The words stare back at me.
Ancient ink. Faded pages. A prayer to Mercy.
Lysara twines her fingers around the book, her expression inscrutable. But I can see the tension in her posture — the way her breath hitches slightly as she flips through the pages.
Then, her eyes stop.
She frowns.
"Raiden…" she murmurs. "Your name is here."
My pulse slows.
I stretch out, extract the book from her grip, and read the words.
She's right. But not just my name.
Dozens of names. Hundreds.
Some crossed out. Some rewritten. Some were scratched over and over again as if the writer had an obsession with them.
A list.
The list of those selected for Mercy.
….
"This book is old," says Lysara, her voice tight. "Older than either of us. Older than my father's domain."
She turns again to the first page, running her fingers over the script.
"It's been used for hundreds of years … centuries."
A nagging discomfort sinks into my marrow.
My name. Among hundreds.
Why?
"They know you," Lysara says carefully.
I shake my head. "It doesn't mean anything. "This might be some sort of prophecy, or just…"
"Or just what?"
I don't answer.
Because I don't have one.
….
Lysara flips again farther through the book, her brow furrowing.
"Just listen to this," she says.
She reads aloud:
"The end of suffering is the greatest kindness."
The silence of death is a greater love than none.
"Humanity is disease and Mercy is the cure.
She closes the book slowly.
"They don't just kill. They think they're saving us."
A profound cold settles into my heart.
I had thought — mistakenly — that the Cult was just another faction in the war. Another enemy in the chaos.
But this isn't war.
This is extermination.
They aren't choosing sides. They're not here to upend kings, conquer cities, or seize power.
They want all of humanity to die.
And they think death is salvation.
….
A vague, deep throb beats in my skull.
The Demon Spirit stirs.
Not whispering.
Not tempting.
But watching.
"You knew," I think bitterly. "You knew what they were."
The response is slow. Careful.
"Yes."
I clench my fists. "Then why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you do not listen."
This time, its voice isn't mocking. Not taunting.
It is grim. Cold. Calculating.
"Not even I wish death to everyone.
That stops me.
The Demon wants to control me, supplicate me. It tempts me with power. It feeds off my doubts.
But this—this is different.
This is fear.
I exhale slowly. "Then tell me the truth. What are they?"
A pause.
Then—
"I'm not sure but I can take a guess."
The manner in which it says it — final, bitter, resentful.
"There are things that humanity should fear , my boy."
A tingle creeps over my skin.
"She is one of them."
I inhale sharply. "The goddess?"
"Call her what you want. It does not matter. She is not like the others. She has no need for worship, nor for power. Only endings."
My throat is dry.
"She cannot be killed?"
The Demon laughs softly.
"You misunderstand. She does not fight."
I stiffen.
"She simply decides. And the world listens."
…..
Lysara watches me carefully.
"You're pale," she murmurs.
I breathe a slow breath out, willing my body to relax. "I'm fine."
She doesn't believe me. But she doesn't press.
Instead, she shuts the book closed, cradling it carefully in her hands.
"If the Cult actually believes in this… then we have a much larger issue much bigger than war."
I nod.
Well because I don't see this remaining in the shadows for too long.
The Cult is spreading. And they already know who I am.
Lysara brushes herself off and stands.
"This isn't enough. We need more information."
"And where are we supposed to get that?" I ask dryly.
She grins. "Oh, don't worry. I know just the place."
I sigh.
I already regret this.
....
The palace is suffocating.
The king plays his war games. Related articles on knight battle preparation And none of them sees what is about to happen.
The Cult of Mercy is already behind the walls.
They babble in the cracks. They lurk in darknesses of all kinds.
And we don't have the luxury of waiting for the kingdom to wake up."
"You're sure about this?" I murmur.
Lysara gives a smirk and adjusts her cloak. "Absolutely not."
She strides forward, guiding me through the lower wards of the capital—past the merchant avenues, past the noble halls.
To somewhere the law cannot follow.
Rogue Mage – A Shadowed Name
The underground district bears little resemblance to the ornate corridors of the palace.
Here, the air smells of damp stone, burning incense, and something harsh — like old blood.
The streets begin to narrow into dark corridors, flanked by old alchemy shops, rune carvers, and merchants vending charms that claim to protect against curses.
I keep close on Lysara, hood raised. Knights don't belong here.
"You trust this guy?" I ask.
She scoffs. "Of course not."
She pauses in front of a narrow, unmarked door.
Lifts her fist.
Knocks twice.
Then once.
Then four more times, fast.
A pause. Then a scraping sound from the other side.
The door creaks open.
One narrow eye peers through the crack.
Then a voice.
"What in the rotting hells do you want, princess?"
Lysara grins. "I mean, talk about a friendly welcome."
The door swings open.
"Get in. And if you brought guards, leave them outside or I will set this entire building on fire."
Lysara just might step inside.
I come behind, one hand still on my weapon.
…
Inside is a disheveled space filled with ancient scrolls, opened tomes, and strewn alchemical implements.
The shelves sag under the weight of dusty tomes, the walls given over to maps splattered with arcane symbols.
The man in front of us is aged, yes, but not frail. His robes are rent, smudged with ink and dried herbs.
His gaze is piercing, too keen for someone said to be banished from the mage order.
He sees us as problems, not people.
"Start talking," he says flatly. "I don't take guests. Especially not royal ones."
Lysara is perched on the corner of a messy desk, her legs crossed. "Relax, Aedric. We are not here to report you.'"
"You couldn't if you tried," he mumbles, rubbing his temple. "You're wasting my time. Get to the point."
Lysara gestures to me. "He has questions."
Aedric finally looks at me. Really looks.
His face changes just a little.
"Ah," he breathes. "You're the cursed knight."
I grit my teeth. "You know my name as well, don't you?"
He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he walks to a desk just meters away, rummaging through papers piled up.
Then—he proffers one, singed scroll.
He tosses it onto the table.
"Read it."
I hesitate, then unroll it.
The ink is smeared but the words are legible.
A quote from a long-ago piece of literature.
"Mercy does not grant life. She takes it."
"She waits at the end of all things, and that is where she belongs."
"The war is not between men or kings or gods. That's the war, against existence — against being."
"And we will lose."
A chill runs down my spine.
"What is this?" I murmur.
Aedric exhales slowly. "Something I shouldn't have. And something the kingdom tried to erase."
His gaze darkens.
"You're looking in the wrong places, knight. Do you think the Cult is another faction? Another army to fight?"
He leans forward.
"Yes but there also are waiting."
…..
Lysara frowns. "Waiting for what?"
Aedric watches her. Then—his gaze flickers to me.
"Waiting for him."
My breath stills.
Lysara goes rigid beside me. "What do you mean?"
Aedric exhales sharply. "I do not mean him specifically." He gestures to the scroll. "I mean all of you."
He meets my gaze again. "Your name was on that list?"
I nod.
"And so were others?"
Another nod.
"So then you know already," right?
I clench my fists.
"They're not targeting a person, and when you say you don't know how many people died, how do you reconcile that with the ethos of the event? They're targeting everyone."
Aedric gives me a grim smile.
"Finally. A knight with a brain."
He sits back, massaging his temple.
"The Cult of Mercy isn't out there making war. They are answering a prophecy more ancient than any kingdom still standing."
A flicker of something almost resentful dances in his eyes.
"They think the wound is existence itself. And in their eyes, she is the cure."
Lysara reaches over the edge of the table. So they want to kill everything?'"
Aedric nods.
"No kings, no lords, no peasants, no soldiers. No misery, no agony, no conflict, no reconciliation. Nothing."
His voice drops.
"That's why the gods left us."
The heft of his words lands like a Warhammer.
Silence fills the room.
Then Lysara gives a slow, bitter laugh.
"Well, that's horrible."
…..
Aedric stretches, yawning.
"There. You were after that, right?"
I deeply breathe out, taking it all in.
Then—a flicker of movement.
Something sharp. Fast. Just a blur of shadow on the wall.
My instincts scream.
I move.
The dagger slams into the wooden table — right where Aedric's throat eons ago.
"Assassins," Lysara hisses. "They were listening."
Aedric scowls. "Of course they were."
He pulls out a small vial and tosses it into the lantern next to him.
The room bursts into violet flames.
"Run."
A shadow lunges down from the ceiling.
I move without thinking—spear up, twisting—seizing the attacker out of the air and slamming him into the ground.
His hood falls back.
And beneath it—
His lips are moving.
Whispering.
"Mercy is waiting."
His veins go black.
His body twitches violently.
And then — he vanishes into the air.
I curse under my breath.
Lysara grabs my arm.
"Time to go."
I don't argue.
Because if the Cult wasn't hunting us before, they're hell-bent on it now.