"WEE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAAY!"

The crowd looked restless as they looked at the nobleman atop the execution platform. Beside him was a bound woman bound to a stake, today was her anticipated execution.

"FOOR THE PUUBLIC EXECUTION OF THE FOORMER CHAMPION, ALYSSA!!!"

The nobleman presented the woman, Alyssa, to the crowd - extending his hand towards her.

"THE EXECUUTION IS ON THE BEHEEST OF THE 7TH KING OF THELLINNNN, KING DUOL THELLIN!"

The crowd cheered as a man clad in regal clothes walked to the balcony of the building behind execution platform. He looked towards the crowd nodded as they chanted, "GLORY BE TO KING THELLIN!!!"

The nobleman waited for the crowd to calm down before continuing, "THE OFFENNNDAA IS TO BE EXECUTED FOR BEING GUILTYYY OF COMMITIIING A LIST OF CRIIIMES THAT AARE IN MY PERSOON, AND WILL BEE SHAARED WITH YOUU, MY BROTHERS AND SIISTERS, TOODAY!"

He presented the scroll and dramatically unfurled it.

"THE OFFENSES ARE AS FOOOOLLLOOOWS!" the nobleman bellowed, his voice reverberating across the square.

He peered down at the scroll, then lifted his gaze theatrically toward the restless crowd.

"FIIRST! TREASON AGAINST THE CROWN OF THELLIN!"

A wave of gasps rippled through the onlookers, followed by murmurs and the occasional jeer. Alyssa, bound and weary, merely lifted her chin, her sharp eyes locked onto the nobleman.

Alyssa remained impassive throughout the nobleman's speech, even as they list more and more fabricated crimes at her expense. The world has already taken way everything from her.

"SEECOND! CONSORTING WITH ENEMIES OF THE REALM!"

Her people schemed against, accused of rebellion and then executed without remorse.

"THIIRD! DEFYING DIRECT ORDERS FROM HIS MAJESTY, KING DUOL THELLIN!"

Her village pillaged and razed as the crown forced her to fight in the frontlines.

"FOOURTH! DESECRATION OF SACRED GROUND!"

Her mother and sister forced into servitude under the Graceful Church. Her father and brother privately executed.

"FIIFTH! THE THEFT OF ROYAL PROPERTY!"

She was denied of her rightful accomplishments and rewards.

"SIIXTH!---"

Alyssa scoffed at the nobleman’s words, her gaze sweeping the ungrateful crowd. Then, without warning—her breath hitched.

Her vision tilted, yanked upward against her will.

And she saw IT.

A wrongness beyond words. A thing that should never be. Not a monster. Not a god. Just—impossible.

Her body refused to move. Her soul screamed. Then—it smiled.

"AND LASTLY!—" The nobleman drew a deep breath. "THE GREATEST OF HER CRIIIMES—"

He paused, savoring the moment before the final charge. He let the tension build, watching the people lean in, waiting for the ultimate condemnation.

"BETRAYAL OF THE CHAMPION'S OATH! AND HEREESY AGAINST THE SOLEMN GRACE!"

"You have answered the world's call for a champion, brought it the peace it wanted."

IT seemed to whisper on her ears. Alyssa's face contorted at the unpleasantness of the voice. IT circled her with surprising grace.

The crowned was stunned in silence, they gazed at the heretical women in fear. It was one thing to commit crimes against the crown, but to commit heresy against the grace was on a completely different degree altogether.

The nobleman basked in the stunned silence, pleased with the weight of his final declaration. But Alyssa barely heard him.

Her breath came in short, uneven gasps. The world around her—the jeering crowd, the nobleman’s self-indulgent theatrics, even the looming balcony of King Thellin—had dulled into insignificance. Because of IT. Addressing her.

"You have done well, Champion," the whisper slithered through her mind, more sensation than sound. "You have brought peace to this world, fought its wars, bled for its people. You have played your part."

"And now it wants to discard me." Alyssa's face contorted in anger. That was not her control.

IT chuckled—or at least, she felt the mockery of laughter.

"Of course not," IT crooned, tilting its approximation of a head.

IT then leaned closer. Alyssa’s skin crawled as the whisper coiled around her thoughts, "It calls upon you once again."

She was stunned confused, not understanding what it meant. It continued to drift graciously around her.

She glared at it, any uneasiness and apprehension gone, "What do you mean?"

It drifting around her and, imitating the nobleman's posture, "Whatever do I mean?"

The nobleman, oblivious to Alyssa’s silent struggle, raised his hands. "LET IT BE KNOOWN," he proclaimed, "THAT ON THIS DAAY, THE ENEMY OF THE WORLD SHALL PAY FOR HER SINNNS!"

Her mind stilled, a thought emerged. A ridiculous one.

As the champion, Alyssa was forced to fight the majority of her life, protecting the realm against its enemies.

The thing seemed to ignore her thoughts, "The enemy, of course."

It seemed to bask in the renewed cries for her death. 

Alyssa’s fingers twitched against her bindings. The weight of the execution loomed over her, but her mind had latched onto the thought, the absurd possibility.

The enemy.

She had fought them for years—hordes of beasts, creatures twisted by sorcery, entire armies raised in defiance of the realm. She had carved through them, bled for the world, suffered for it.

She recalled the first time she wielded the Sword of Solemn Vow, the moment she left her old life behind. She remembered the worried faces of her family, the cheers of her village as they see her off. She then remembered her companions, comrades whom she stood side by side with.

She recalled the moment she beheaded the last of the enemy of the realm.

The memory was distant, hazy—a different life entirely.

The weight of the sword in her hands, the solemn vow she had sworn before the world. To protect. To fight. To be the champion the realm needed.

She had upheld that vow.

And the world had betrayed her for it.

The nobleman’s voice rang hollow against her ears, drowned beneath the whisper of IT, beneath the rising storm within her. The weight of betrayal settled deep in her bones.

The executioner set the stake ablaze, amidst the cheers and jeers of the crowd, yet she felt none of it.

Her gaze fixed at the sword in front of her, a familiar sword, yet it carried the wrongness that came with being in front of her.

The sword, at some point, is now floating within the fire. 

"Feeling nostalgic? " It questioned her, seemingly amused by itself.

Alyssa’s breath caught in her throat as the flames licked hungrily at the wood beneath her feet. The heat barely registered; all of her focus was on the wrongness before her.

Its once-pristine blade, the sacred weapon bestowed upon her as Champion, now looked aged and shattered.

"You carried it so well," IT mused, circling her again.

Alyssa’s jaw clenched. She should have felt fury—perhaps even despair—but all she felt was calmness.

The nobleman raised his arms, addressing the crowd once more. “LET JUSTICCCCCCE BE SEEEEEEERVED! MAY SOLIN'S FLAMES BUUUURN HER SINS AWAAAAAY, AND HER NAME BE FORGOOTTTEEENNN!”

The fire surged, the heat growing unbearable. Alyssa’s heartbeat slowed.

"The call is cast, " IT whispered, its voice slithering into her mind. "And once again, you are chosen."

The fire roared. The crowd cheered.

Alyssa exhaled, then reach out to the sword, her chains crumbling by itself.

As Alyssa’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword, a cold shock ran up her arm. The air around her seemed to fracture, the world itself recoiling as if it recognized the impossibility of what was happening.

For a moment, nothing happened. The crowd stared, frozen, waiting for the flames to return. Waiting for her to scream.

Then, a whisper:

"She lives…"

"That’s… impossible…"

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The nobleman’s voice bellowed above the whispers. “W-WHAT IS THIS?!” He stumbled backward, his once-booming theatrics lost in his mounting panic.

Their eyes glued to the woman within the dying fire, who should have been bound and in agony.

“WITCHCRAFT!” a voice shrieked.

Another followed, then another. Fear spread like wildfire through the gathered masses, and panic took hold. People shoved against each other in desperation, scrambling to flee the execution square.

The nobleman staggered backward, eyes bulging. “N-No! This isn’t—SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BURN!” His voice cracked with disbelief.

Alyssa stood amidst the embers, her fingers tightening around the fractured blade. The air felt wrong—as if the world itself hesitated, uncertain of what had just transpired.

Then a bellowing voice boomed from the balcony. “DO NOT BE AFRAID!”

Several figures flickered from the balcony, instantly surrounding her.

She glanced around, taking in the sight before her.

Clad in resplendent white and gold armor, the figures surrounding her bore the insignia of the Solemn Grace—the divine order sworn to uphold the will of the gods. Their presence alone was enough to make the crowd hesitate, their panic turning into hushed murmurs of reverie.

At the center of them stood a towering man, his face obscured by an ornate helm shaped like a lion’s maw. His presence radiated an oppressive authority, the very air around him humming with the weight of divine power.

“The Solemn Grace does not forget its champions,” the paladin declared. “Nor does it tolerate their betrayal.” His voice, deep and unwavering, carried an air of finality. “Alyssa of Thellin, for your crimes against the faith, for your defilement of the Champion’s Oath, you will be judged.”

Alyssa's grip on the fractured blade tightened, its cold weight grounding her amidst the absurdity of the moment.

She had expected the fire. Expected the pain. Expected the end.

Yet here she stood.

The Solemn Grace had moved swiftly, their radiant figures forming an unbreakable circle around her. Their leader, the lion-helmed figure, exuded the same authority she had once bowed to. Once fought for.

And now, they called for her judgment.

She scoffed.

Judgment? From them?

The very order that had turned its back on her? The faith that had used her, discarded her, and now sought to parade her execution as divine will? The absurdity of it was almost laughable.

Alyssa knew the truth.

Had she truly defiled her oath, the flames of Solin would have consumed her soul long before this spectacle. That was the will of the divine. There were no trials, no declarations, no ceremonies—only the silent, absolute judgment of the gods themselves.

And yet, there she stood.

Unburned. Unbroken.

The world itself had recoiled, uncertain of what had just occurred.

But IT knew.

The presence loomed behind her, unseen by all but her. She could feel it—its amusement.

"The pantheon of this world, " it paused, as if mimicking the nobleman's theatrics from earlier, " had written its pitiful fate."

Alyssa’s gaze flickered to the towering lion-helmed paladin, the supposed hand of the divine, passing judgment upon her. He had yet to draw his weapon, yet the sheer pressure of his presence made the air heavy, as if the world itself willed her submission.

She refused.

"Funny," she murmured, tilting her head just slightly. "You speak of judgment, yet Solin's flames did not take me. Tell me, does the grace you serve now hesitate?"

A ripple of unease spread through the knights, their gleaming armor shifting as their grips tightened on their weapons. They had seen it too.

The fire should have taken her.

But it hadn’t.

The paladin remained unmoving, unreadable beneath his ornate helm. Then, with an almost reverent slowness, he drew his great sword from his back. The blade shimmered with an unnatural light, humming with a force Alyssa recognized all too well.

Divine power. The will of the gods, manifest.

The crowd, momentarily stunned into silence, watched with rapt horror.

Alyssa exhaled, rolling her shoulders. Despite her tattered state, despite the weight of betrayal and exhaustion settling into her bones—her body moved as if it had never forgotten.

A warrior's body. A champion's body.

The moment the paladin struck with his divine blade, the execution square felt as if the air had been sucked away. A crushing weight settled upon the space between them, the presence of the gods made manifest in steel.

Alyssa barely had time to shift her stance before he struck.

With a roar like a beast unchained, the paladin lunged. His massive sword carved through the air in a radiant arc, searing with divine energy. The very stones beneath them cracked under the force of his advance.

Alyssa’s body moved on instinct—ducking, twisting, her fractured blade snapping up just in time to parry. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through her arms, forcing her back a step. The crowd shrieked and scrambled further from the battle.

The paladin pressed forward, relentless. He fought not like a man, but like an extension of  the divinities themselves—his strikes heavy, calculated, each one carrying the authority of something greater than himself. The ground groaned beneath his movements, every swing of his sword threatening to shatter her defenses entirely.

But Alyssa did not break.

Her breath evened. Her body remembered.

She sidestepped another crushing blow, pivoting on the balls of her feet with practiced grace. His blade struck the ground where she had stood, splitting the stone like parchment. She moved before he could recover—her fractured sword lashing out in a blur of motion, aiming for the gap between his armor plates.

Clang!

His gauntleted hand caught her strike mid-swing. The force should have shattered her wrist, but Alyssa twisted with the momentum, using his own strength against him. She drove her elbow into his armored ribs and wrenched herself free.

The paladin staggered, just for a fraction of a second.

It was enough.

Alyssa surged forward. She was smaller, faster—her blade flickered like a shadow between them, slipping past his guard and slashing across his chest plate. Sparks danced in the air. The divine metal held, but the impact sent him skidding back.

The crowd gasped. The knights of the Solemn Grace tensed.

The paladin touched the new dent in his armor, his breath slow, measured. He looked at Alyssa, unreadable behind his helmet. Then he exhaled, steadying his stance.

"You still fight well," he rumbled. "But the gods do not favor you anymore."

Alyssa smirked, shifting her grip on the fractured blade. Her heartbeat was steady.

"Then why am I still standing?"

His silence was answer enough.

And then they moved as one—blades flashing, steel singing, divinity clashing against defiance.

The world stood still.

For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the slow, labored breath of the paladin as he sank to one knee. His massive sword, so radiant with divine power mere moments ago, now lay shattered at his side. Cracks ran along his once-impenetrable armor, divine sigils flickering and dying like embers in the wind.

Alyssa stood above him, the fractured remains of her blade humming in her grasp. She did not tremble. She did not gloat.

She only watched.

The crowd, once screaming for her execution, now cowered in stunned disbelief. The Solemn Grace, those who had so proudly surrounded her with judgment in their eyes, stood frozen—grappling with the impossible truth before them.

The paladin's breath rasped behind his helmet. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His voice, once so unwavering, now carried a weight of something unfamiliar.

“…The gods… do not make mistakes.”

Alyssa arched a brow. "No," she agreed softly. "They don't."

She stepped closer. The remaining Solemn Grace knights instinctively raised their weapons, but the paladin lifted a gauntleted hand, halting them. He stared up at her, the faintest trace of realization dawning in his unseen eyes.

"You were meant to burn," he murmured.

Alyssa tilted her head, considering his words. Then, without a hint of mercy, she drove her blade into the ground beside him. The fractured steel, infused with something far beyond the gods of this world, cracked the stone beneath their feet.

The crowd gasped as a ripple of unseen force surged outward, snuffing out every torch, every divine sigil, every whisper of sacred energy in the square.

Alyssa knelt beside the fallen paladin, her voice barely above a whisper.

"The world, the gods, called for an enemy it did not have. I merely answered."

He stiffened. The meaning of her words sent a chill through his very soul.

Behind her, IT stirred, the presence that should not be, that should never be. It did not speak, but she felt its amusement, its approval.

Alyssa rose to her feet, turning from the kneeling warrior, from the ruined execution square, from the crumbling faith that had once held her chains.

She grasped the shattered sword, and thrusted downwards.

"I call upon the forsaken, the patient ones who have suffered in silence, those discarded by the world they swore to protect."

Alyssa’s words hung in the air like an unspoken command, and the world obeyed.

A pulse of power emanated from her, raw yet restrained. The embers of her execution stake, once crackling with crimson flame, darkened into an eerie blue. The heat did not linger; instead, a bitter cold spread outward, devouring the warmth of the execution square.

The crowd recoiled as the cold seeped into their bones, an unnatural chill that clung to their very souls. The torches lining the square flickered, their golden light swallowed by the encroaching blue fire. Even the divine banners hanging from the royal balcony withered, their once-sacred inscriptions vanishing into the abyssal frost.

Alyssa kneeled unwavering, her fractured sword embedded in the ground. The air around her shimmered, as if reality itself struggled to hold together beneath the weight of what she had invoked. The presence behind her,  loomed closer, unseen yet undeniably there, feeding on the shifting tides of power.

And then, they came.

At first, it was only a whisper in the wind—low, mournful wails carried by the cold. Then the shadows stretched unnaturally as figures emerged from the darkness cast by the blue flames.

They were warriors, draped in the remnants of forgotten armor. Some bore the emblems of fallen houses, others wore the tattered insignias of ancient orders long erased from history. Their forms flickered between states of being—half-corporeal, half-memory—trapped between existence and oblivion.

They were the forsaken. The ones the world had discarded. They who had bled for kingdoms only to be erased when they were no longer useful. The warriors whose oaths had been honored only in betrayal.

And now, they answered Alyssa’s call.

A tide of the forsaken, called forth by one who understood their suffering.

Her voice, calm yet unyielding, carried across the execution square like a commandment etched into the fabric of reality.

"I summon the buried champions! Rise from your slumber, for the world calls upon you once more. Hear my plea, and stand by my side in battle!"

The air trembled. The world held its breath.

A low rumble, deep and guttural, rolled across the square, vibrating through stone and bone alike. It was not the sound of thunder, nor of divine proclamation—no, it was something older, something long-buried beneath the weight of history.

From the cracked earth, from the places where their names had been erased, they rose.

A knight, her armor scorched black, the tattered remnants of a royal crest clinging to her shoulder. The once-proud standard of her kingdom lay in ruin, yet the fire in her eyes burned anew. She had been loyal. She had been forgotten. And now, she was called.

A mage, his robes woven with sigils that no longer carried the gods’ favor. The chains of his execution still draped around his wrists, clinking as he lifted a staff long shattered, reforged by something far beyond mortal comprehension.

A warrior-monk, his hands marred by the stains of his final prayers, prayers unanswered. A spear formed in his grasp, its tip gleaming with the essence of something greater than faith—conviction, vengeance, the will to rise once more.

One by one, they emerged—champions, defenders of a world that had cast them aside. Their figures flickered between the past and the present, their bodies bearing the marks of how they had died. Some had been burned at the stake like Alyssa, others had fallen on the battlefield, left to rot under foreign banners. Some had been executed in cold chambers, whispered away so that history might forget them.

Yet here they stood.

A chorus of voices, some ragged with age, others still young and raw with defiance, filled the square as the spectral army assembled.

The divine warriors of the Solemn Grace staggered back, the weight of centuries pressing against them. Their once-righteous cause felt suddenly hollow, their blades dull against the tide of the forsaken.

And in the midst of it all, IT stirred.

Alyssa felt its presence shift behind her, a formless shadow curling at the edge of reality. Unlike the others, it did not rise as a forgotten warrior. It had never been part of this world to begin with.

It had only watched.

"You have done well, " IT murmured, its voice no longer pressing against her thoughts like an unwanted whisper, but simply... there.

Alyssa turned her head slightly, enough to see IT out of the corner of her eye. Even now, she could not truly comprehend its form—an existence that should never be, yet had always been watching.

"You’re leaving," she stated.

IT chuckled, a hollow, reverberating sound that sent a chill through the air.

"Was I ever truly here?"

She exhaled, gripping the hilt of her fractured blade. "So that’s it, then. You make the call, watch the stage set... and then vanish?"

IT tilted something that might have been its head. "I merely watch, Alyssa. This play is yours, not mine."

The weight of those words settled upon her. Alyssa had never been anyone’s puppet, not the gods’, not the realm’s. And certainly not this being's.

She nodded.

And just like that, IT was gone.

Alyssa turned back to face the battlefield—the broken execution square, the frozen king, the army that had risen at her command.

The knights of the Solemn Grace hesitated, their once-unshakable faith cracking like the divine sigils that had failed them. The crowd, once eager for her death, now clung to each other in uncertainty, their cries for justice drowned by the weight of the moment.

And above them all, in the shadowed balcony, King Duol Thellin stood frozen. His regal composure, meticulously cultivated over years of rule, faltered as he witnessed the impossible.

Alyssa turned her gaze upon him.

"You wanted an enemy," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Then let the world tremble at what it has created."

She raised her fractured blade high, and as if in answer, the sky itself shuddered. The summoned warriors and champions howled with purpose.

The very foundations of the world seemed to wail in protest, as if it realized it had made a grave mistake.

And the gods, whom its people cling to, were silent.

And with that, the war began.