The pantheon's capital shimmered under a clear-blue sky, its glided spires piercing the heavens. Streets paved with polished marble reflected the eerie lightly, their pristine surfaces untouched by the grime of suffering. In the heart of the city, decadence thrived, while shadows of despair stretched beyond the walls.
The grand dining hall of House Alden, home to Duke Alden and his son-Elise's official fiancé-was a symphony of excess. The room, bathed in golden light from towering chandeliers, was adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the god's dominion over mankind.
At the head of the table, Duke Alden sat with a satisfied grin, his hand resting on the hilt of his jewel-encrusted sword. To his right was Aldred, his son, the man now betrothed to Elise. His smirk was a perfect reflection of his father's arrogance, his every moment exuding entitlement.
Elise sat beside Aldred, her golden hair pinned into an elaborate braid, a shimmering dress clinging to her slender frame. Despite the finery, her emerald eyes betrayed her unease as she glanced at the other side of the table.
There, Modred's mother, Lady Isolde, and sister, lysandra, sat in solemn silence. Lady Isolde's sharp features mirrored Modred's, her dark hair streaked with silver, and her ice-blue eyes colder than the finest diamonds. Lysandra, younger and more delicate, seemed almost lost in the grandeur, her emerald gaze avoiding Elise's.
"Tonight," Duke Alden announced, raising goblet, "we celebrate the union of my son and lady Elise-a bond blessed by the gods themselves."
The nobles erupted in applause, their laughter echoing like a mockery of justice.
Beyond the glittering city, the outskirts sprawled like a festering wound. Crumbling shack leaned against one another for support, their wooden frames blackened by soot and decay.
Children with sunken eyes and skeletal frames huddled together for warmth, their bodies wrapped in tattered cloth. Women scavenged through heaps of refuse, their hands bleeding from jagged scraps of metal and glass.
A man staggered through the slums, his face gaunt and hollow. He carried the limp of the body of his daughter, her lifeless form clutched tightly against his chest. His voice cracked as he whispered prayers to the gods, begging for mercy that would never come. Above them, statues of the gods loomed, their faces cold and indifferent. The words carved into their bases read: "OBEY, OR SUFFER."
In one such shanty, a man stood atop a crude platform. His body was battered, his clothes torn, and his face gaunt. Yet his voice rang with fury that pierced the oppressive silence of the slums.
"The gods are no saviors!" he shouted, his one remaining eye blazing with hatred. "They are parasites, feeding on your suffering! They live in golden halls while you rot in filth. And you kneel to them?"
A crowd gathered, their hollow faces lighting up with faint embers of defiance.
"Damn it all!" the man roared. "If we do nothing, we condemn our children to the same fate. But if we fight-we bleed-then just maybe we might have a taste of freedom!"
His words were interrupted by the thunderous approach of the soldiers. The Pantheon's enforcers, clad in golden armor, stormed the platform, dragging the man to his knees.
Hours later, the grand hall of the Pantheon gleamed with divine light. The gods themselves sat upon their thrones, their radiant forms exuding both beauty and terror.
Solas, one if the high gods, gazed down upon the hall with an air of absolute authority. His white and gold clothes seemed to pulse with energy, and his eyes burned with divine fire.
The captured man was brought before the assembly, his broken body barely able to kneel. Blood dripped from his cracked lips, but his spirit remaining unyielding.
"Another heretic," Solas said, his voice calm but dripping with disdain. "You mortals never learn."
The man lifted his head, his one eye glaring at the high god. "You are no gods," he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "You are tyrants, cowards who hide behind power stolen from the people you oppress."
Gasps filled the hall, but Solas remained unmoved.
"You think your words mean anything?" Solas asked, his tone icy.
"They mean everything," the man growled. "Because one day, someone will rise. Someone stronger than you, more ruthless than you. And they will burn you and your throne to ash."
Back at the house of Alden, the feast was in full swing. Elise sat quietly as Aldred basked in the praises of the gathered nobles.
"Soon," Aldred said, raising his goblet, "we will crush the last remnants of the resistance. The gods' will is absolute."
Lady Isolde smiled faintly, sipping her wine. "It's a shame my son couldn't see this day."
Lysandra's hands trembled, her gaze fixed on the table.
Elise's stomach churned as memories of Modred flashed in her mind-his crimson eyes, his cries of betrayal, his grandfather's sacrifice."
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a herald entering the hall.
"My lords and ladies," he announced bowing deeply. "The heretic has been executed, his blood spilled on the rule of the Pantheon."
The nobles cheered, but Elise's hands clenched in her lap.
In the moments before his execution, the heretic had laughed-a raw, broken sound that echoed through the hall.
"You think you've won?" he had rasped, blood dripping from his lips. "You've only delayed the inevitable. The boy you cast aside... he's coming. And he will execute mankind's vengeance."
Now, Elise sat frozen, the weight of his words crushing her chest.
Aldred leaned closer, his smug grin infuriating. "You're awfully quiet, my dear. Are you not happy with our engagement?"
Elise forced a smile, her voice trembling. "Of course I am."
But deep down, the cracks in her façade widened. And somewhere in the shadows of her mind, a flicker of doubt burned brighter than ever.