The chill of the Zephyscall decree settled deep within Caelum, a cold knot in his chest that no amount of Academy warmth could dispel. The revelation of the High Bishop's role in the "purification" hung heavy in the air around him, a suffocating truth that tainted every lecture, every training session. The benevolent smile in Alaric Vayne's portrait now seemed like a cruel mockery.
He found himself increasingly drawn to the edges of the Academy grounds, seeking solitude amidst the ancient trees that lined the perimeter.
The rustling leaves and the distant calls of birds offered a small measure of solace, a connection to a world untainted by divine decrees and buried secretly.
One afternoon, Reya found him sitting by the Whispering Falls, a cascade of water that tumbled down moss-covered rocks, its gentle roar a constant murmur. He held the smooth stone, turning it over and over in his fingers, his brow furrowed in thought.
"You seem troubled," she said softly, sitting down beside him.
Caelum didn't startle. He had sensed her approach long before she spoke. "The history here… it is not as clean as they teach," he said, his voice low.
Reya nodded slowly. "There are always shadows in the past. But what troubles you so deeply?"
He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. How could he explain the visceral recognition, the painful echoes that resonated with a decree written centuries ago? How could he convey the certainty that the "blight of memory" they sought to extinguish was the very lineage he belonged to?
"I… I learned something in the archives," he finally said, his voice strained. "About the founding of Zephyscall… about certain… purifications."
Reya's eyes widened slightly. "Purifications? You mean the historical accounts of dealing with heretics?"
Caelum nodded slowly. "It was more than heresy. It was about… memory. About silencing those who remembered things the gods wished to forget."
He didn't elaborate, couldn't bring himself to voice the chilling connection to his own lost past. The fragmented images – the fire, the screams, the desperate pleas – were too raw, too painful.
Reya watched him, her expression thoughtful. She sensed the depth of his distress, the personal weight behind his words. "Sometimes," she said quietly, "the stories they tell us are only one side of the truth."
In the following days, Caelum's focus in his studies began to shift. While he still excelled, his questions in history and theology became sharper, more probing. He sought out obscure texts, his fingers tracing lines of forgotten lore, searching for any mention of memory-binders, any whisper of the "blight" that had led to his family's destruction.
He learned of ancient beliefs that predated the current pantheon, of a time when truth was valued above obedience, and memory was revered as the foundation of wisdom. These fragmented accounts resonated with a deep, instinctive understanding within him, strengthening his conviction that the history of Eliovan was a carefully constructed lie.
One evening, as the Academy bells tolled the hour, Caelum found himself standing before the portrait of High Bishop Alaric Vayne in the grand hall. The benevolent smile seemed to mock him from the canvas. He reached out a hand, his fingers hovering just above the gilded frame.
A faint tremor ran through him, a barely perceptible vibration that spoke of a deep, ingrained wrong.
A voice startled him. "Admiring our esteemed benefactor, Rivenhart?"
Master Elmsworth stood nearby, a scroll tucked under his arm.
Caelum turned, his expression unreadable. "I was… observing his eyes," he said softly. "They seem to hold many stories."
Master Elmsworth chuckled. "Indeed. A life dedicated to the divine. A true pillar of our faith."
Caelum remained silent, his unseen gaze fixed on the portrait. The truth he now carried felt like a heavy stone in his gut, a silent scream against the carefully constructed narrative of the deity-led cities.
The fragile peace he had tried to build within the walls of Aetherveil was crumbling, replaced by a growing certainty that his past was not just a personal tragedy, but a thread in a larger tapestry of deceit, woven by the very powers that held Eliovan in their sway.
The thousand-year bloom of his grief was beginning to yield a bitter fruit – the unshakeable resolve to uncover the truth, no matter the cost...