-----Chapter 5 - The Godless Oath-----

Sylvian turned to his men.

Unlike him, they weren't composed.

Some stood frozen, their bodies trembling as they looked around, trying to make sense of the impossible emptiness. Others had collapsed to their knees, staring at the ground as if searching for something—anything—to prove this was real.

A man stepped forward, his hands shaking. "Where… where is everyone?" His voice cracked, raw with disbelief. "Where are they?"

No one answered.

Another voice—more desperate, more frantic. "This isn't right. This isn't how a kingdom celebrates victory. This isn't—this isn't real."

He grabbed Sylvian by the arm, his grip weak, but filled with pleading. "Tell me we're dreaming, Commander. Tell me there's a reason for this."

Sylvian remained silent.

A third soldier let out a broken laugh, staggering backward. "The gods wouldn't let this happen. They wouldn't—" He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "We fought for them. We bled for them. How can an entire kingdom just… vanish?"

More voices. More questions.

"Did we return to the wrong place?"

"Did something take them?"

"Why are we the only ones left?"

Sylvian could hear their breaths growing heavier, turning ragged, turning panicked.

A man fell to his knees, gripping his sword like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing completely.

"What do we do now?"

And then, silence.

Sylvian felt their gazes on him. Not as a friend. Not as a brother-in-arms.

As their leader. Their only light in this suffocating darkness.

They needed him to speak. To tell them this wasn't real. To tell them they could fix this. To tell them what to do next.

But Sylvian had no words.

He clenched his fists, his mind a storm of contradictions.

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Where were the bodies? Where was the blood? Where was anything that proved his people ever existed?

This wasn't destruction.

This was erasure.

And for the first time, Sylvian wasn't sure if he could lead them out of it. And in that moment, Sylvian realized something.

If he broke, they would too.

After a long silence, nobody dared to speak. They were suffering on thier own.

---

Then—a sound.

Footsteps.

Calm. Measured. Unrushed.

A figure stepped into view, walking over the ruins as if they weren't there.

He was not a man.

His robes were white, untouched by dust or blood. His presence did not belong in this broken world.

And his eyes…

They looked at Sylvian like he was a child who had lost his way.

The warband shifted, hands instinctively gripping their weapons, though none of them had the strength to lift them. They weren't facing a man—they were facing something beyond them.

The figure stopped a few steps away.

Then, he spoke.

"You have suffered greatly," his voice was smooth, gentle. Like a balm meant to soothe. "You need not suffer more."

A shiver ran through the warband.

The man raised his arms, as if welcoming them.

"Come," he said, his words carrying an unnatural weight. "Come beneath the embrace of the great Akasha. He will grant you peace, as he has granted peace to all others."

Sylvian's fingers twitched.

Something in him snapped.

His mind screamed, WHAT OTHERS?

Were his people begging for salvation when they vanished? Did they pray to these gods in their final moments?

Had they clutched their children to their chests, whispering desperate prayers? Had the priests stood in the temples, pleading for divine mercy?

Had they all cried out for help—only to be met with silence?

His hands trembled.

This wasn't peace. This was extinction.

And now, this creature stood here, asking them to bow.

Sylvian exhaled slowly. His body felt heavier than ever before. His thoughts, sharp as daggers, cut through the last shreds of faith he had left.

His men were waiting. For his answer. For his command. For his will.

Sylvian lifted his greatsword.

And pointed it at the divine.

---

The apostle's expression did not change.

He merely tilted his head, as if amused.

"You would raise your blade against the divine?"

Sylvian's grip tightened. His arms ached, his soul burned, but his voice came cold and sharp.

"Did your God listen when my people cried for him?"

The apostle remained silent.

Sylvian stepped forward.

"Did he listen when they begged for mercy?"

Another step.

"When they prayed for salvation?"

The apostle's gaze was unreadable, but Sylvian saw something in the depths of those divine eyes.

A flicker. Not of sadness. Not of regret.

Of indifference.

And that was the answer.

The truth seared into Sylvian's soul like a brand.

They never cared.

Not the gods. Not the divine. Not whatever forces claimed dominion over fate.

Faith was a lie. Prayers were wasted breath.

He was done believing. Done hoping. Done kneeling.

Sylvian raised his sword higher. His voice, quiet yet unshakable, carried the weight of a kingdom lost.

"We will not serve."

---

The apostle studied him.

Then, he sighed.

His hands lowered, the softness in his gaze fading.

"How tragic," he murmured, almost disappointed. "Your people found peace, yet you would reject the same mercy?"

Sylvian's voice was ice. "Mercy? You call this mercy?"

His warband stirred, their grief turning to something else.

Something dangerous.

The apostle exhaled slowly. "Your souls are still lost in sorrow. But in time, you will see the truth."

He turned, his robes flowing unnaturally, as if untouched by the ruin surrounding them.

"The gods do not forsake their children. Even the defiant ones."

And with that, he began to walk away, his figure fading into the mist of the dead city.

Sylvian's grip remained firm on his blade.

He did not watch the apostle leave.

His gaze was on his men.

Their faces were no longer just twisted with grief.

There was something beneath it now.

Rage. Hatred. Conviction.

They had followed him into war before. But now, they followed him into something far greater.

---

Sylvian turned back to the ruins.

His homeland was gone. His people were dust.

But he was still here.

And he carried them with him.

Their cries. Their dreams. Their vengeance.

He drove his greatsword into the ground, kneeling before it—not in prayer, but in oath.

"We will not kneel to those who abandoned us."

The wind stirred. The silence around them felt thicker, heavier.

His warband stepped forward, one by one.

"We will not rest until we know the truth," one swore.

"We will not falter until the gods answer for this," another vowed.

More voices joined.

And finally, Sylvian spoke once more.

"We are the last of our kingdom. We will not be forgotten. We will not be erased. We will carve our vengeance into the heavens themselves."

The warband stood.

No longer knights of a dead kingdom.

Now, they were something else entirely.

Something greater.

And so, they left the ruins behind—not as mourners, but as warriors reborn.