The portal shimmered before them like a dying star.
On the other side, the Eclipsed Monastery awaited — once a temple of unshakable devotion, now a tomb suffocated by betrayal and silent screams.
Kael stood at its threshold, his cloak whispering against the stones, the Black Court arrayed behind him.
Not one among them doubted.
Not one among them hesitated.
They had seen the Reliquary fall.
They would see this Monastery fall too.
The first step through the portal was like stepping into a drowning man's final breath.
The air was thick — a slow, crushing weight pressing against bone and thought alike.
Above, the sky was not sky at all but a roiling mass of weeping stars, stitched together by black vines of dead light.
The Monastery rose from this desolation like a corpse's hand clawing at a grave:
Towers bent sideways, whispering winds tearing away ancient prayers.
Bells hung from broken arches, swinging soundlessly.
Statues of nameless saints wept black ichor, their faces long since scratched away.
Kael moved forward without pause, his stride parting the poisoned mist.
His eyes, alight with new power from the Shattered Reliquary, pierced every illusion the Monastery attempted to weave.
Behind him, the Court fanned out, covering angles with military precision:
Veylor's armor radiated defensive wards strong enough to turn aside concepts of harm.
Seraphina's steps left trails of crimson flowers that withered into ash — siphoning hidden energies into her.
Elyndra murmured inverted hymns, unraveling the protective wards stitched into the very floor.
Dame Aerin whispered prayers to no god, only to the certainty of Kael's victory.
They moved not like invaders.
They moved like executioners.
The outer courtyard was a graveyard of faith.
Blindfolded figures in ruined robes sat cross-legged in endless lines, their heads bowed, their hands clasped in prayer.
But their prayers were hollow.
As Kael's boots clicked against the cracked flagstones, the figures rose in unison.
No words.
No cries.
Just movement — a thousand broken monks advancing as one, knives of bone sprouting from their wrists.
The first wave had begun.
Kael gave no order.
His Court needed none.
Veylor surged forward, his shield flaring with abyssal glyphs. Every step shattered stone beneath his feet as he plowed into the first ranks, scattering bodies like dry leaves.
Seraphina danced among the apostles, her dagger weaving art from death. Every slash unraveled not flesh, but the remnants of faith still binding the creatures together.
Elyndra sang counter-notes — discordant, harsh — and wherever her voice touched, the apostles faltered, their illusions peeling away to reveal brittle, hollow shells.
Dame Aerin moved like a storm, her sword cleaving through enemy after enemy, her strikes fueled by righteous fury.
Kael, however, barely moved.
A mere flick of his fingers reordered the battlefield:
Apostles twisted into the wrong dimensions.
Paths collapsed beneath their feet.
Their own broken prayers turned against them, binding them in chains of failed devotion.
In less than three minutes, the courtyard was silent again.
Only Kael's Court stood, untouched.
Ahead, the Monastery's grand gates loomed — ironwood doors inscribed with wards burning faintly.
Kael approached.
He placed his palm against the cold surface.
It resisted.
It pleaded.
The doors begged not to be opened.
Kael smiled thinly — and pushed.
The doors groaned and split apart under his will, revealing the inner sanctum.
There, awaiting them, was the Abbot.
He was a grotesque thing — ten feet tall, skin stitched from the vows of the fallen, his face hidden behind a cracked iron mask.
Chains wrapped his limbs, binding him to the altar he had once presided over.
In his right hand, he held a crozier shaped from the spine of a martyr.
He spoke — and every word fell like stones into their minds:
"You cannot walk further, Sovereign.
You have not the right."
Kael tilted his head slightly.
"I do not require right," he answered.
"I require power. And will."
The Abbot roared — a sound made of every broken promise ever sworn — and the Monastery itself shuddered.
Walls peeled back to reveal endless libraries burning with black fire.
Specters of broken monks howled from the rafters.
The very structure of the Sanctuary rebelled against Kael's presence.
The Abbot moved with blinding speed, slamming the crozier down.
Shockwaves of betrayal tore through the Court:
Veylor staggered, his shields flickering under the conceptual assault.
Seraphina bled from the eyes, nose, and mouth as her very memories twisted.
Elyndra gasped, clutching her head, voices whispering doubts into her ears.
Only Kael remained unbowed.
He lifted his left hand —
and with a word in a language older than grief —
countermanded the Monastery's will.
"You are mine now," he said to the very stones.
The floor trembled —
—and obeyed.
Kael snapped his fingers.
Reality folded, condensing the battle into a single moment.
He moved —
a blur faster than causality could track.
One moment he stood distant.
The next, his sword was thrust through the Abbot's heart.
The crozier clattered to the floor, shattering into dust.
The Abbot convulsed once —
then crumbled into ash, his chains disintegrating.
The Monastery groaned —
—and surrendered.
At the center of the altar, a relic floated:
The Bell of Broken Dawns.
A simple-looking bell, blackened and cracked — yet humming with forbidden power.
Kael stepped forward.
Seraphina called weakly:
"My lord... be cautious."
Kael spared her a glance —
not of dismissal, but of assurance.
He grasped the bell.
Immediately, a thousand voices screamed in protest — the trapped remnants of the Monastery's creators.
Kael ignored them.
He ripped the relic free.
And with it, he ripped the Monastery's soul free.
Power flooded him:
Authority over the forgotten.
Dominion over every broken oath and severed vow.
The ability to twist loyalty itself like clay.
Kael's aura expanded, cracking the walls, dimming the weeping stars overhead.
The Black Court bowed deeply, feeling the surge.
Kael closed his hand around the Bell.
The sound of a thousand promises breaking echoed across worlds.
Far above, in the celestial realms, alarms blared.
The Archons gathered once more.
But this time, it was not only Archons.
A figure greater, older, more terrible stirred:
The First Light.
A being who had watched over mortal creation since the First Breath.
Its voice shook the pillars of eternity:
"The Sovereign must be undone.
Not in mercy. Not in warning.
But in annihilation."
The decree was given.
The full wrath of heaven would descend.
But Kael would not wait for them.
Standing amid the ruins of the Monastery, Kael opened a new portal — one blacker and colder than the void itself.
The next Sanctuary pulsed beyond:
The Vault of First Sins.
A place where even gods had buried their shame.
Kael turned to his Court, his voice calm but terrible:
"You have followed me across death.
Now follow me across damnation."
Without hesitation, they stepped through after him.
And the conquest continued.
To be continued…