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05 Dark Descent

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.

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.