The aftermath of the square was not filled with cheers, but with a terrifying, hollow silence. The "Vanguard" scouts had fled, their golden horses disappearing into the mountain mist, leaving the villagers staring at Clevatess as if he were a ghost made of winter.
Clevatess walked away from the cracked marble statue, his **midnight-black tunic** fluttering in a wind that only he could feel. He looked at the cobblestones, now coated in a fine layer of **Absolute Zero** frost that sparkled like crushed diamonds. Alicia and Nelluru fell into step behind him, their footsteps echoing through the narrow, stone-walled alleys.
"They are afraid of you," Alicia whispered, her hand still resting on the hilt of her sword. "They have been taught for a decade that you are a martyr in white robes. Seeing you in the black silks of the Old World... it's like seeing a nightmare come to life."
Clevatess stopped in front of a small, mud-caked tavern at the edge of the village. Above the door hung a rusted sign of a **brown crown**, a symbol of the commoners who worked the earth.
"Fear is the first step toward the truth," Clevatess replied, his voice calm and resonant. "They fear what they do not understand, but they will respect what protects them."
He pushed open the heavy oak door. The interior was dim, smelling of roasted barley and damp wool. A dozen villagers sat huddled at the wooden tables, their clothes—simple tunics of **earth-brown linen** and heavy wool wraps—showing the wear of a people who had been taxed heavily by the High Citadel.
The tavern keeper, a woman with silver hair and hands calloused from years of work, looked up. Her eyes went straight to Clevatess's **silver dragon brooch** and the intricate **gold embroidery** on his collar.
"We don't want no trouble from the Citadel," she said, her voice shaking.
"I am not from the Citadel," Clevatess said, taking a seat at a corner table. The wood beneath his fingers instantly sprouted a thin layer of frost. "I am the reason the Citadel is afraid."
He reached into a hidden pocket of his mantle and pulled out a single coin—not the gold currency of the Queen, but an ancient silver piece stamped with the image of a raven. The woman gasped, dropping her rag.
"That... that belongs to the Dead King," she breathed.
"The King is not dead," Nelluru added, her **lime-green aura** illuminating the dark room like a soft lantern. "He just decided to stop being a statue."
As the villagers began to whisper, the weight of the ten-year lie started to crumble. They weren't looking at a monster anymore; they were looking at a hope they had forgotten existed. But in the shadows of the tavern, a lone figure in a dark hood slipped out the back door, heading toward the High Citadel to sell a secret.