Two weeks passed.
Two weeks of quiet wars—small skirmishes, sudden orders, and missions that felt more like errands for a pawn than the purpose of a protector. Lucian obeyed each one. Not because he trusted them, but because he was watching. Learning.
He moved through assignments like a shadow with purpose—targeting bandit strongholds, silencing rogue mages, escorting diplomats he didn't respect. All beneath him. All beneath what the people once called The Lightbringer.
In the quiet moments, his mind turned. He'd started keeping notes. Strange orders. Locations that didn't add up. Missions that seemed to eliminate people instead of protect them. Even now, he stood atop a blood-soaked cliff, watching a trade caravan burn behind him—an 'enemy supply line' the Council had ordered him to destroy.
But when he arrived, the caravan wasn't armed. No guards. Just scared merchants and old maps.
He'd obeyed anyway.
Because deep down, he needed to know how far the Council would go.
How far he would go.
---
That evening, Lucian returned to the capital. The Sancturm was aglow—marble towers and stained-glass cathedrals bathed in magic-light. But it all felt hollow.
Riven waited in his quarters, cleaning his axe.
"You're late," he said.
Lucian dropped his travel pack. "I burned a caravan full of scholars and farmers today."
Riven's face darkened. "They told us it was a rogue supply train."
"It was. But rogue doesn't mean enemy."
He poured himself a drink—something rare for him.
"What are we really fighting, Riven?" Lucian asked.
Riven looked up. "Maybe not enemies. Maybe truths they don't want spreading."
Lucian stared out the window. "The Council's afraid. And I think I know why."
He tossed a small, burned emblem onto the table. A sunburst crest.
"It belonged to a man on the caravan. Same sigil as the original builders of the Sancturm. The founders. People who believed the Sancturm should belong to all."
Riven's brow furrowed. "They're not rebels... they're heritage."
Lucian nodded. "And we're erasing them."
---
The next day, Lucian was summoned again.
Valen Dross stood alone in the chamber.
"There's a heretic mage hiding in the forest ruins of Ulmire. She's spreading dissent. Preaching old doctrine. Take her out."
Lucian didn't argue. He simply accepted. Then turned.
But Valen spoke again. "You've been... quieter, Lucian."
Lucian paused. "You told me to obey."
Valen smiled slightly. "Indeed. And you have. Don't forget—obedience is not weakness. It's power waiting to bloom."
Lucian left without replying.
---
The ruins of Ulmire were silent.
He found the mage easily—an older woman, once a war-archivist, now gray-haired and cloaked in books.
"You came to kill me," she said, unafraid.
Lucian didn't answer.
She pointed to a circle of symbols carved into stone.
"Sit. Listen. If you still want to kill me after, you may."
Lucian sat.
She spoke of the founding days—when the Sancturm was meant to be a sanctuary for all: mages, healers, warriors, seers. A council formed only to serve, not rule.
"But somewhere, they stopped serving. They became afraid. And fear breeds control."
Lucian stared at the blade in his hand.
"Why me?"
"Because you were supposed to lead them. Not follow."
When he rose, he did not raise his sword. Instead, he bowed.
And walked away.
---
That night, as stars broke the clouds above the Sancturm, Lucian stood in his chambers, staring at the Council's crest on his cloak.
He burned it.
Let it smolder in silence.
He didn't speak of it.
But inside him, something had shifted. The blade still gleamed. But the light behind it?
Fading.