Part 2 - Antael

6th of Solis, 960 A.D.

We did not begin as enemies.

There were five of us - scattered by fate, drawn together by a quiet thread, pulling us toward the same secret. The blade I carried whispered of a path, and we walked it. We were not alike. But we were together.

There was Twilight, with a quiet fire in her eyes and magic wrapped around her words. Kerelan, who bore the weight of death like an old coat - too heavy, but familiar. Agnese, who had turned his back on the gods but not on honor. And Cyric - clever, quick, restless. Always a step behind in truth, but a step ahead in hunger.

The blade - Godsbane, though I did not know that name then - guided us true. Our journey took us through broken temples and forgotten sanctuaries, across war-torn plains and sleeping cities. At every crossroad, Godsbane whispered. And although only I could hear it, we all felt its direction.

Eventually, it led us to Ghazan’Tor - the Iron Crown. A city ruled by Bane’s faithful, where order wore the face of fear. The banites that populated the city marched in rhythm, and the priests spoke like judges. Banners hung like warnings on every street. There was power there - the kind of power that bends men, not uplifts them. Cyric lingered in that city. Too long. And the blade began to feel heavier in my hand.

Slowly, Cyric changed. At first, he only questioned the journey. Why we were following whispers. Where it would all lead. Whether we truly deserved to walk it together. Then, he began to wonder aloud who among us would be worthy of its reward. Not in jest. Not quite.

And when he looked at Godsbane, there was something behind his gaze. Not fear, nor awe. Resentment. It had chosen me. Or at least, it had come to me. And for Cyric, that was reason enough to want it. He watched me too closely.

He watched Twilight even more. She and I had grown closer as we journeyed together, in the way people do when the world might end and you still find something worth reaching for. And Cyric watched, not with hatred, but with something colder. Envy. Eventually, it was too much to ignore.

We confronted him. Not as enemies, but as friends trying to keep the threads holding the group together from unraveling. But Cyric didn’t want to be questioned. The words sharpened. Blame turned to accusation. Accusation to steel. So we fought. It wasn’t long, but it was real. And when it ended, Cyric was on his knees, breath ragged, eyes hard and silent, held at the mercy of my sword.

I let him rise again. Perhaps I shouldn’t have.

Then, the world around us began to unravel, bit by bit. We heard whispers first, of towns where priests were found gutted in their churches, of noble families slaughtered in silence, their walls marked with a symbol older than memory - A skull, carved in blood. Bhaal’s sign.

With the Divine Order gone, the god of murder had begun to reach again — not fully, not openly, but enough to make the faithful bold. His cults no longer hid. They celebrated. And wherever they moved, death followed. We tried to stop them. We turned from our path more than once to intervene. But every ritual we broke, another was already burning elsewhere. And then, one morning, Twilight was gone. Only a skull burned into the stone where she had stood. We didn’t argue. We didn’t hesitate. We put aside all the tension and the distrust and went after her.

We found her chained to a broken altar, bloodied and barely conscious. And standing over her was Bhaal. Bone-thin and sharp-eyed, his skin stretched tight over his form. His blade dripped with blood that hissed when it hit the stone. We didn’t speak. We charged.

Agnese ran with his shield raised, roaring a vow no god heard. Bhaal met him without flinching, and hurled him aside. Kerelan took his place, parrying blow after blow with precision, giving the rest of us the chance to move. Agnese took the chance to free Twilight, dragging her to safety.

I drew Godsbane, and stepped into the shadows. But as I stepped out of the shadows behind him, ready to deal the finishing blow, Bhaal turned, faster than my blow. His strike knocked me back, and I hit the ground hard. The air left my lungs and my vision spun.

Godsbane flew from my grip, skidding across the stone floor. Before I could reach it, Cyric was already moving. He sprinted past me and picked up the blade. He held it, looked at it. And then he plunged it into Bhaal’s heart. Bhaal reeled back, snarling and clawing for Cyric, but it was too late. There came a great blast of white energy, and then Bhaal was no more.

The silence that followed was long, heavy and uncomfortable. Cyric stood still, breathing hard, the blade slick with divine blood. He didn’t give it back. He stared at it - as though it had spoken to him in a language only he could hear. Eventually, he returned it. Reluctantly.

We carried on. The path led ever forward, and Godsbane still whispered. Fainter now. Guarded. And finally, we arrived. Finally, we found the place the blade had been leading us to all along. A vault. And floating within, untouched: the Divine Order.

Twilight stepped forward. She looked at me. And that’s when it happened. Cyric moved, suddenly and fast. His hand tore Godsbane from the sheath at my side before I could even react. There were no words. No hesitation. He drove the blade through me.

The pain was sharp, but the betrayal was worse. He looked into my eyes as I fell. There was no regret in his face. Only triumph. I collapsed beside the vault as my vision started fading. The others moved, only too late. They surged to stop him, but Cyric was already turning.

He struck first. Agnese was thrown aside. Twilight caught a blow to the chest that ripped through her arcane wards. She stumbled, gasping, and Kerelan caught her before she could fall. None of them could reach the scroll in time. Cyric stood over it, breathing hard. And then, with blood-stained hands, he grabbed it. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the ground began to tremble. A low hum filled the vault - deep and steady, like a drumbeat in the bones. The air thickened. Dust lifted from the floor and hung in place. And then Ao, the Overseer arrived. A towering figure cloaked in shifting light and shadow, his face hidden behind a mask of polished stone. His eyes burned like stars, not with rage or joy, but with judgment.

No one spoke or moved. Ao looked down at Cyric, not in curiosity or approval. Only certainty. He raised a hand, slowly and deliberately. And then Ao lifted Cyric, with precision like he was moving a piece into place. Cyric screamed - not in pain, but in ecstasy as power flooded through him. Not stolen or earned. Given.

He rose. Cyric, reborn. The new god of Murder, cloaked in Bhaal’s mantle, baptized in my blood. He laughed, drunk on the power he had been given. And as the light around him began to fade, Twilight, still in Kerelan’s arms, whispered something quietly and urgent, her eyes wide with fear. Kerelan did not speak. He only looked up - past the scroll, past the light that had crowned Cyric’s rise.

Then he moved. He rose to his feet, steady and certain, and stepped forward into the center of the vault. He did not reach. He did not kneel. He simply stood where someone had to stand. And Ao turned to him. There were no words, no gestures, just a pause and a moment of weight. Then Ao raised his hand again - slow, deliberate. The same as before.

But this time, the air did not tremble. It settled. And as the Overseer’s gaze fell on him, Kerelan began to rise. The light that gathered around him was quiet - soft, but unshakable. Where Cyric had ascended in blood and screams, Kerelan rose in stillness. He did not speak. He didn’t need to. The veil between life and death folded open.

And Kerelan passed through, as the new God of Souls.