The proclamation spread like fire.
By the second day, criers shouted it in the markets, guards nailed it to tavern doors, and nobles whispered of it behind veiled fans. The Monarch was outlaw, enemy of Midgar. Anyone who aided him was to be punished.
Selene Varadis had woven her net well. The city was turning watchful, citizens suspicious of one another. Fear twisted into vigilance, and vigilance into chains.
But Kael was already pulling the strings.
That evening, Kael walked the narrow alleys of the slum quarter, his cloak drawn tight. His shadows flowed at his heels, unseen by the lanterns that sputtered above.
The slums were the city's wound—narrow streets choked with mud, hovels leaning against one another, families huddled in corners with too little bread and too much fear.
It was here that the Cult struck hardest. Pawns in crimson cloaks prowled, demanding coin, food, or children in the name of "the Veil's tithe." And with the proclamation fresh on every tongue, the poor dared not resist. To resist the Cult was death. To call for the Monarch was treason.
Kael stopped in the shadows of a ruined wall, his violet eyes narrowing as he watched.
Three cultists stood before a family's hovel, crimson tattoos glowing faintly in the torchlight. A child sobbed behind her mother as the men laughed.
"The Hand requires tribute," one said coldly. "Food, coin, or blood. Choose."
The mother begged, trembling, holding out a small pouch of coin. The cultist slapped it from her hand, sneering.
Kael's shadow stirred.
The torchlight dimmed.
The cultists froze as darkness pooled across the ground, swallowing the street. Violet flame ignited within the shadows, casting long, jagged shapes across the walls.
A voice rolled from the black, calm, steady, resonant.
"The Hand does not command here."
The cultists spun, blades drawn. "The Monarch—!"
Shadows erupted. Tendrils lashed out, snatching the men from their feet. They screamed as they were dragged into the darkness, their bodies dissolving into ash before they hit the ground.
Silence fell.
The mother clutched her child tighter, staring into the gloom with wide eyes. Her lips trembled as she whispered.
"…thank you…"
Kael stepped from the shadows, his cloak drifting like smoke. His violet gaze met hers, steady, unblinking.
"Fear them no longer," he said softly. "The shadows do not devour the innocent."
He turned, his form melting back into the dark.
By the time neighbors emerged from their hovels, the Monarch was gone. Only the smoldering ash of cultists remained.
And whispers began anew.
Back in the Vellor estate, Selene slammed her fist against the table. The reports were clear—families in the slums spoke of the Monarch as protector, savior, executioner of cultists.
Her silver hair shimmered in the firelight as she paced, her blade at her hip.
"He twists it again," she muttered. "Every strike I make, he reshapes into legend."
Her crimson guards bowed their heads, silent.
Selene's voice sharpened. "Then we change tactics. If the people see him as savior, we will make him choose—between saving them, or saving himself."
Her lips curved faintly, coldly.
"We bleed the city until he reveals his hand."
In his cathedral, Kael sat before the Eye of Dusk. The relic pulsed rapidly, its rhythm syncing with the whispers of the slum quarter now speaking his name with awe, not fear.
"The throne grows," the relic whispered. "Every heart that turns to you is another chain upon the world. Rule them. Consume them."
Kael's fingers brushed the orb.
"No," he murmured. "Not consume. Command."
His shadows bowed low around him.
The people had seen him not as predator, but as protector. And that was the weapon Selene could never wield.
Kael's lips curved faintly. "She paints me as villain. I will make myself myth. And myths do not die."
On a rooftop above the slums, Cid clapped softly, crimson eyes glimmering with amusement.
"Saving children from cultists, vanishing into the night, leaving whispers behind… Monarch, you're playing this role perfectly."
His grin widened, sharp and delighted.
"But you're not just building power. You're building faith. And that…" He chuckled, leaning into the wind. "…that's the most dangerous weapon of all."