Chapter 6: The Shadow Named Harper

  I had divided my ill-gotten wealth among my kindred shadows, and it was Harper who first began to sow the seeds of our inevitable ruin.

  Harper’s POV

  After parting ways with the other shadows, I retreated beneath a gnarled tree near the Radiant Sanctuary—a pce where, at dawn, peddlers and chartans gathered. Merchants hawked trinkets and relics to fulfill the false promises of the Church of Radiance. Even as the knights of the Order of the Sun patrolled the streets, their armor gleaming with self-righteous zeal, I watched silently. Every sunrise, I observed them trading candles, flowers, and amulets stamped with a twisted sun; every night, under darkness’s veil, I ventured into the central bazaar; whispering with deceitful merchants and building a network that would soon envelop the city.

  Within a week, it was clear: the items they believed would save them were selling fast. With the Festival of Twilight looming, a time when the blinded masses celebrated their delusions, I spent 1.2 silver to acquire the merchandise. I even paid the knights for their silence near the sanctuary. Then, with a silver tongue, I convinced these deluded mortals that their pitiful gods demanded these offerings. “Light your candles, scatter your petals, and wear the amulet of the sun,” I cooed—my words ced with venom. Their desperate need to please false deities amused me.

  For every 1.2 silver spent, I reaped a profit of 1 silver—a trivial sum compared to the exquisite pleasure of selling them their own delusions. Had it not been for the grand design for the fall of Skaptha, I might have enjoyed this masquerade indefinitely.

  A year passed. I came to own half the stalls near the Radiant Sanctuary and throughout the central bazaar. No one suspected that behind the unassuming fa?ade of Harper the merchant lurked a master maniputor. Seeking further influence, I vished donations upon the Church of Radiance, drawing ever nearer to the ruling elite. I climbed their rotten hierarchy, forging alliances with suppliers who churned out the refuse that fed these false beliefs.

  I watched with twisted pleasure as I acquired a residence near the sanctuary—a den from which I seduced priests, clergy, and even cardinals into indulgences of sex, alcohol, or drugs. Within my walls, those who preached commandments broke them freely. The meager five silvers I once had, now became five million gold—a fortune that kept Skaptha’s fragile bance in my grasp. Those who resisted were bribed or had their darkest secrets unearthed and used against them. And if they dared defy me, I exiled them to remote shrines, far from the city’s beating heart.

  The Church itself was a den of hypocrisy. At its highest levels, they wore two faces—one of religious pretense and the other of unquenchable greed. Anyone who questioned their deluded religion was branded as a heretic and locked away in the deepest dungeons. I once had been delighted in the chaos born of their delusions, but that pleasure soon turned bitter. I detest the idea that one must surrender to a fake religion to enjoy such madness. As the Lord of Malevolence, I alone saw through their lies—and that truth robbed me of true joy.

  As my influence grew, my other shadows achieved simir success. I cimed the east side of Skaptha, while Ascher, equally ruthless had secured the west, anchoring her power within the Church of the Crescent. Our corrupt ideologies were kindred; together, we amassed enough armories to fund a war between rival cults. Poisoned herbs and counterfeit antidotes were stockpiled, and the city trembled on the brink of internal conflict.

  Thus began the preparations for war, the final spark that would ignite Skaptha in a confgration of chaos.

  The task of fanning these fmes fell to Francis and Meaghan. Francis, the deceitful priest of Radiance, and Meaghan, a charming priestess whose beauty masked lethal intent, embedded themselves deep within the temples. Meaghan seduced a knight of the Crescent while Francis secured his influence over the knights of the Order of the Sun. Their subtle maneuvers were the brushstrokes on the canvas of our grand design.

  Then came the Festival of Twilight—a celebration where the misguided masses rejoiced in the worship of two false gods. The streets brimmed with joy, happiness, and hollow ughter. Their delight was a bitter reminder of their inevitable downfall; I had sown the first seed of Skaptha’s colpse.

  Late that night, at the height of the festival, Meaghan arrived with Lionis, a knight of the Order of the Moon, hailed as a hero by the Church of the Crescent. For over a year, she had ensnared Lionis, leaving him hopelessly infatuated. Though I found such mortal weakness repulsive, his time was near its end.

  Eager to bask in the twilight’s illusion, Lionis led Meaghan into a seedy inn teeming with drunken mortals and members of both the Order of the Moon and the Order of the Sun; Francis was already present. The atmosphere, tense yet rexed at first, soon soured as the night unfolded. Francis was with Silos—a man easily bewitched by beauty.

  In a dim corner, Francis leaned toward Silos and whispered, “Brother Silos, what's troubling you?”"The priestess of the Crescent has captured my heart," Silos admitted, voice trembling. "I would do anything for her, yet I fear her rejection." “Then act,” Francis urged in a sinister tone. “A warrior who dares not bare his soul is unfit to defend Skaptha. If you do not confess, why live? Let not cowardice bind your heart.”

  Fueled by alcohol and Francis’s words, Silos decred, “Thank you, Brother Francis. The sun sets only to rise again—if she rejects me, I shall rise like the sun!” I nearly spat my ale at his naive sentiment.

  If it weren't for my masterpiece, I would have severed Lionis’s hand that grabbed me and gouged out Silos’s eyes that leered at me with lust. Fate’s mercy spared them from my wrath, but its cruelty led them to their end by their own doing.

  Meanwhile, Meaghan flirted as she excused herself, murmuring, “I need some fresh air,” into Lionis’s ear before slipping into the dark alleys beyond the inn’s prying eyes. I leaned toward Silos and whispered, “She is alone, Brother Silos. There is no finer moment than this. Open your heart and free your mind. Today, you must either cim her as your own or let her belong to another.”

  Driven by a mix of lust and delusion, Silos finished his ale and hurried after Meaghan into the gloomy alley. Beneath the pale glow of a half-hidden moon, Meaghan pretended to admire the sky before offering him a look. Smitten by her looks, Silos gathered his courage and decred, “Oh, priestess of the Crescent, your beauty rivals the gentle glow of the moon; your eyes shine brighter than the sun, and your voice has captured my soul. I humbly ask that you become my maiden so I may cherish you as the princess you are. Please, accept my heartfelt confession of love.”

  Feigning acceptance, Meaghan whispered, “If you desire my favor, then seize me. Press me against the wall and cim what is yours, knight of the Sun.” Blinded by infatuation, Silos obliged.

  In the dark, rain-drizzled alley, Lionis—his senses slowly returning after the numbing haze of ale—burst forth like a wounded beast. He had seen Silos’s intimate embrace with Meaghan and took it as betrayal. Rage surged. With raw anger, Lionis lunged at Silos, and the alley transformed into an arena of unrestrained violence.

  Every muscle tensed as Lionis charged. His fist flew toward Silos’s exposed jaw, nding with a sickening thud on cold cobblestones. Blood sprayed in a dark, crimson arc under the pale moonlight. Silos’s head jerked back as he swung desperately at Lionis. The relentless assault continued, with each blow marked by the crack of bone and the thud of flesh. The narrow alley bore every grim detail: ragged breaths, scuffling feet on uneven stone, and the mingled scents of sweat and iron.

  Inside the inn, Francis feigned arm before bellowing, “Silos is under attack by a knight of the Crescent! Brothers, to arms!” In an instant, the once-friendly room descended into chaos. Drunken knights of the Order of the Sun, their judgment blurred by ale and fury, reached for their weapons; simultaneously, the knights of the Order of the Moon did the same.

  A command cut through the cmor: “Lock the scum of the Crescent here—if they move, let death be their judgment! I shall rescue our brother, and the Temple of Luminous will pass judgment on these vermin!” Offended by the decree, the knights of the Moon unsheathed their bdes, and the inn became a forge of bloodshed and betrayal.

  The change was raw and fierce. The room, once a haven for drunken revelry, turned into a vortex of chaos. The air—thick with spilled ale and a bitter sting of fear—vibrated with cshing steel and desperate shouts. Drunken knights swung their weapons with fury and precision; every strike told a story as swords met shields with a jarring cng. Each parry and thrust carried the weight of betrayal and vengeance.

  Bodies crashed together as armor dented and broke under the force of battle. A Crescent knight lunged, his eyes burning with anger, but a Sun knight quickly countered—his bde slicing through the humid air to strike a weak spot. The inn’s floor—once marked by careless celebration—turned into a dangerous mix of shattered gss, spilled drinks, and dark blood stains. Groans of pain blended with shouts of defiance; every step became a dance on the edge of death. In that moment, honor was lost, and brutality ruled.

  Outside, the alley became a stage for more carnage. In a frenzied duel, Lionis and Silos cshed. In a moment of grim finality, Lionis crashed through the inn’s window. Struggling for an advantage, he grabbed a shard of gss and drove it mercilessly into Silos’s throat. The Crescent knights recoiled as Lionis screamed in hollow victory. But his triumph was short-lived and enraged by his fallen brother’s cowardly death, a knight of the Order of the Sun plunged his sword into Lionis’s heart, silencing his cry with cold finality.

  Thus, in a single night drenched in blood and betrayal, the intricate web of chaos neared its end. The sughter among the knights ensured that only one faction would rise from the carnage—a victor tempered by revenge for their fallen brothers.

  A simple brawl in the inn over a maiden’s love had turned into a massacre. After Lionis and Silos died, members of each order—witnessing their brothers’ unfair deaths—decided to kill one another to avenge their kin. First fell the knight who had sin Lionis; then the other. The fight spilled outside, dragging in innocent bystanders. Blood soaked the inn and began to drain into the alley. Finally, the popes of each religion stepped in and put an end to the massacre.