(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man poured himself a cup of wine, though he did not drink. He held it, staring into the dark liquid as if it were a mirror reflecting a past he could not escape. The Scholar waited, his quill poised, his heart already heavy with the knowledge that whatever came next would not be easy to hear.
"Three days," Aurelio said, his voice a low rumble. "That was what Godbrand gave us. Three days to decide whether to kneel or die. But he knew our answer before he asked the question. He was not offering us a choice. He was buying himself time."
He set the cup down untouched.
"And while we debated, he moved against us."
— Memory —
The ruins of the aqueduct had become a fortress. Makeshift walls of stone and timber blocked the gaps between the ancient arches. Sentries patrolled the perimeter, their eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. The civilians had been moved to the center, where the arches were tallest and the stone was thickest.
Aurelio stood at the main gate, watching the eastern road. The morning sun had burned away the mist, but the land beyond was still and silent. Too silent.
"He is not coming," Gerald said, joining him. The Viking's axe was slung across his back, and his face was set in a scowl. "He gave us three days, but he has no intention of waiting. He is playing with us."
"Or he is waiting for us to make a mistake."
"We have already made a mistake. We let him walk away from the Anvil."
Aurelio said nothing. There was no argument to make. Gerald was right.
Liam approached from the direction of the scout post. His face was calm, but his eyes were sharp.
"We have found something," he said. "Two miles east, near the village of San Marco. A gathering. Hundreds of people. Maybe more."
"Followers?"
"Mostly refugees. Farmers. Shepherds. People who have lost everything and are looking for someone to blame."
"Or someone to worship," Gerald muttered.
Liam continued. "Godbrand is preaching to them. He has built a platform at the center of the village. There are guards, but not many. Most of his followers are unarmed."
"A trap," Aurelio said.
"Almost certainly. But if we do nothing, he will continue to grow. In a week, there will be thousands. In a month, an army."
"We cannot attack unarmed civilians."
"We will not have to," Cecilia said. She had approached quietly, wrapped in a blanket despite the growing warmth. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear. "We do not attack the crowd. We attack the platform. We take Godbrand. And we let the crowd see him for what he is."
"And if the crowd turns on us?"
Cecilia met Aurelio's gaze. "Then we run. We are good at running."
The plan was simple. Too simple.
Aurelio would lead a small team into San Marco under the cover of darkness. They would bypass the guards, seize Godbrand from the platform, and vanish into the hills before his followers could react. Liam would provide cover from a distance. Gerald would secure the escape route.
Cecilia insisted on coming.
"You are still weak," Aurelio said.
"I am still useful," she replied. "I know the Shade's language. I can sense its influence. If Godbrand is using it, I will know."
"And if he is not?"
"Then I am a woman in a crowd. No one will notice me."
Aurelio wanted to argue, but he had learned that arguing with Cecilia was like arguing with the tide. She would go where she pleased, and he could either accompany her or watch her go alone.
"Stay close to me," he said.
"I always do."
They moved through the darkness like ghosts.
The village of San Marco was smaller than Aurelio had expected; a cluster of stone cottages around a central square, dominated by a wooden platform that had been built for the harvest festival. Now it served as Godbrand's pulpit.
The crowd was larger than the scouts had reported. Hundreds of people, perhaps a thousand, stood in the square, their faces upturned toward the platform. They were silent. Waiting.
Godbrand stood at the center of the platform, his arms spread wide, his eyes closed. He was illuminated by torches that flickered in the still air, casting shadows that made him seem larger than life.
"I have seen the face of God," he said, his voice carrying across the square without effort. "And He is not pleased."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"He has looked upon His children and seen only filth. Corruption. Sin. The plague is His judgment. The dead are His sacrifice. And we... we are the survivors. The chosen. The ones who will build a new world from the ashes of the old."
A woman in the front row began to weep. Godbrand opened his eyes and looked down at her.
"Do not weep, daughter. Rejoice. You have been tested, and you have not been found wanting."
He stepped down from the platform and walked among the crowd, touching faces, blessing children, whispering words that Aurelio could not hear. The people reached for him as if he were salvation itself.
"He is not using the Shade," Cecilia whispered, her breath warm against Aurelio's ear. "This is all him. His charisma. His madness."
"That makes him more dangerous, not less."
"I know."
They circled around the edge of the square, keeping to the shadows. The guards were few and poorly positioned; men who had been given spears and told to look intimidating, but who had clearly never held a weapon before. Aurelio could see the fear in their eyes.
"Liam is in position," Gerald whispered through the darkness. "We have a clear path to the eastern hills. Three minutes. No more."
Aurelio nodded. He watched Godbrand move through the crowd, watched the way people leaned toward him, touched his robes, kissed his hands. It was sickening. It was mesmerizing.
"Now," Aurelio said.
They moved.
Gerald was the first to strike, taking down the nearest guard with a blow to the temple. The man crumpled without a sound. Aurelio slipped through the gap, his sword drawn, his eyes fixed on Godbrand.
The preacher turned.
For a moment, their gazes locked. And in that moment, Aurelio saw something that chilled him to the bone.
Godbrand was not afraid. He was not surprised. He was waiting.
"Now," Godbrand said, echoing Aurelio's own word.
The crowd erupted.
Not against Godbrand. Against them.
The worshippers who had seemed so passive, so broken, surged forward with a fury that was almost inhuman. They grabbed at Aurelio's arms, his cloak, his sword. They clawed and bit and screamed. They were not fighters. They were fanatics.
"Fall back!" Gerald shouted, his axe clearing a path through the bodies.
Aurelio tried to reach Godbrand, but the crowd was too thick. He saw the preacher slip away into the darkness, a smile on his lips, and he knew.
This was not a trap. It was an offering.
Godbrand had sacrificed his own followers to buy time. He had known they would die. He had counted on it. Their blood would fuel the legend. Their deaths would make him a martyr.
"Run!" Aurelio yelled, grabbing Cecilia's hand and pulling her toward the eastern path.
They ran through the chaos, through the screams and the fire and the smoke. Liam's arrows flew overhead, clearing a path. Gerald's axe sang a song of blood and steel. And behind them, the crowd surged, hungry for vengeance.
They reached the hills as the first light of dawn touched the horizon. Below them, San Marco burned. The platform was a pyre. And Godbrand was gone.
— Present —
The old man's hands were trembling. He clasped them together to still them.
"We lost seven good people that night," he said. "Not to battle. To a mob that had been twisted into something unrecognizable. Godbrand did not kill them; he convinced others to do it for him. And that, my young friend, was his true power."
He looked at the Scholar, his eyes wet.
"He was not a warrior. He was not a general. He was a poison. And we had no cure."
He closed the journal.
"The hunt for Godbrand continued. But from that night on, we knew we were not chasing a man. We were chasing an idea. And ideas are very hard to kill."