cold indifference. The vials of blood were tucked safely away in his satchel, and the tome of Cyric lay hidden beneath his cloak.

As he watched the chaos unfold around him, Alexion felt a strange sense of satisfaction. The power Cyric had promised was now his. And soon, his father would be cured.

But even as he stood there, his hand throbbed with the mark of Cyric, a constant reminder of the price he had paid—and the darkness that now consumed him.

The Decision to Proceed

As the chaos of the camp continued to swirl around him, Alexion stood in the shadow of his tent, his mind focused on the task ahead. He slipped away unnoticed, his steps quiet and deliberate, as if the very air around him had bent to his will.

His heart was racing, but it wasn’t out of fear—it was out of purpose. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t before, as though Cyric’s presence had awakened something inside him. His hands still trembled, but not from the memory of the murders he’d just committed. No, his trembling was from anticipation.

The two vials of blood felt heavy in his satchel as he made his way toward the secluded tent where his father lay dying. He had everything he needed now: the blood, the tome, and Cyric’s whispered instructions that still echoed in his mind.

The power was his, and soon, his father would live.

The Moment of Truth When Alexion stepped into his father’s tent, he found the old man lying still on the cot, his face pale, his breathing shallow. The poison had taken its toll. The clerics who had attended him earlier had left, their efforts futile. They had said their final prayers and left his father to die in peace.

But Alexion wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not yet.

He knelt beside the cot, his hand gently brushing against his father’s forehead. "I’m here, Father," he whispered, his voice soft. "I’m going to save you."

With trembling hands, Alexion pulled the tome of Cyric from his satchel and placed it on the ground before him. He opened it to the page marked with the dark ritual Cyric had whispered to him in the vision. The symbols on the page glowed faintly, pulsing with dark energy, as though the book itself was eager to see the ritual performed.

He glanced at his father, his breath shallow and strained, then back to the tome. The words stared back at him, ancient and terrible, but also full of promise. Alexion closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his resolve.

"This is for you," he whispered, as much to himself as to his father. "This is the only way."

The Ritual Begins

Alexion reached into his satchel and pulled out the two vials of blood he had collected from the ecclesiarchs. He uncorked the first one, the thick red liquid gleaming in the dim light of the tent. Cyric’s instructions were clear—this was the key to undoing the poison that was ravaging his father’s body.

He took the vial and carefully poured the blood onto his father’s wound. The dark liquid spread over the poisoned flesh, sinking into the skin as though it had a will of its own. For a moment, nothing happened. The air in the tent seemed to grow colder, and Alexion’s heart pounded in his chest.

But then... there was movement.

The skin around the wound began to twitch, and Alexion watched in awe as the discolored flesh slowly returned to a healthier shade. His father’s labored breathing began to ease, and his face, once twisted in pain, started to relax.

Alexion’s hands shook as he continued the ritual, reciting the ancient words of Cyric’s spell from the tome. The symbols on the page flared to life, glowing with dark energy as the words fell from his lips, each one carrying a weight that seemed to pull at the very fabric of reality.

"By the blood of the fallen, I bind the threads of life. By Cyric’s will, let death be undone."

The room seemed to darken as Alexion completed the incantation. The air was thick with power, an oppressive energy that pressed down on him as though the walls themselves were closing in. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He felt the pull of Cyric’s influence, guiding his hands, his words, everything.

The Cure

His father’s breathing became steady, his chest rising and falling in a smooth, rhythmic pattern. The wound on his shoulder, which had festered with poison for days, now sealed itself, leaving only a faint scar where the spear had struck him.

Alexion’s heart soared as he watched the transformation take place. His father’s eyes, once clouded with pain, fluttered open, and he looked up at his son, confused but alive.

"Alexion..." his father whispered, his voice weak but steady. "What... what happened?"

Tears filled Alexion’s eyes as he knelt beside the cot, his hand clutching his father’s. "You’re going to be alright, Father," he said, his voice trembling. "You’re safe now. The poison is gone."

His father’s eyes filled with gratitude and confusion. "How...?"

Alexion hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding. He couldn’t tell his father the truth. Not yet. Not about the blood, not about the tome, and certainly not about Cyric. So instead, he forced a smile and said, "It doesn’t matter now. You’re alive. That’s all that matters."

The Justification

As his father drifted back into a peaceful sleep, Alexion stood and stared at the tome of Cyric lying open on the ground before him. The weight of what he had just done settled over him like a heavy cloak. He had saved his father—there was no doubt about that. His hands had performed a miracle, one that the clerics of Oghma had failed to achieve. But the method... the price... those were things he could never speak of.

For the briefest of moments, guilt tugged at the edges of his conscience. The blood of the ecclesiarchs still stained his hands, both literally and figuratively. He had taken their lives in cold blood, justified by the belief that their inaction had doomed his father. But deep down, a part of him knew the truth—they had not deserved to die. They had not been the true enemies.

And yet, as Alexion watched his father’s chest rise and fall, as he listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the guilt began to fade. It was replaced by something stronger—conviction. He had done what was necessary. He had used Cyric’s power to save his father’s life, and in doing so, he had proven something vital: Power mattered.

It wasn’t enough to simply know the truth, to seek knowledge for knowledge’s sake, as Oghma would have wanted. What good was truth without action? What good was knowledge if it didn’t give one the strength to protect those they loved? The ecclesiarchs had stood by and done nothing, clinging to their rigid ideals of justice and balance. But Alexion had acted. He had made a choice, and that choice had saved his father.

His mind wandered back to the conversation with Cyric, the dark god’s voice still echoing in his thoughts. "You are strong enough to grasp what others fear to touch." Cyric had shown him the way—the power to change the world was within reach, but only for those willing to pay the price.

Alexion glanced down at his hand, the mark of Cyric still glowing faintly, a reminder of the bargain he had struck. The power was his now. And with that power, he could bring about the justice the world so desperately needed.

A New Path

But even as these thoughts crystallized in his mind, Alexion knew that this was only the beginning. He had taken the first step down a path from which there would be no return. The second vial of blood still rested in his satchel, a grim reminder of the future Cyric had promised him.

There would be more blood. More sacrifices. And eventually, there would be more power.

He moved to leave the tent, the tome safely tucked back into his cloak. As he stepped into the cool night air, the chaos in the camp had died down, the initial shock of the ecclesiarchs’ murder giving way to a tense, uneasy silence. Soldiers and priests murmured in hushed tones, fear evident in their eyes.

None of them knew the truth. None of them knew that the real danger had not come from outside the camp, but from within. From him.

And as Alexion walked among them, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He had saved his father. He had wielded the power of a god. He had chosen the path of strength.

But he also knew that the darkness within him was growing. Cyric’s voice, once a distant whisper, was now ever-present, always just beneath the surface, urging him forward. There was no turning back now.

"This is only the beginning, Alexion," Cyric whispered in his mind. "You’ve proven yourself worthy. But there is much more to be done. Much more to gain. The world is yours to reshape, if you are strong enough to seize it."

Alexion’s lips twisted into a grim smile as he gazed out into the night. "I’ll do whatever it takes," he whispered back, his voice barely audible. "I will create a new order. One built on power and truth. I’ll show them all."

The Beginning of the Descent

As Alexion walked away from the infirmary tent, his father’s life saved and his purpose renewed, Aetherion’s face flashed briefly in his mind—his friend, his brother in all but blood. Aetherion, with his unshakable belief in Oghma, in the pursuit of truth for truth’s sake. How would he react if he knew what Alexion had done?

A pang of sorrow tugged at Alexion’s heart. He didn’t want to lose Aetherion, didn’t want to sever the bond they had shared for so many years. But he also knew that Aetherion could never understand. He could never accept the path Alexion had chosen.

Not yet, at least.

"Perhaps... one day, Aetherion will see," Alexion whispered to himself as he moved deeper into the shadows. "Perhaps, in time, he’ll realize that this was the only way."

And with that thought, Alexion disappeared into his tent, his mind already turning to the next steps in Cyric’s plan. He had the power now. He had the will. And soon, the world would tremble before him.

The Poisoning of Aetherion

Aetherion’s stomach churned as he listened to Alexion’s confession. His heart raced as he tried to make sense of it all.

"You’ve... betrayed everything we stood for," Aetherion said, stepping forward to block Alexion’s path. "I can’t let you leave. I won’t let you finish this."

Alexion’s expression softened, a trace of sorrow flickering in his eyes. "You’ve always been so brave, ‘small horn,’" he said softly, using the nickname with an unsettling familiarity.

Then, without warning, Alexion reached into his cloak and produced a small vial. He calmly tied a cloth around his face, securing it tightly before uncorking the vial. Aetherion’s eyes narrowed in confusion, his mind racing to understand what was happening.

In a swift motion, Alexion opened the vial, and a thick, sickly-sweet gas began to spill into the air. The scent hit Aetherion immediately, a sharp, overpowering sweetness—like bitter almonds and decay.

"What... what is this?" Aetherion gasped, staggering as the gas filled the room.

Alexion stepped back, his eyes filled with quiet resignation. "I wish it didn’t have to be this way," he said, his voice muffled through the cloth. "But you’re standing in the way."

Aetherion tried to stay upright, tried to fight the dizziness that overtook him. But his legs gave out, and the room spun wildly around him. His vision blurred, the world darkening as he collapsed to the cold stone floor.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was Alexion standing over him, the tome of Cyric in his hands, his face hidden behind the cloth, and the weight of betrayal hanging between them like a veil.

Part 6: Aetherion’s Awakening in the Underworld

The Stirring of Consciousness

Aetherion’s eyes fluttered open, his vision blurred and hazy. The world around him felt wrong—distant, oppressive, and suffocating. He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy, as though his very muscles had been lulled into a deep slumber by whatever poison had been administered. His mind struggled to catch up, piecing together the last moments he could recall.

Alexion. The thought slammed into him like a hammer. He had been speaking to Alexion, trying to reach him—trying to save him. And then... the gas. The cloth pressed against his face, the slow descent into darkness.

Now, as he slowly gained awareness, the first thing that assaulted his senses was the smell. The air was thick with the pungent stench of mold, filth, and rot—the unmistakable scent of a place far beneath the surface, where the refuse of the world above had gathered. But mingled with that stench was something far worse—something sickly sweet and unmistakably foul.

Burnt almonds. The odor was overpowering now, much stronger than it had ever been when Alexion had first returned from the expedition. It clung to everything, sinking into Aetherion’s clothes, his skin, his very breath.

He blinked, his vision slowly adjusting to the dim light. All around him, the walls were slick with grime, the floor uneven and wet beneath his body. Small streams of water trickled along the stone pathways, their surfaces reflecting the faint glow of the purple-hued candles that flickered in the darkness. The haze of their light made everything seem surreal, dreamlike—yet this was no dream.

He struggled to sit up, his body sluggish and aching from the effects of the drug. As he pushed himself to his feet, his gaze swept across the room—and that’s when he saw him.

The Governor in Chains

The governor.

The man was bound and gagged, slumped against the far wall of the chamber, his eyes wide and frantic. He tugged at his restraints, but they held firm, leaving him powerless and vulnerable. The man’s skin was pale, his face slick with sweat, and his movements erratic, as though he too had been drugged.

Aetherion’s heart raced. The governor had been an enemy, but he had not expected to find him here, in such a state. He tried to speak, to call out to the man, but his voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. The drug had sapped his strength, leaving him weak and disoriented.

Before he could gather his bearings, the sound of soft footsteps echoed through the chamber. Aetherion turned, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes landed on Alexion.

The Relic and the Mask

Alexion stood at the center of the chamber, illuminated by the eerie purple glow of the candles. His once-familiar features were now cast in shadow, his expression unreadable as he worked with a focused intensity at the altar before him.

And there, resting on the altar, was the relic.

It was a mask—twisted, ancient, and terrible in its design. The surface was made of what appeared to be obsidian, dark and polished, with faint veins of silver running through it like cracks in the very fabric of reality. The mask seemed to pulse with a life of its own, as though it was waiting—hungry—for something.

Aetherion’s blood ran cold.

"Alexion..." His voice trembled as he spoke, the words barely escaping his lips.

At the sound of his name, Alexion paused. Slowly, he turned to face Aetherion, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of the man Aetherion had once known—the friend, the brother. But it was fleeting, and in its place was a look of profound sorrow.

"I’m sorry, Aetherion," Alexion said softly, his voice heavy with regret. "I truly am. But it had to come to this."

Aetherion’s heart ached as he watched his friend. "What are you doing?" he whispered, his voice weak, but desperate. "This... this isn’t you."

Alexion’s Justification

Alexion’s gaze softened, though there was still a steely resolve behind his eyes. "It is me," he said, his tone calm yet firm. "It’s who I’ve always been. I just didn’t realize it until Cyric showed me the truth."

Aetherion tried to stand taller, to push through the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. "Cyric?" he spat, anger rising in his chest. "You’ve aligned yourself with Cyric? The god of lies and chaos? You’ve always sought the truth, Alexion. This... this isn’t the way."

Alexion’s eyes darkened, and he gestured to the mask resting on the altar. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, his voice low, almost reverent. "This is the Visage of the True Sovereign, an ancient relic of Cyric’s power. But it was never meant for the likes of the governor."

Aetherion’s brow furrowed in confusion. "The governor? What do you mean?"

Alexion’s lips curled into a bitter smile as he glanced at the bound and gagged governor, who was still struggling weakly against his restraints. "He’s had this mask for years. It’s why he’s been so obsessed with Cyric’s teachings. He believed that by unlocking its power, he could solidify his position of authority—cement his control over the town, and perhaps even extend his reach beyond it."

Aetherion’s heart sank as he processed Alexion’s words. "So... all of this—the cultists, the battle... it was all for this?"

Alexion nodded slowly. "The governor thought the tome would give him the answers he needed to wield the mask’s power. But he was a fool. The tome didn’t contain that knowledge. It never could." He looked down at the mask again, his expression hardening. "Only Cyric himself could reveal the true nature of this relic. And he would never give that power to someone like the governor."

"Why not?" Aetherion asked, his voice trembling with both anger and fear.

"Because the governor’s ambition is small," Alexion said coldly, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the man in chains. "All he wanted was to tighten his grip on this little dominion, to protect his pitiful seat of power. Cyric has no use for such small, insignificant dreams."

He turned back to Aetherion, his gaze intense. "Cyric desires those with greater ambition—those who are willing to reshape the world. The governor was nothing more than a tool, a stepping stone to something greater. And now... now I hold the key to that power."

Aetherion’s Plea

Aetherion took a shaky step forward, his heart pounding. "This isn’t the answer, Alexion! You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to trust Cyric."

Alexion’s eyes met his, filled with a deep sorrow. "I don’t trust Cyric," he admitted, his voice raw. "I never have. But the power he offers... it’s real. And it’s enough to make the changes that Oghma—" He spat the name with sudden venom, "—never could. Cyric gave me the power to save my father. And with the Visage of the True Sovereign, I’ll have the power to change everything."

Aetherion’s stomach twisted with dread. "But at what cost?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alexion’s expression hardened. "The cost doesn’t matter," he said flatly. "Not anymore. What matters is that the world needs to change. The weak, the corrupt—they have no place in this new order. And if I have to make sacrifices to see that through, then so be it."

The Governor’s Fate

With a grim expression, Alexion turned and strode toward the governor, dragging the bound man closer to the altar. The governor’s muffled cries grew louder as he struggled, his eyes wide with fear. Aetherion’s heart sank as he realized what was about to happen.

"Alexion, stop!" Aetherion shouted, his voice hoarse but filled with desperation. "This isn’t justice! This is murder!"

Alexion didn’t falter. He looked down at the governor, his expression cold and calculating. "Cyric wants this ‘follower’ dealt with," Alexion said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Because his ambitions are small. His vision is insignificant. He clings to his petty dominion, grasping for power in a world where true strength is needed."

Aetherion shook his head, his body trembling as he fought against the effects of the drug. "You don’t need to do this, Alexion. Killing him won’t make you stronger. It won’t make the world better."

Alexion glanced back at him, and for a brief moment, Aetherion thought he saw a flicker of doubt in his friend’s eyes. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a cold, steely determination.

"No, Aetherion," Alexion said quietly. "It will."

Part 7: The Ascension of Thanir

The Ritual of Blood

Aetherion could only watch in horror as Alexion—no, the person who had once been Alexion—prepared the twisted ritual. The chamber was filled with the eerie glow of the purple candles, their flickering light casting unnatural shadows on the walls. The air seemed to thicken with each passing moment, the weight of dark magic pressing down on everything.

Alexion stood over the bowl at the center of the altar, his expression cold and resolute. In his hands, he held the vials of blood—trophies from his heinous deeds—and the dark, terrible power of Cyric pulsed through him, visible in the strange aura that now clung to his form.

Aetherion struggled against his bonds, but the poison that still coursed through his veins made it impossible to move. His limbs were weak, his vision blurred, and all he could do was watch in helpless terror as his once-friend prepared to complete the unholy rite.

Alexion’s voice, now a deep resonance of both his own and something far more sinister, filled the chamber. "Watch as I ascend."

The Blood of the Traitor

Alexion moved with purpose, his hands steady as he lifted the first vial from his satchel. The blood of the ecclesiarchs—thick and crimson—swirled ominously within the glass. The weight of what he had done seemed to hang in the air, but there was no hesitation, no regret on his face. His eyes gleamed with the promise of power.

With a swift motion, Alexion uncorked the vial and poured the dark liquid into the bowl. The blood flowed like molten metal, its surface rippling as it mixed with the shadows already gathered there. A faint glow began to emanate from the bowl, a soft pulse of dark energy as the blood seeped into the ritual's heart.

"By the blood of the traitor," Alexion intoned, his voice resonating with an eerie, unnatural echo that seemed to fill the chamber, "we cast aside loyalty."

The room seemed to tighten around them, the walls pressing closer as the power of the blood took hold. The air thickened, vibrating with an invisible force, and Aetherion could feel the weight of the betrayal—the ecclesiarchs’ blood, spilled in secret, now fueling a ritual that defied everything they had stood for.

As the last drop of blood dripped from the vial, Alexion raised his head, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Aetherion’s stomach churn. There was no remorse, no hesitation in those eyes. Only conviction.

The bowl pulsed once more, a faint light flickering within, as if the blood itself had come alive. The traitors were now bound to the ritual, their betrayal a tool for the Lord of Lies.

The Blood of the Weak

Aetherion’s heart raced as Alexion reached for the bowl, his every movement deliberate, methodical. His eyes, cold and detached, flicked toward the bound governor. The man’s eyes were wide with fear, his muffled screams barely audible beneath the gag as he struggled against his restraints. But it was all in vain.

Alexion approached with the bowl in hand, striding forward with an air of terrifying purpose. The dim, flickering light of the purple candles cast long shadows, their glow reflecting off the blood-stained bowl. Aetherion could feel the oppressive weight of the ritual, the very air vibrating with dark power as Alexion stood over the trembling governor.

With a chilling calm, Alexion reached for his knife, its blade glinting in the faint light. He leaned over the governor, and without hesitation, he drew the blade across his throat in one swift, brutal motion. The blood spilled forth, pooling into the bowl that Alexion held beneath the gaping wound.

As the crimson flood filled the bowl, Alexion's voice rang out, filled with disdain. "By the blood of the weak, we rise to our ambitions, standing upon their frailty." He watched as the life drained from the governor’s eyes, his expression unreadable. The bowl now pulsed with energy, the dark mixture glowing brighter, fed by the sacrifice.

He stepped back, holding the bowl aloft as if it were a chalice, his eyes flickering with the terrible knowledge of what was to come.

The Blood of the Innocent

Aetherion trembled as Alexion turned toward him, his movements slow and measured. His once-friend—now something far more twisted—approached with the bowl in hand, the contents swirling with dark energy. Aetherion’s pulse quickened as Alexion knelt beside him, his eyes hard, yet filled with a strange sorrow.

Without a word, Alexion grabbed Aetherion’s wrist, and with precise cruelty, he sliced open his palm. Pain shot through Aetherion, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish he felt in his heart as his blood dripped into the bowl, mixing with the blood of the weak and the traitor.

"By the blood of the innocent," Alexion said, his voice softer now, tinged with regret, "we corrupt the pure."

The bowl glowed even brighter, the dark energy swirling within it now vibrating with a malevolent force. The ritual was nearly complete, but Alexion had one more offering to make.

He stood and returned to the altar.

The Blood of the Fallen

The chamber seemed to darken further as Alexion stood, the weight of the ritual pressing down on him. The power he had invoked was undeniable, and with every drop of blood, the air grew heavier, more oppressive. Aetherion could only watch as his once-friend—now something else entirely—returned to the altar, his hands steady despite the madness that surrounded them.

With deliberate care, Alexion placed the bowl of blood before him, the mixture swirling with a life of its own, pulsing with dark energy. His breath was shallow, but his resolve never wavered.

There was one final step.

Alexion reached for his blade once more, his fingers curling around the hilt with a practiced ease. With a swift, precise motion, he drew the blade across his own palm, the pain an afterthought as his blood—the blood of the fallen—dripped into the bowl, joining the blood of the weak, the traitor, and the innocent.

The dark liquid hissed as it accepted the final offering, the energy within it growing stronger, more volatile. The Visage of the True Sovereign pulsed with hunger, waiting for the moment when it would be complete.

"And by my blood," Alexion whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, "the blood of the fallen, I bind myself to the Lord of Lies."

The words carried a weight that Aetherion could feel in his bones, a finality that chilled him to his core. The bowl pulsed one last time, and the shadows around them seemed to shift, as though the ritual had pierced the very fabric of reality itself.

The transformation was upon him.

The Transformation of Alexion

The chamber seemed to hold its breath as Alexion lifted the Visage of the True Sovereign from the altar, his hands trembling ever so slightly. His eyes flickered with a mixture of awe and fear as he dipped the mask into the pool of blood. The crimson liquid clung to the mask, seeping into its cracks and veins, as though the mask itself was hungry for the offering.

For a brief moment, the mask seemed to resist, its dark surface rippling as though alive. But then, with a terrible shudder, it absorbed the blood entirely, glowing with a faint, ominous light.

With slow, deliberate movements, Alexion raised the mask to his face. Aetherion, still bound, watched in helpless horror as the mask made contact with Alexion’s skin.

The moment the Visage touched his face, the world seemed to implode.

A crack of black energy erupted from Alexion, the force of it shaking the very foundations of the undercity. The energy surged outward, warping reality, distorting the air, and causing the walls to tremble and crack.

Aetherion could only watch in disbelief as Alexion's body began to shift and twist, his form contorting in ways that defied nature. His skin seemed to melt, like hot wax, only to reform into something monstrous. His muscles expanded grotesquely, his Tiefling form now exaggerated, his features more demonic than ever before.

The transformation was slow, agonizing, the sound of tearing flesh and cracking bones echoing through the chamber. Alexion’s wings began to sprout from his back—not the graceful wings of an angel, but something far more terrifying. The dark feathers that lined his wings were sharp, jagged, gleaming like blades in the faint light. Each flap of the wings sent waves of energy through the air, their presence a mockery of divine grace.

His face, once familiar, was now unrecognizable. The mask had melded to his features, becoming one with his flesh, transforming him into something both beautiful and horrific. His eyes glowed with an intense purple light, and the expression that flickered across his now-disfigured face was one of both triumph and sorrow.

Aetherion shuddered as he watched the transformation unfold, the process drawn out, every step filled with the grotesque sounds of a body being remade. The world around them began to collapse, the ceiling above them cracking, stones falling from the walls as the undercity itself protested the birth of this new dark power.

The Ascension of Thanir

At last, the transformation was complete.

Alexion stood tall amidst the chaos. His wings stretched wide, casting long shadows across the crumbling chamber. His face, melded with the mask, was a mixture of divine beauty and monstrous horror. His eyes glowed with a terrifying power, and when he spoke, his voice was no longer his own.

It was a double voice—one that was his, and one that belonged to something far darker, far older.

"I am Thanir, Sovereign of Death and Deception," he declared, his voice reverberating through the ruins. "Gaze upon the new order I shall forge, and kneel."

The chamber trembled as his words echoed, the very ground beneath them quaking as the undercity began to crumble. Stones fell, dust filled the air, and shafts of light broke through the darkness, casting fleeting beams through the destruction.

"For the world shall serve," Thanir continued, his wings flaring behind him, "and those who defy me will be erased."

The Collapse and the Shield of Darkness

The undercity was collapsing, the very walls groaning and the ceiling caving in as the last remnants of the hidden world fell apart. Stones cracked, pillars crumbled, and dust filled the air, the destruction inevitable as the ground shook violently.

But Thanir stood unmoved amidst the chaos, his eyes glowing with a dark, malevolent light—the only light in the engulfing darkness. The eerie purple glow from his eyes pierced the shadowy surroundings, filled with a twisted satisfaction as he watched the world crumble around him.

As the ceiling began to give way above them, sending massive chunks of debris hurtling toward Aetherion, Thanir stretched out his hand with deliberate calm. From his palm, a swirling darkness erupted, as though the very fabric of shadow itself had come to life. The protective field enveloped the space around Aetherion, the force field expanding with a low hum. The falling rubble crashed against the barrier but was deflected harmlessly away, shattered by the power of Thanir’s dark magic.

"You will not die here," Thanir’s voice echoed through the stillness, filled with a grim, chilling promise. "Not while I will it."

Beneath the cover of the dark magic, the world seemed to slow, suspended in an unnatural stillness. The ground continued to tremble, and the walls still collapsed, but the two of them remained untouched within the protective cocoon of shadow, surrounded by the chaotic storm of destruction.

And in that moment of suspended silence, Aetherion felt something shift. The ropes binding his wrists, so tightly tied before, had begun to loosen. Thanir—so absorbed in his ascension, so focused on the immense power coursing through him—had not noticed.

With a final, desperate effort, Aetherion slipped his hands free, his pulse racing with terror and uncertainty. His wrists throbbed from the strain, but they were free—free while Thanir stood blinded by his own dark purpose.

Only the eerie purple glow of Thanir’s eyes cut through the darkness, a reminder of the unstoppable force now standing before him.

The Aftermath and the Revelation

The shaking finally stopped, and an eerie silence settled over the ruins. Thanir’s dark magic dissipated, and the shadows that had once protected us vanished into the air. Shafts of light pierced through the thick dust, casting a haunting glow over the devastation. The undercity was gone—reduced to rubble—and everything around us was broken, shattered beyond recognition.

It didn’t take long to see it: homes, pieces of lives that had once been whole, scattered in the wreckage. Trinkets, shattered walls, beams from above—all of it mixed together with the stone and dirt. At first, I couldn’t believe it. How could the city above have fallen so easily? Then I realized: we had been directly under it.

I could feel my heart racing, my chest tightening with panic. I looked back and forth, frantically trying to make sense of it all, and then my eyes landed on him—Thanir. He stood there, staring at something in the distance, his face frozen in an expression I hadn’t seen since... since before. It was as if, for a brief moment, he was Alexion again.

His glowing purple eyes, now dimmed but still visible in the dust, were locked onto something ahead. He looked stunned, as if the reality of what had just happened was starting to sink in. His lips parted, and I barely heard him whisper, "Did he trick me? He told me this was the location. He couldn’t have known... Could he?"

I followed his gaze, my stomach dropping as I looked at the crumbling structure he was focused on. My breath caught in my throat, and suddenly, everything felt distant—surreal. I stumbled forward, my legs weak beneath me as I approached the ruins of a house. My house.

I could barely breathe as I moved closer. The walls were gone, the roof had caved in, and the place where I had once lived... was gone. My legs gave way, and I fell to my knees among the broken stone and wood. And then I saw them.

Among the wreckage, their bodies twisted in terror, lay my parents. Their faces were frozen in fear, their arms outstretched, as if trying to shield themselves from the collapse that had killed them. They’d had no warning—no time to escape. It had been sudden, violent. They’d been terrified in their final moments.

Tears blurred my vision, my whole body trembling as I knelt there, my fingers hovering over them but unable to touch. "No... no, please," I whispered, my voice shaking. "This can’t be real. This has to be a trick... please..."

My eyes flicked to something glinting on my father’s neck. There, beneath the dirt and debris, was a pendant. I hadn’t seen it before—he must have kept it hidden under his shirt. My hand trembled as I reached out, brushing the dust away to reveal the Pendant of Unseen Truths—a symbol worn by those in our order who sought hidden knowledge.

I turned it over in my hands, and there, engraved on the back, were the words: "Truth does not perish."

I felt a sob rise in my throat as I held the pendant in my trembling hands. The words felt hollow in that moment, but I placed it around my neck all the same, the chain settling on top of the pendant Alexion had given me before his departure with the militia. As the two pendants rested together on my chest, it was as if the weight of both past and present hung there—a reminder of all I had lost and all I still had to face.

Then I saw it—half-buried in the rubble but unmistakable. The family hammer. I reached out with shaking hands, pulling it free. The symbol of Oghma—not the scroll, but an older symbol of knowledge and divine truth—was etched into its hilt. I clutched it to my chest, my tears falling onto the cold metal, forming streaks of mud on my cheeks.

I stood, hammer in hand, my legs weak but my resolve hardening. I turned to face Thanir, my heart filled with rage and grief like I had never known.

He looked at me with sorrow in his eyes—those same glowing eyes that had once been filled with warmth. "I didn’t know," he whispered, his voice soft and broken. "They were my family too, Aetherion. I would never have wished this on them."

The fury in me boiled over, and I could barely contain the rage that surged through me. "Do not speak of them!" I shouted, my voice raw. "You are unworthy to speak their names!"

Thanir flinched, but the sorrow remained in his gaze. "I didn’t want this," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "But Cyric... Cyric demands sacrifice. I suspect this may have been his final offering. A test. A price for power."

I gripped the hammer so tightly I thought my hands might break. "It will never be enough!" I screamed, my voice shaking with both anger and despair. "The Betrayer God will always demand more. More power, more death, more of your soul. There is no end to his madness. No peace in his path."

For the first time, I saw something in Thanir’s eyes that shook me—doubt. His confidence, his arrogance, wavered for just a moment. But then, just as quickly, he masked it. He straightened, his wings rustling behind him, his face hardening into something cold and unfeeling once more.

"This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be," he murmured, his voice barely audible as he glanced down at the debris again. I could see it in his face—he was searching for some explanation, some justification for the devastation we stood in.

But there was none.

I took a step toward him, the hammer heavy in my hand. "You’ve sacrificed everything," I said through gritted teeth. "But you’ve gained nothing. You will fall with the rest of them, Thanir. There is no justice in Cyric’s lies. Only death and madness."

The Choice and the Creed

The air between us hung heavy with tension. Thanir, once Alexion, extended his hand, his eyes gleaming with dark purpose. His voice, though still his, now carried a resonance far deeper—an echo of something ancient, twisted. "That is why I need you, Aetherion. To keep me on the path that you believe in. This new order will need justice—true justice. The strongest will rise to the top, and the corrupt and incompetent will be swept away."

I stood there, trembling—not just from the exhaustion that weighed down my limbs, but from the sheer horror of his words. His request twisted my heart in ways I couldn’t comprehend. He wasn’t just offering me a role in his madness; he was asking me to stand at his side, to be his right hand, to help him bring this nightmare to life.

His glowing eyes softened for a moment, as if offering me an olive branch. "Together," he said quietly, his hand still outstretched, "we will shape a world of truth. A world where those with the strength to lead, the strength to act, can take their rightful place. I need you, Aetherion. You’ve always been my anchor. You... could be a part of this."

A sick feeling gnawed at my stomach. I shook my head, my breath ragged. His words tempted me with their sincerity, but I saw through the cracks. This wasn’t Alexion speaking—this was Thanir, the twisted creature Cyric had molded from my brother’s soul.

"I will not join you," I said, my voice shaking but growing steadier with each word. "I will not betray what we once stood for."

Thanir’s eyes darkened, his hand slowly lowering, but I could feel the tension building between us, the crackling energy of what was to come.

And then, with all the strength I had left, I shouted:

"I believe in Oghma, the Binder of what is known,
The Keeper of Knowledge, from whom all truth flows.
I believe in the eternal power of wisdom,
Unbent by falsehoods, unbroken by lies.
I renounce the deceivers, who weave webs of illusion,
And I stand against the betrayers, who claim power through treachery.
For it is knowledge that builds, and deception that destroys,
And in the end, only truth remains, while all else turns to dust.
I believe that the light of truth outshines the darkness of ambition,
That no mask of power can hide the rot of lies,
And no strength born of deceit can stand against the weight of wisdom.
I shall not bend to false gods or their hollow promises,
For truth is eternal, and those who seek to corrupt it
Shall be forgotten in the annals of history,
While the words of Oghma endure forever."

The echoes of my declaration hung in the air, defiant and unwavering, cutting through the oppressive darkness that surrounded us.

Thanir’s Transformation and the Duel

For a brief moment, Thanir’s face twisted—not in rage, but in... regret. His hand, the same one he had offered me in friendship, dropped to his side.

"Then die."

His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. The sentence was spoken with a terrifying finality. Before I could react, his hand moved with a lethal grace, pulling forth a rapier from its sheath—a blade I recognized, yet it was no longer the weapon it once had been.

The rapier had changed, just as he had. It remained straight and sharp, but there was something grotesque about it now. What was once an elegant tool of combat had become a corrupted mockery of itself—a bastardized version of its former elegance.

The blade was longer than I remembered, its edge gleaming with a malevolent light. Dark, tarnished black steel ran the length of it, faint veins of glowing purple pulsing like some twisted, unnatural heartbeat. It was more substantial now, heavier—its very essence warped by the power that had claimed its wielder.

The hilt had changed, but its transformation wasn’t grotesque or overt. Instead, it had taken on a subtle, menacing elegance. Its once polished surface was now tarnished black, with faint, dark veins running through it, pulsing as though alive with a sinister energy. The grip, once designed for balance and comfort, now seemed infused with a quiet malice, its edges rougher, the leather worn and frayed, yet fitting perfectly in Thanir’s grasp.

The guard was no longer smooth and refined. It twisted in intricate, angular patterns, as though the metal itself had been warped by dark forces. It seemed to cling to Thanir’s hand, binding him to the weapon in an unseen but inescapable way. It was subtle but undeniable—a symbol of the bond between Thanir and Cyric.

It wasn’t just a sword anymore—it was an extension of Cyric’s will, forged for domination and destruction. He moved with a speed that defied reason. The air crackled around him as he lunged toward me, his corrupted blade slicing through the dust-filled air. I barely had time to raise my hammer in defense, the weight of it heavy in my hands.

Our weapons met with a clash, the force of it reverberating through my arms. It was like trying to hold back a storm. Thanir was no longer holding back—his strikes were relentless, each one faster, more precise than the last. His movements were graceful but brutal, and I knew—deep down—I couldn’t match him. Not like this.

But he wasn’t trying to kill me. Not yet. He was toying with me, testing my strength, savoring the moment.

As his blade danced around mine, I could feel the weight of his words, the finality of his decision. He could end this at any moment, and we both knew it. He was giving me a chance—one last chance to join him, to take his hand, to abandon my creed.

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

With a flick of his wrist, Thanir knocked my hammer from my hands, the heavy weapon clattering to the ground. I staggered back, my vision blurring as he advanced, his blade glinting with dark energy.

Then, with a lazy flick of his sword, he slashed across my chest, shoulder to hip, and I fell. The pain was instant and overwhelming. I gasped, feeling the blood seeping from the wound as I collapsed to the ground, the world spinning around me.

Through the haze of pain, I looked up, my vision blurring as Thanir stood over me, his face unreadable. His wings unfurled behind him, casting dark, jagged shadows on the ground.

"So long, Small Horn," he said, his voice filled with cold indifference.

The Departure of Thanir

As I lay there, barely clinging to consciousness, the world around me felt distant, muffled as though I were submerged in water. The rubble of the collapsed city shifted, the dust settling in the wake of the destruction. Everything was chaos—except for Thanir.

He stood above me, his dark wings stretched wide, casting long, terrible shadows over the remnants of our lives. His eyes glowed with that eerie, dark purple light, his new form towering and menacing. He looked down at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable—no longer the Alexion I had known, but something darker, something far beyond my reach.

He gazed down at me, his voice cold, devoid of the warmth I had once known. "If you have the strength to survive," he began, his voice echoing with a cruel authority, "then I may still have purpose for you yet. But if you fall..." He paused, his glowing eyes narrowing, "...then only the strong will stand with me as I use Cyric’s power to reshape this world."

My heart pounded as his words sank in. Thanir wasn’t offering salvation—he was offering a challenge, a test. Only those who survived had the right to join him. The rest, like the debris and lives around us, were simply swept away.

With a final, dismissive glance, Thanir turned, his wings unfurling fully. With a mighty sweep, he launched himself into the air, his figure cutting through the dust and debris like a shadow of death. He ascended quickly, disappearing into the sky, leaving behind the wreckage of the undercity—and the wreckage of my heart.

I lay there, staring at the sky where he had vanished, the pain of his departure mingling with the physical agony that wracked my body. My vision blurred, my strength ebbing away. I thought it was the end.

The Impossible Healing

But then, through the haze of pain, I saw a hand—a hand that should not have moved, yet did.

My father’s hand.

Trembling, weak, yet with purpose, it drifted toward me. I watched, disbelieving, as his fingers brushed against my wound, the touch sending a shiver through my entire body. His breath was shallow, his chest barely rising, but he was alive—alive and doing something impossible.

His voice came next, faint and strained, each word a desperate struggle. "By the light of truth," he whispered, his words barely audible, "may your wounds be mended. Let knowledge guide you back from the brink, and may the wisdom of Oghma restore your strength."

A soft light began to emanate from his hand, growing slowly, faintly at first, but then stronger—more radiant. I had never seen such a light from him, not in all the years I had known him. My father, who had always doubted, always questioned, was now casting a miracle. It was a light of pure faith, of unshakable belief, and it enveloped me, wrapping around my body like a protective embrace.

I felt the warmth spreading through me, closing the deep wound that had threatened my life. The pain ebbed, and my breathing became easier, my heart no longer struggling to beat. I could feel the strength returning to my limbs, the blood that had once poured from my body now stilled by my father’s impossible act.

But as the light grew, my father’s strength faded. His hand trembled, the glow flickering as he fought to hold it. His breath became ragged, his body weakening with each passing second.

"Father..." I whispered, my voice broken.

His eyes met mine, a faint smile playing on his lips. There was no fear in his gaze, only peace. "The truth," he whispered, his voice barely a breath, "does not perish."

And with that, his hand fell still. The light dimmed, fading away as his body gave out, his final breath escaping in a soft sigh.

I lay there, the tears falling freely as the full weight of his sacrifice hit me. He had saved me. My father—the man who had struggled with faith his entire life—had performed a miracle in his dying hour. He had given everything to pull me back from the edge of death.

But I had lost him.

The Collapse into Exhaustion

The pain of my wound, though healed, still lingered, draining me of the little strength I had left. My body felt heavy, my limbs numb as the reality of everything crashed down on me. The grief, the exhaustion, and the agony were too much to bear.

I could still feel the warmth of my father’s hand on mine, the last remnants of his strength seeping into me. But it wasn’t enough. The world around me began to blur, the edges of my vision darkening as my body succumbed to the weight of it all.

The last thing I saw before I slipped into unconsciousness was the sight of my father lying still beside me, his hand now motionless, his face peaceful in death.

And then everything went black.

Part 8: A New Purpose

The Hospital and the Revelation

When I awoke, it was to the warmth of a hand holding mine. My eyes fluttered open, and I found myself in a hospital bed, the soft light of dawn streaming through the window. My body felt heavy, weighed down by the events that had transpired, but I was alive.

I turned my head and saw my grandfather sitting beside me, his face etched with exhaustion and grief. He was holding my hand tightly, his grip firm, as if he feared letting go might mean losing me as well.

"Grandfather..." I whispered, my throat dry, the words coming out as little more than a rasp.

His eyes softened, but they were filled with sorrow. "You’re awake," he said quietly, his voice trembling. "Thank Oghma. I thought... I thought we might lose you too."

I swallowed, my mind swimming with fragments of the night, the destruction, the pain. But one memory burned clearer than the rest—my father’s hand, glowing with divine light as he healed me. "Grandfather..." I began, my voice thick with emotion. "Father... he saved me."

My grandfather’s eyes widened, and he leaned closer. "What... what do you mean?" His voice wavered, as if he couldn’t bear to hope.

I took a deep breath, the memory of my father’s final act replaying in my mind. "He found his faith, Grandfather. In his last moments... he performed a miracle. He healed me." My hand drifted to my chest, tracing the path of the scar that now marked my body.

Without a word, I pushed aside the blanket and lifted my tunic, revealing the dark, jagged scar that ran from my right shoulder down across my chest and torso, ending at my left hip. "This... this was the wound that should have killed me," I whispered, my voice breaking. "But he... he closed it. He saved me with his own hands."

Tears welled in my eyes as I recounted the impossible scene. "He whispered a prayer to Oghma. He believed, Grandfather. In the end, he believed."

My grandfather’s eyes filled with tears, his face contorted with both sorrow and awe. He reached out, gently touching the scar, his hand trembling. "Your father..." he whispered, his voice cracking. "He... he did this?"

I nodded, my tears falling freely now. "He saved me, Grandfather. He cast a miracle... he found his faith."

My grandfather’s shoulders slumped, and he let out a long, shuddering breath. His eyes, filled with grief for the loss of his son, also shone with a deep, profound gratitude. He raised a hand to his face, wiping away a tear. "He did it... he finally believed."

The room was filled with a heavy, bittersweet silence. Both of us were weeping now—me, for the father I had lost, and him, for the adopted son who had, at long last, found his faith.

"He never could accept it," my grandfather said, his voice breaking. "He struggled with it his whole life. But in the end... he found his way back to Oghma."

I nodded, my heart aching with the weight of the truth. "He did. His doubts... they were gone, Grandfather. I could feel it. He gave everything to save me."

My grandfather squeezed my hand, his eyes red with tears. "Then he’s at peace now," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Your father... he’s at peace."

I lowered my head, my tears falling onto the blanket, the weight of everything we had lost pressing down on me. But there was also something else—a small glimmer of hope, of peace. My father had found his faith, and in doing so, he had saved me. That thought, at least, was a small comfort.

We sat in silence for a long time, the gravity of everything settling over us. The silence between us was heavy with grief and loss, but I knew it couldn’t last. There was more I had to say, more that needed to be told. I took a shaky breath, steeling myself for the words that would follow.

"Grandfather... there’s something else," I began, my voice quiet but firm.

He looked up, his red-rimmed eyes searching mine. "What is it, Aetherion?"

I swallowed hard, the weight of the truth pressing down on me. "It was Alexion," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "He caused all of this."

My grandfather’s eyes widened, shock and disbelief clear on his face. "What do you mean? Alexion? He—"

I nodded, my throat tightening as I forced myself to continue. "After you were injured... he turned to Cyric. I don’t know how it happened exactly, but Cyric whispered to him, made him promises—promises of power, of the ability to change the world in ways that Oghma never could. And... he took it. He made a blood pact with Cyric."

My grandfather’s expression shifted from disbelief to sorrow as I continued, recounting every harrowing detail.

"He killed the ecclesiarchs, Grandfather," I said, my voice cracking. "He staged their deaths to make it look like a Cyric assassin had done it, but it was him. He needed their blood for the ritual—a ritual to ascend into something else. Something... dark."

My grandfather’s hand tightened on mine, his grip trembling. "No..." he whispered, the pain in his voice palpable.

I nodded, tears welling in my eyes again. "He killed the governor too. He dragged him to the altar, slit his throat, and used his blood. And then... he used a relic, a mask—the Visage of the True Sovereign. The governor had it, but Cyric had never given him the power to use it. Alexion... he figured out the ritual, and that’s what caused the collapse. The whole undercity started to fall apart as he ascended into... into something else. A demigod."

The words felt heavy in my mouth, each one laced with the bitter truth. My grandfather’s face was etched with grief, but there was something else in his eyes—determination.

"And Cyric," I continued, my voice barely a whisper now, "he tricked Alexion. The ritual site... it was right under our home. Cyric knew. He knew what would happen, that it would destroy everything."

My grandfather’s breath hitched, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh. "And Alexion... where is he now?"

"I don’t know," I admitted, shaking my head. "After the ritual, after he ascended, he flew away. He’s not the Alexion we knew anymore, Grandfather. He’s... he’s something else. Something twisted by Cyric."

For a long moment, my grandfather said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the window, staring out at the distant horizon, lost in thought. Then, finally, he spoke.

"When I was here, watching from the hospital tower... I saw something. A creature, dark and terrible, rising from the wreckage of the city. It flew toward the wilderness—the same place where we had driven the Cyric cultists not so long ago."

My heart sank. "He’s gathering them," I whispered. "He’s pulling the cultists back together... building an army."

My grandfather nodded grimly. "It seems that way. And if he’s doing that, then he’s planning something far worse than we’ve seen so far."

I clenched my fists, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on me. "I have to stop him, Grandfather. I have to bring him back if I can... or bring him to justice if I can’t."

My grandfather’s gaze softened, but his eyes held a deep sadness. "I will help you however I can, Aetherion. You won’t be alone in this."

I nodded, feeling a surge of determination, but before I could say more, my grandfather’s expression grew serious again.

"But if you want to pursue this path, if you want to stand against Alexion... you need to finish the rite of passage with Oghma. You need Oghma’s blessing to become a cleric. Without it, you’ll be walking into the darkness without the light of truth to guide you."

I lowered my head, knowing he was right. "I haven’t shown any signs of being favored by Oghma," I murmured, the weight of my doubts creeping back in. "I haven’t exhibited any connection to him."

"That doesn’t matter," my grandfather said firmly. "You must still complete the rite. You must face whatever lies ahead, whether Oghma favors you or not. And if you don’t—if Oghma doesn’t grant you his blessing—you’ll have to choose another path. But no matter what, you’ll still have to face Alexion."

I clenched my jaw, the enormity of the task before me settling in. "I will go through the rite," I said quietly. "And if Oghma doesn’t choose me... then I’ll find another way. But I won’t stop until Alexion is either redeemed... or brought to justice."

My grandfather’s expression softened again, his hand tightening around mine. "Then I will help you however I can, my boy. But remember, this won’t be easy. You’re walking a dangerous path, one that will test you in ways you can’t yet imagine."

"I know," I said, my voice steady. "But I have to do this. For Father. For Oghma. And for the truth."

My grandfather nodded solemnly, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt a sense of purpose beginning to take shape within me. Whatever came next—whether it was the rite of passage or a battle with Alexion—I knew I would face it with everything I had.

And I wouldn’t stop until the truth prevailed.

The Rite of Enlightenment

The dawn broke over the horizon, casting its golden light through the high, arched windows of the Great Library of Oghma’s temple. The sacred scrolls and tomes, symbols of wisdom preserved for ages, glowed faintly in the early morning sun. The air felt heavy with the weight of the impending ceremony, but within me, there was an emptiness—a doubt I could not shake.

I knelt before the elders, their eyes fixed upon me, each holding a scroll or sacred text. The High Loremaster stood at the center, his gaze serene as he held the blank scroll that represented the knowledge I would soon seek to uncover. But my thoughts were distant, scattered, turning not toward the future, but toward the past.

I had not felt Oghma’s hand in my life. Not once had I experienced a miracle or seen any clear sign of divine favor. The absence of such moments had shaped my doubt, not just in the world, but in myself. Why had Oghma chosen me for this task? It made no sense.

In my heart, I had been preparing for a different path entirely. The temple of Gond, the sister temple to Oghma’s, had always made more sense to me. My skill with crafting, my knowledge of weapons, the practical, hands-on work that could shape the tools I would need to fight Thanir—it felt more suited to my abilities. Gond, the god of craft and invention, had always seemed closer to me than the abstract pursuit of truth that Oghma embodied.

I wasn’t like Alexion—no, Thanir—who had been so confident, so certain of his path. He had always been the favored one, the one who could draw on small miracles, who had that divine spark of connection with Oghma. I had been the one left in the shadows, always searching, but never truly finding.

The elders began the ceremony, their eyes fixed on me with reverence, but inside, my heart churned. How could I, who had never seen Oghma’s favor, be expected to bring justice to someone who had fallen so far, so deeply into darkness? I had prepared myself to take up Gond’s hammer, to forge the weapons I might need to stop Thanir. And yet, here I was, kneeling in Oghma’s temple, tasked with a mission that seemed beyond my grasp.

I closed my eyes, fighting the rising wave of uncertainty. How could I possibly live up to the expectations that had been placed on me?

The ceremony began.

The Trial of Questions

One by one, the elders approached, each posing a question designed not only to test my knowledge but my wisdom—my ability to see beyond the simple answers, to grasp the deeper truths hidden beneath the surface.

"Is knowledge still sacred when used to deceive?" one elder asked, her eyes sharp, her tone challenging.

I hesitated, considering the question carefully. "Knowledge in itself is sacred," I answered slowly, "but its misuse for deception corrupts its purpose. Truth must always guide its use."

The elder nodded, satisfied.

Another elder stepped forward. "Does power corrupt, or does it reveal?"

"Power reveals what is already there," I replied. "It amplifies the nature of those who wield it. In those with pure intent, power can bring change for good. In others... it leads to destruction, as we have seen."

A third elder, his voice low and contemplative, asked, "Can one save a soul already lost?"

This question cut deep. I thought of Alexion—of the friend who had fallen so far. "A soul is never fully lost," I said, though my voice wavered slightly. "There is always a chance for redemption. But... it must be chosen. It cannot be forced upon someone who has given themselves to the darkness."

The elder regarded me for a long moment before nodding, his expression unreadable.

Each question seemed designed to challenge not only my knowledge but my very understanding of the path I had chosen. With every answer, I felt the weight of Oghma’s teachings settle over me, and slowly, I realized that the truth was far more complex than I had ever imagined.

The elders stepped back, satisfied with my responses. The Trial of Questions was complete.

The Oath of Truth

As the elders stood before me, their eyes filled with expectation, I knew what was coming next. It was time to take the Oath of Truth, the sacred vow that would bind me to Oghma’s service for the rest of my life. I rose slowly from my knees, my heart steadying itself despite the lingering doubt.

I faced the assembly, and for a moment, the silence was overwhelming. The Great Library, normally filled with the quiet rustle of scrolls and the scratching of quills, was utterly still. Every eye was upon me, waiting for the words that would seal my fate.

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon my shoulders. And then, with as much strength as I could summon, I began to speak.

"My voice rang out clear and strong, filling the temple with the weight of my conviction:

"I pledge to seek knowledge relentlessly.
To preserve truth above all.
To share wisdom with others responsibly.
To combat ignorance, falsehood, and deception.
By Oghma’s light, I stand as a bearer of knowledge,
A protector of truth."

The words echoed through the Great Library, resonating off the walls and into my very soul. Each phrase felt heavier than the last, as if with every word, the responsibility I bore became more tangible, more real. I could feel the weight of the vow pressing into my heart, its gravity undeniable.

The Scroll of Enlightenment

The High Loremaster stepped forward, holding the sacred quill that had been blessed by Oghma’s temple. The quill gleamed faintly in the temple’s light, a reminder of the divine connection between knowledge and those who sought to preserve and share it. In his other hand, the Loremaster carried a blank scroll, its pristine surface waiting to be marked with the first truth I would uncover—a symbol of the wisdom I was bound to seek for the rest of my days.

As he presented the quill and the scroll to me, my heart pounded in my chest. I felt the weight of all the moments that had led me here—the shattered ruins of my home, the terrible transformation of Thanir, the quiet, miraculous act of faith from my father. I could feel the gravity of my path press down on me, heavier than any weapon I had ever wielded, heavier even than the hammer that now hung at my side.

My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the quill, my fingers brushing its feathered surface. The enormity of what lay before me threatened to overwhelm my resolve, but I steeled myself. This was no longer just about me—this was about truth. About the light that Oghma had entrusted me to carry. About the knowledge that could heal, or if necessary, destroy.

I looked down at the blank scroll, its pure white surface reflecting back the uncertainty in my heart. For a moment, my mind raced, a thousand thoughts swirling together in a storm of doubt and determination. What could I write that would be worthy of this moment? What truth could I offer that hadn’t already been spoken, taught, or understood by the many who had come before me?

But then, as I knelt there, I thought of Thanir. I thought of his fall, of the way his hunger for power had driven him into the shadows. I thought of the lies that had been woven around him, the falsehoods that had drawn him further and further from the light of Oghma’s truth.

And suddenly, it became clear.

No knowledge is complete until it is shared.
For truth must be brought into the light,
Not hoarded in shadow.

My hand moved almost of its own accord as I wrote the words, the ink flowing smoothly across the parchment. Each letter seemed to carry the weight of my conviction, shaped not only by my understanding but by the trials I had faced, by the lives I had seen torn apart by deceit. The words were not just a reflection of what I believed—they were a reflection of what I had lived.

I paused when the final stroke was made, staring at the words etched in the sacred ink. No knowledge is complete until it is shared. Those words carried the full weight of Oghma’s teachings—the essence of why I had been chosen, even if I didn’t fully understand it yet. I realized then that Thanir’s greatest downfall had been his refusal to share. He had taken knowledge in secret, and had been bent by it towards darkness. He had allowed it to fester in the shadows, rather than exposing it to the light.

The truth, I understood now, wasn’t just a thing to be discovered. It was something that had to be given back, shared with the world, or else it would become like the knowledge Thanir had hoarded—corrupt, distorted, dangerous.

When I finished, the High Loremaster stepped forward again, taking the scroll from my hands. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a quiet approval, and then carefully placed the scroll within the temple’s archives, where it would remain as a testament to my commitment to Oghma’s path.

But as the scroll disappeared into the library’s depths, I couldn’t help but feel that smll revealed truth was only just a beginning. There were so many things I still didn’t understand—about myself, about the task that lay before me, and about why Oghma had chosen me. Yet, in that moment, as the quill left my hand and the scroll was sealed away, I knew one thing for certain:

I would not walk this path alone.

The knowledge I had been tasked with finding, the truth I had pledged to protect, wasn’t meant for me alone. It was meant for the world, for those who sought the light. For those, like my father, who had struggled in the darkness but had, in the end, found the strength to believe.

The Revelation of the Religious Name

Now came the most sacred part of the ceremony—the revelation of my religious name. It was a name that would reflect the truth Oghma had seen within me, the purpose I had yet to fully understand. The High Loremaster stepped forward, carrying a second blank scroll, but this one was different. It shimmered faintly, as if the very fabric of the parchment was imbued with divine magic. The air around it seemed charged with energy, and as it was placed in my hands, I could feel a subtle hum coursing through the surface, like a heartbeat.

I knelt before the grand symbol of Oghma—the radiant quill and scroll, glowing softly in the temple’s light. My eyes closed as I bowed my head in meditation, seeking clarity amidst the swirl of emotions inside me. My mind was a storm of doubts and questions.

I had spent so long doubting myself, feeling the absence of divine favor that so many others in the temple had received. I had never felt Oghma’s hand upon me like Alexion had.

The High Loremaster’s voice rose in prayer, filling the library with its deep, resonant tone:

"O great Binder of Knowledge, reveal the truth hidden within this acolyte. Show us his purpose, his place in the eternal pursuit of wisdom."

As his words echoed around me, I felt a warmth begin to spread through my body. It started as a gentle heat in my chest, like a small flame, but soon it grew, radiating outward until it enveloped me completely. It was a warmth I had never felt before—a comforting, reassuring light that seemed to chase away the lingering doubts, replacing them with a quiet sense of peace. For the first time, I felt connected to something beyond myself, as though Oghma’s presence was there, watching over me, guiding me.

I opened my eyes slowly, and as I did, the blank scroll in my hands began to glow. At first, the light was soft, barely visible in the dimness of the temple. But then it grew brighter, filling the entire room with a blinding radiance. The scroll seemed to hum with life, vibrating gently as the golden light pulsed from its surface.

I squinted, my breath catching in my throat as the glow intensified, becoming almost too bright to look at. It was as if the very essence of truth, of knowledge, was being drawn from the air around me, condensed into this single, sacred moment. My heart raced as I watched, my hands trembling slightly from the sheer weight of what was happening.

Then, just as quickly as the light had come, it began to fade. And in its place, Celestial script appeared on the scroll, its letters etched in shimmering gold. The High Loremaster stepped forward, his voice reverent and filled with awe as he read the words aloud:

"Ignotus Veritas."
("The Unknown Truth.")

The room fell into a profound silence as the name echoed through the library, its meaning settling deep within my heart. Ignotus Veritas. The Unknown Truth. My chest tightened as I tried to comprehend the gravity of what had just been revealed. This name—this purpose—was not something I had anticipated. It wasn’t an answer, but rather a reminder that my journey would be filled with uncertainty, that I was being called to seek truths that had yet to be uncovered. Oghma had not chosen me for what I already knew, but for what I would come to discover.

It wasn’t about what I had already achieved, or the favor I hadn’t yet received. It was about the potential Oghma had seen in me—the potential to unravel the mysteries that others couldn’t, to walk paths that others feared to tread. I was not chosen because I had all the answers, but because I was willing to search for them, no matter how difficult or dangerous the journey might be.

As the High Loremaster looked at me, his eyes filled with reverence and understanding, I felt the weight of the name settle on my shoulders. It wasn’t a burden—it was a challenge. A challenge to become something greater than I had ever believed myself to be. A challenge to seek out the hidden knowledge, the truths that had been lost or buried, and to bring them into the light.

I knelt there, the golden letters of Ignotus Veritas still shimmering on the scroll before me, and I realized that, for the first time, I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t need to understand everything. I didn’t need to have all the answers. All I needed was the will to keep searching, to keep pushing forward, to keep seeking the unknown truths that Oghma had called me to find.

With that realization, the last of my doubts fell away. Oghma had chosen me. I didn’t know why, and perhaps I never would. But I would not fail him. I would walk this path, no matter where it led, and I would uncover the truths that had been hidden for too long.

The room remained silent, the air heavy with the divine presence that had just filled it. I rose slowly, the scroll still glowing faintly in my hands, and bowed my head before the symbol of Oghma. The journey ahead would be long and fraught with peril. But I knew, deep in my heart, that I would not face it alone.

The Grand Miracle

As the ceremony neared what should have been its peaceful conclusion, the air in the Great Library suddenly felt different—charged, as though the very atmosphere had shifted in anticipation. The quiet reverence that had filled the room moments before now held a strange tension, an unspoken expectancy. Something was about to happen.

I knelt before the High Loremaster, my heart still racing from the revelation of my religious name—Ignotus Veritas—and the weight of the truth it held. My body was steady, but my mind churned with everything I had seen and experienced. The final part of the ceremony was about to begin—the Blessing of Insight, Oghma’s final gift to those who completed the Rite of Enlightenment.

The High Loremaster stepped forward, placing his hands gently on my forehead, his voice deep and filled with reverence as he began to invoke the blessing.

"In the name of Oghma, I call upon the Binder of Knowledge to bestow insight upon this one, to guide him in his pursuit of truth, to open his mind to the mysteries yet unseen."

But as his words echoed through the library, something unusual began to stir.

The scrolls that lined the walls rustled as though touched by a breeze—except no breeze was blowing. The air thickened, heavy with a presence I couldn’t quite comprehend. A low hum, barely noticeable at first, began to vibrate through the room. It was subtle, but it grew louder with each passing second, until it filled the library with a deep, resonant sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

I glanced up at the elders surrounding me, and I could see the unease in their eyes. This was not part of the ceremony. This was something else. Something greater.

Without warning, a radiant light exploded from the symbol of Oghma above the altar—a quill and scroll etched in gold—and filled the entire library with blinding brilliance. It was as though the very essence of Oghma had descended into the room, flooding it with divine energy. The elders gasped, stumbling back as they shielded their eyes from the overwhelming radiance.

I felt the warmth of the light wash over me, enveloping my body in its brilliance. I had never felt anything like it before—pure, undiluted power coursing through me, lifting me from the ground as though I weighed nothing at all. I hovered in the center of the library, suspended in the radiant light of Oghma’s presence, and for that moment, I was no longer in the world I had known.

Time seemed to stretch, and I was pulled into something far greater than myself. My mind opened to the infinite, as if the boundaries of reality had been torn away, and all that remained was knowledge—endless knowledge. I glimpsed the vastness of the universe, felt the threads of truth that connected every living being, every event, every idea. It was beautiful, terrifying, and overwhelming all at once.

I saw flashes of Thanir, standing atop a broken world, his wings outstretched as cities crumbled beneath him. I saw ancient tomes, buried deep within forgotten vaults, waiting to be uncovered. I saw distant realms where truths lay hidden, waiting for someone with the courage to bring them to light. I saw Alexion’s face, twisted and transformed, yet still somehow recognizable. I saw the choices I would face, the paths that would open before me, each leading toward a different truth, a different destiny.

It was too much—too vast for any mortal mind to comprehend. The sheer magnitude of it nearly broke me. I wanted to close my eyes, to shut out the endless stream of knowledge that flooded my mind. But I couldn’t. I was part of it now, connected to something far beyond myself.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the vision shifted. It became focused, narrowing down to one simple truth. A voice—soft, but clear and undeniable—spoke within me:

"Seek the unknown. Unravel what has been hidden."

The words echoed through my mind, reverberating with a power that made my entire body tremble. I didn’t know where they had come from—whether it was Oghma himself speaking, or the universe guiding me toward my path. But I knew, without a doubt, that this was my purpose. Not because I had all the answers, but because I was meant to seek them, to uncover the truths that had been hidden for so long.

The light began to fade, its brilliance slowly dimming until the library returned to its usual dim glow. The elders stood frozen, their faces pale with shock and awe. The scrolls and books that had once rustled in the unseen breeze now lay still, but the energy in the room lingered—heavy, sacred, and unmistakably divine.

I lowered gently to the ground, my knees weak beneath me, but my mind... my mind had never been clearer. I was no longer just Aetherion, the uncertain acolyte who had doubted his worthiness. I had been touched by something far greater than myself—something that had revealed a glimpse of what was to come.

As the light faded completely, the High Loremaster stepped forward again, his face pale but reverent. His voice trembled with awe as he spoke.

"Never before... never before has Oghma revealed himself in such a way during the Rite of Enlightenment."

The elders murmured in agreement, their voices filled with a mix of fear and wonder. They had witnessed something unprecedented—something that had never happened in the temple’s long history. Oghma had manifested, and he had done so for me.

I knelt there, my heart still racing from the experience, my mind filled with the echoes of the divine light that had flooded my soul. I felt humbled, but also... empowered. Oghma had shown me a glimpse of the truth I was meant to uncover, of the path I was meant to walk.

When the High Loremaster placed his hands on my head to deliver the final blessing, I no longer felt the weight of doubt or fear. My path, though filled with uncertainty, was clear. I was willing to seek what others could not. I would unravel the hidden truths, face the darkness that had claimed Alexion, and bring either redemption or justice.

As I rose from the ground, the warmth of Oghma’s light still lingering in my chest, I knew that my journey had only just begun.

The Presentation of the Libram

The ceremony, though nearing its conclusion, still held its final and most personal moment—the presentation of the Libram of Knowledge. The High Loremaster stepped forward once more, his eyes filled with solemnity and respect, carrying the sacred Libram in both hands. Its cover gleamed softly in the temple’s light, etched with golden markings that symbolized the eternal pursuit of truth.

I could feel the weight of tradition, of history, as I prepared to receive it. Every cleric of Oghma carried this book as their most sacred possession, a vessel for the knowledge they would uncover throughout their lifetime. It was more than just a book—it was a testament to their journey, a record of the truths they sought to protect and share with the world.

The High Loremaster held the Libram out to me, and for a moment, I hesitated, staring at it. The enormity of the moment washed over me again. This was the final act of my ordination, the moment I fully became a Loremaster of Oghma. As I took the Libram from his hands, a warmth spread through me—not unlike the warmth I had felt during the Grand Miracle, but softer, more personal. The book was light in my hands, yet I knew it carried the weight of a lifetime of service.

"Carry this with honor," the High Loremaster said, his voice quiet but powerful. "Within these pages, you will write the truths you uncover, the knowledge you safeguard, and the wisdom you share with the world. Let it be a reminder of your duty to Oghma, and to the light of truth."

I nodded, reverently cradling the Libram against my chest. This was my vow, my burden, and my privilege. I had been chosen to walk a path of uncertainty, to uncover truths hidden in shadow, and to confront the darkness that had taken Alexion—now Thanir.

As I stood there, holding the Libram, I felt a deep, unshakable sense of purpose. I may not have fully understood why Oghma had chosen me, but I knew my cause was just. The journey ahead would be difficult, filled with unknowns and trials I couldn’t yet foresee, but I was ready. I had to be.

I whispered softly to myself, gripping the Libram tighter. "Oghma chose me. I may not know why, but I will not fail."

A Moment with My Grandfather

After the ceremony, I stepped outside the Great Library, the cool air of dawn washing over me. My thoughts were still racing from the enormity of what had just happened—the Grand Miracle, the Libram, and the weight of my mission. But as I looked ahead, I saw my grandfather waiting for me, standing near the temple’s stone steps.

His face, though lined with age and grief, held a soft smile. He looked at me with pride that radiated from him in waves, and in that moment, I felt a deep sense of connection—a grounding force that brought me back from the divine intensity of the ceremony.

He stepped forward, his eyes misting over as he clasped my shoulders, his grip firm but gentle. "I watched the whole thing," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, Aetherion. Not once in all my years."

I nodded, my throat tight with emotion. "Oghma... he showed me things, Grandfather. I still don’t fully understand it all, but I know my path. I know what I have to do."

My grandfather’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he simply stood there, looking at me with a depth of love and pride that I hadn’t seen in a long time. "Your parents," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "Especially your father... they would be so proud of you."

The mention of my father brought tears to my eyes, and I swallowed hard, the weight of it all pressing down on me. "He... he saved me, Grandfather. In his final moments, he performed a miracle. He found his faith."

My grandfather smiled through his tears, nodding. "He did. I always believed he would, in his own way. And you... you’ve taken up the mantle, Aetherion. You’re carrying forward what he began, but on your own terms. Oghma saw something in you, something that none of us could have predicted. And now you’ve been chosen for something far greater."

I felt the Libram in my hands, the weight of my duty pressing down on me again. But this time, it didn’t feel so heavy. "I’ll find Alexion," I said, my voice firm but filled with the emotion of the moment. "And if I can save him, I will. But if I can’t... then I’ll do what has to be done. For him. For all of us."

My grandfather nodded, his hand squeezing my shoulder. "You will. I believe in you, Aetherion. And so would your father. He would have been proud beyond words to see the man you’ve become."

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I let them fall. My grandfather pulled me into a tight embrace, and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to simply feel—to grieve, to hope, and to find strength in the love that still surrounded me.

As we stood there in the quiet of the morning, the path ahead felt clearer. I didn’t know why Oghma had chosen me, but I knew that with my grandfather’s support, my parents' memory, and the truth burning within me, I would not fail.

I would seek the unknown. I would bring justice or redemption. And I would make them proud.

Part 9: Conclusion

The Final Farewell

My grandfather and I walked side by side, leaving the temple grounds behind as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees. The dawn was quiet, serene, a stark contrast to the turmoil of the past few days. Yet, there was an unspoken heaviness between us as we approached the home where my siblings had been staying since the destruction of our house.

As we neared the door, I could see them through the window—my younger brother and sister, safe, playing quietly in the warmth of my grandfather’s home. A flood of relief washed over me. They had been spared the horrors that had unfolded, and for that, I was endlessly thankful.

Before entering the house, I stopped for a moment, my hand instinctively reaching up to the two pendants hanging around my neck. The pendant from my father, the Pendant of Unseen Truths, and the one Alexion had given me before he left with the militia. I grasped them both tightly, the metal warm from my skin, feeling their weight against my chest.

Suddenly, a strange sensation crept over me—an almost imperceptible shift in the air, a faint tingle at the back of my neck. I froze, my eyes lifting toward the horizon. There, for the briefest of moments, I saw him.

Thanir.

He stood in the distance, shrouded in shadow, his dark wings folded behind him, his glowing purple eyes locked onto me. My breath hitched, my grip on the pendants tightening. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. It was as if the world had stopped, time itself held in suspension.

But then—just as quickly as I had seen him—he was gone. Vanished into thin air, leaving only the faintest ripple in the space where he had been. I blinked, my heart pounding in my chest. Had it been real? Had I truly seen him? Or was it just a trick of the light, my mind playing games with me after everything I’d been through?

My grandfather turned to look at me, sensing my sudden stillness. "Aetherion? What is it?"

I swallowed hard, shaking my head slightly. "I... thought I saw something. Someone." My voice faltered for a moment before I regained my composure. "But it’s nothing. Maybe just my imagination."

He frowned, concern flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t press the matter. We walked inside, greeted by the warmth of my siblings' embrace, their innocence a temporary balm for the wounds left by the chaos.

Yet, even as I held them close, the image of Thanir lingered in my mind. Whether real or imagined, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been there, watching me, observing the ceremony from afar. Why? I didn’t know. But one thing was certain: if he was still out there, I would find him.

As we made preparations for my journey, my mind remained sharp, my heart resolute. I had taken the Oath of Truth, and I had made my vow to Oghma. Now, I made a vow to myself:

I would not stop.

I would search every corner of the world, uncover every hidden truth, and confront every challenge. Whether Thanir still carried a piece of Alexion within him or had been fully consumed by Cyric, I would do what needed to be done.

And I would not rest until it was accomplished.