Chapter 18: The Broken Summit
The summit dissolved into chaos.
Nobles shoved each other aside, scrambling for the exits. Guards loyal to the Cathedral clashed swords with soldiers who had cast down their tabards. Spellfire lit the air in erratic bursts, shattering stone columns and charring tapestries that had once depicted divine order. The once-glorious Hall of Concord had become a battlefield, and at the center of it all stood Kieran—unmoving, calm, as though he had foreseen every second of this storm.
Beside him, Selene spun her twin daggers, deflecting an arrow meant for Kieran's head. "We need to move. The loyalists won't go down quietly."
"Iris!" Kieran barked. "The escape plan?"
"Already in motion," she replied, tracing a glyph into the floor. "Portals opening in thirty seconds."
Aleron, still reeling from the revelations, stood silent amidst the carnage. His sword hung limply in his hand, bloodstained and unlifted. Aria clutched his shoulder, urging him to move, but his feet remained planted.
"I've spent years fighting for a lie," he murmured.
Kieran's voice cut through the madness. "Then fight for truth now. Or be swept away by what's coming."
A flicker of something returned to Aleron's eyes—resolve, buried but not broken. He nodded, just once.
A priest hurled a chain of blinding light toward Kieran, its divine magic screaming through the air. Selene ducked aside, but before Kieran could react, a wall of flame intercepted it—Veyra had joined the fray.
"Don't waste your breath," she snarled, hurling her flaming axe toward the priest. It embedded in his chest with a sickening crunch.
The air began to hum.
Iris's portal ritual reached its climax, sending waves of distortion through the marble floor. Glimmering gates bloomed across the hall, swirling with shades of violet and gold.
"GO!" Iris shouted. "Now!"
Kieran grabbed Aleron's shoulder and shoved him toward one of the portals. "You want redemption? Start by surviving."
They moved.
One by one, Kieran's faction slipped into the portals—Selene, Iris, Veyra, and finally Aria dragging a shaken Aleron. As Kieran stepped toward the final gate, he turned back once, taking in the ruin of the summit—the shattered illusions, the blood-streaked banners, the corpses of kings and zealots.
Good.
Let the old world rot.
Then he vanished into the light.
---
They reappeared in a hidden chamber carved into the cliffs of Elarion's northern reaches—far from the Cathedral's reach, surrounded by ice and wind. The sanctuary was ancient, built by the first sorcerers, its walls inscribed with spells of concealment and preservation.
Iris collapsed to the stone floor, breath ragged. "We made it."
"For now," Selene muttered, blades still slick with blood.
Veyra cracked her neck. "I say we take the fight straight to their temples next. Burn the bastards to the ground."
"We will," Kieran said. "But not yet. First, we consolidate."
Aleron stood near the edge of the chamber, looking out through the jagged stone window. Snow drifted against the wind outside, whispering across the mountains. Aria stood at his side, silent and thoughtful.
Kieran approached him slowly.
"You look like a man who's seen his own grave."
Aleron didn't look back. "I have. I just didn't know it had my name on it."
Kieran folded his arms. "You were used. But that doesn't mean you're worthless. You still have power. Influence. And now that you know the truth, you get to choose what to do with it."
Aleron turned to him, golden eyes dimmed. "Do you trust me, after everything?"
Kieran didn't hesitate. "No. But I trust what this world will become if we both play our parts."
A tense silence stretched between them. Then Aleron extended his hand.
"Then let's shatter the chains."
Kieran clasped it. "One link at a time."
---
Over the next two weeks, the world began to change.
Word of the summit's collapse spread like wildfire. Whispers of corrupted priests, false prophecies, and rebellion echoed in the streets of every major city. Small factions began to rise—some loyal to the Cathedral, others rallying behind a shadowy figure known only as the Cursed Sovereign.
Kieran's network worked tirelessly—Veyra training rebels, Selene assassinating informants, Iris enchanting new wards of protection. Aleron used his name to rally disillusioned knights and lesser nobles who had seen the truth. For the first time since he'd awoken in this world, Kieran felt the world shift with him instead of against him.
But he also knew it wouldn't last.
On the sixteenth day, a scout arrived at the sanctuary, bloodied and breathless.
"They're coming," he gasped. "An army. Loyalist forces. At least five thousand men. Led by Archbishop Caleor himself."
Kieran's eyes narrowed. "How long?"
"Two days. Maybe less."
The chamber went silent.
Then Kieran smiled.
"Then we'll greet them."
---
That night, Kieran stood alone beneath the stars, the cold wind tugging at his coat. Selene joined him, silent as always, her presence steady.
"You're not afraid?" she asked.
"I've already died once," he said. "Everything since has been borrowed time."
She stepped closer, just enough for her shoulder to brush his. "Borrowed or not… I'm not letting you face them alone."
He turned to her, voice softer now. "I know."
And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself a sliver of peace—however fleeting.
The storm would come.
But this time, it would not be fate that decided the outcome.
It would be him.
---