The First Banedeath

30th of Midsommer, 962 A.D.

It began two years after Cyric’s ascension.

The God of Murder had risen in blood and betrayal. In the time that followed, Cyric searched not for faith or followers, but for the blade Godsbane and Antael. Though he scoured the planes, demanded answers from the mouths of souls, clawed through forgotten crypts and whispered into the minds of mad prophets, he found only silence. And so, his hunger turned elsewhere.

Cyric looked upon the world and saw thrones where there should be ruin. He saw Bane, the god of Tyranny, still seated in power - still worshiped, still obeyed, especially in one place. One he recognized - Ghazan’Tor, the Iron Crown. There, banners still flew. Shrines still burned. The name of Bane was still spoken in reverence. That, to Cyric, was unacceptable. And so, he gathered his faithful. At the time, there were still not many - but they were enough. Zealots, madmen, broken warriors who saw truth in chaos. And he led them to Ghazan’Tor, not in secret, but in daylight. A god who marched without shame.

What followed was not a battle, but a purge. Over three weeks, the city bled. Temples were torn down stone by stone. Statues were shattered. Holy books burned in the streets. Altars were crushed beneath boots and hammers.

The priests of Bane were hunted. Some were executed on the steps of their own sanctuaries. Others, lesser in rank, were offered a single chance to renounce Bane, and worship Cyric. Those who refused were brought before Cyric himself. And there, kneeling in the dust, they were told to speak.

“Explain to me,” Cyric said, “why I am unworthy of your devotion.”

Some wept with fear while others spat with aversion. All were silenced.

And then, as the purge neared its end, and as the final shrine fell, Bane came. He appeared in the broken square of his once-great temple, where his statue now lay shattered beneath Cyric’s feet. Bane stood towering, armored in black steel etched with chains and crowns. His eyes burned like fires, and his presence hit like a war drum in the chest.

The faithful who remained fell to their knees - in terror or awe, it made no difference. He said nothing at first. He only looked at the ruins of his temples, at the corpses of his faithful and then at the god who had defiled his name. And then, his gaze met Cyric’s. No words were exchanged. None were needed. The sky turned black.

Their battle was not seen by mortals - only felt. The wind kicked up around the city, and the stones of the ground split. And the city held its breath. When it ended, one god stood. And it was not Bane. Cyric stood alone, wounded but victorious. And in that moment, he changed.

He who had stolen Murder now stole Tyranny. He who had taken Bhaal’s place now claimed Bane’s throne. His crown sharpened. His shadow lengthened. The world would remember what happened in Ghazan’Tor. They would call it The First Banedeath. And they would learn what it meant to kneel.