It arrived at dusk.
Not with trumpet fanfare or divine light—but as a silence that choked the wind and made birds fall from the sky. The Watcher, the highest servant of Serathiel's will, descended upon Velmire wrapped in wings of shattered glass, each shard engraved with scripture that shimmered like tears.
It had no face.
Only a mirror, polished and still, reflecting every soul that dared look upon it.
Those who did… broke.
The first noble who met its gaze screamed until his throat tore open.
The second clawed his eyes out, whispering, "I am not worthy. I am not worthy."
The third was silent—and was never seen again.
The Watcher made no proclamations.
It stood in the city square. Unmoving. Untouchable. Its mere presence warped the laws of nature. No rain fell. No fire sparked. Children were born without breath.
The priests called for mass repentance.
The people hid in cellars.
But Ashen… smiled.
He stood in the highest tower of Velmire's keep, cloaked in servant's garb, gazing down at the unmoving divine effigy.
Lira sat cross-legged nearby, writing silently in chalk across the floor—prophetic glyphs from her dreams. They twisted unnaturally as she moved, like the chalk resisted its own shape.
"She sees us," Ashen murmured. "But she doesn't understand."
Lira nodded once, her fingers trembling.
Then, slowly, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a sealed wax scroll—not of this world.
A divine echo.
Ashen's eyes narrowed.
"She left you a message."
He broke the seal.
The wax screamed as it melted.
Inside were only three words, burned into the parchment in divine fire:
"You are learning."
Ashen stared at it in silence.
Then he whispered:
"Good."
That night, a child dared speak to the Watcher.
She asked if her dead brother was with the gods.
The Watcher reflected her face.
But when she looked into the mirror, she saw herself burning on a pyre. Over and over and over.
The child never spoke again.
Ashen moved swiftly.
He sent his cultists through the city, spreading a counter-narrative:
"The Watcher is not a messenger.
It is a prison.
It reflects the sins we were taught to love.
But we are not sinners—we are abandoned."
They carved these words in alley walls, whispered them through soup lines, and slipped them into psalms sung in broken rhythm.
The people listened.
Desperation made eager ears.
🔸 You have weaponized divine presence as a psychological weapon
🔹 + Echo Rank: B (Desecrator – Stable)
🔹 + Corruption: 41.6%
🔹 + Divine Infamy: 36 (Name whispered in foreign cities)
🔹 + Followers: 72 (New initiates from noble families)
🔹 Cult Trait Gained: "Mirrorborn"—Immune to Watcher effects when in ritual state
🔹 Divine Awareness Risk: MAXIMUM – Marked by Serathiel
Elsewhere, Tahlon had begun to change.
Not physically—yet.
But his voice wavered during speeches.
He stammered while blessing bread.
He awoke with his sheets soaked in sweat, and once—his mouth filled with ash.
Corren approached Ashen in the hollow chapel.
"The prince is cracking," he warned.
Ashen nodded. "It was expected."
"He believes in you."
"He believes in power," Ashen corrected. "He just doesn't know it's not his."
From the highest spire of the Velmire Temple, Inquisitor Virelle looked down on the Watcher.
She saw the truth reflected.
Not her sins.
Not her doubts.
But Ashen's face—smiling, just beneath the surface of every prayer, every sermon, every soul she failed to save.
She fell to one knee.
Not in reverence.
But in rage.