Days passed in quiet upheaval.
Alaric, beneath the veil of Cedric, moved as a shadow cloaked in golden light. His name had taken root in the wind—not just in the capital, but in every city surrounding it. They all knew him now.
The man who healed the sick with a single touch.
The man who cleansed corrupted lands.
The man who made the Goddess weep miracles.
No noble announcement had been made. No trumpet was blown. But the people did not need those. The world shifted beneath their feet and Cedric had become a name they whispered with trembling hope.
He moved from city to city like a traveling sermon, a living parable.
Markets slowed when he passed. Children followed behind him barefoot, offering flowers and stones. Mothers clutched his robe with prayers. Old men dropped to their knees without knowing why.
And through it all, Alaric's expression remained still, gentle, and watchful.
He listened.
He healed.
He never stayed long.
