The news of Zephyscall's sudden silence and the High Bishop's catatonic state spread through Eliovan like wildfire, carried on panicked whispers and bewildered pronouncements.
The divine authority that had held the continent in its unwavering grip seemed to falter, replaced by a chilling uncertainty. Temples fell silent, processions ceased, and the faithful looked to the heavens with a dawning fear.
Aetherveil Academy was thrown into chaos. The instructors, once paragons of divine knowledge, now argued in hushed tones, their faces etched with disbelief and apprehension.
The students, stripped of their certainty, moved through the halls with a newfound unease, their whispers now laced with fear and speculation about the blind boy who had walked into the heart of the deity city and seemingly silenced its divine voice.
Orders came from the remaining high councils of the other deity cities: Caelum Rivenhart was to be apprehended. He was declared a heretic, a blasphemer, a threat to the very foundations of their faith.
Aetherveil, once his sanctuary, now became his prison in absentia.
A contingent of heavily armed Temple Knights, their armor gleaming ominously, arrived at the Academy, their faces grim. They demanded Caelum's immediate surrender, their voices echoing with righteous fury. Headmaster Theron, his usual composure shattered, could only offer a bewildered account of Caelum's quiet departure.
As the Knights prepared to scour the Academy, their search led them to Caelum's empty room. On his desk lay a single piece of parchment, sealed with a simple charm – the image of a blooming night flower. It was the letter to Reya.
Reya stood amidst the agitated students, her heart a knot of fear and a fierce protectiveness. She had felt the shift in the air, the sudden silence emanating from the north. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that Caelum was responsible. And despite the terror gripping the Academy, a part of her understood.
The Temple Knights found her clutching the letter, her face pale but resolute. Their leader, a stern woman with eyes like chips of ice, demanded to know Caelum's whereabouts.
Reya held the letter tighter. "He is gone," she said, her voice trembling slightly but holding firm. "And you have no right to hunt him."
"He has committed blasphemy!" the Knight Commander roared. "He has silenced a city of the divine!"
"No," Reya countered, her voice gaining strength. "You silenced him first. You silenced his family. You buried the truth beneath layers of lies and called it divine will."
She held up the letter, her hand shaking slightly. "He never wanted this power. He never sought to defy your gods. You made him use it. You created the silence you now fear."
Her words hung in the air, a seed of doubt planted in the minds of some of the younger students who had witnessed Caelum's quiet kindness. The Knight Commander, however, remained unmoved, her face hardening with fury.
"Silence this heretic sympathizer!" she commanded.
But before the Knights could move, a wave of unexpected support rippled through the assembled students. Some, remembering Caelum's quiet strength and his gentle nature, stepped forward, placing themselves between Reya and the Temple Knights.
"He never harmed anyone here," one of the younger students stammered. "He only… helped."
"He saved my bird," another voice chimed in, a small girl clutching a yellow finch to her chest.
The unity of the students, however fragile, gave Reya the moment she needed. She slipped away from the commotion, clutching Caelum's letter, her mind racing. She had to find him.
She had to understand.
Meanwhile, Caelum walked alone, the wind carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and distant rain.
The weight of his actions in Zephyscall was a heavy burden, a stark contrast to the lightness he had briefly felt in Reya's company.
He hadn't sought to destroy, only to reveal the truth. But the consequences were far-reaching, the silence he had created echoing in the hearts of a world built on unquestioning faith.
As he walked, fragmented images flickered through his mind, not the painful memories of his village, but glimpses of the void cube. The endless expanse of silent stars, the feeling of timelessness, the slow, agonizing process of his transformation.
He remembered the weight of a thousand years pressing down on him, the relentless training fueled by grief and the burning desire for justice.
He remembered the fragile bloom of Elienne's smile, the solitary beacon that had kept him from succumbing to the emptiness.
He hadn't understood the full extent of the void's influence then.
He had seen it as a prison, then a training ground. Now, he realized it was more. It had amplified his innate abilities, forged his senses into something beyond human comprehension, and perhaps… it had even granted him a connection to the deeper currents of Eliovan's history, the forgotten powers that lay dormant beneath the surface of divine rule.
The deity's unraveling wasn't just about forgotten names; it was about a fundamental instability in their power, a vulnerability that Caelum, shaped by the timeless void, had unknowingly tapped into.
He reached a crest of a hill overlooking a vast expanse of rolling plains dotted with small, quiet villages. He paused, the wind whipping at his simple clothes.
He was a wanderer again, an outcast in a world he no longer understood. The peace he had craved remained elusive, shattered by the weight of his past and the unforeseen consequences of his actions.
But amidst the weariness and the lingering ache of loss, a flicker of resolve remained. He had remembered. And he had acted. The ashes of his past had stirred, and though the wind carried the dust of shattered faith across Eliovan, the possibility of a new bloom, however fragile, still existed. And somewhere, he knew, Reya would be searching.