Part 3 - Kerelan

2nd of Reaping, 966 A.D.

It has been six years since Cyric rose. Four since he bled Bane into the dust. When we ascended, we were both granted our domains. His, which he calls the Supreme Throne, and mine, The Realm of Souls. Cyric has spent much of his time out of his domain. I have watched him from within mine.

The Realm of Souls is a place of stillness - it is vast, but not empty. Soft winds stir without direction, while structures rise and fall from nothing - temples made of thought, bridges formed by the weight of lives long passed. Light does not shine here. It simply lingers, soft and pale, like the last flickers of a candle. Souls drift through here like echoes of their former selves. Some are calm, while others are restless or unfinished. All of them, I guide into what lies beyond. But two, I have kept longer than I should have.

One is Antael. When Cyric struck him down, I rose to become the new God of Souls, catching Antael’s soul before it could scatter. His soul and body vanished from the mortal realm, by my will. To keep them safe.

The other soul I keep is older, and sharper. It is a thief. It is the one who began this entire adventure, and it is one I must make sure never falls into Cyric’s hands. It is Godsbane. Cyric believes both are destroyed, and it must stay that way. Because Cyric hunts still - not for enemies, but for threats he doesn’t understand. For pieces of power he once held, but never owned.

He will never stop looking. And that is why I watch.

Lately, he has turned his gaze from the blade and toward something else - dominion. He grows tired of being feared, so now he wants to be believed. And so, he creates a weapon of words. He has commissioned a mortal scribe of Oghma, a woman named Selithra, to write a book that will make his worship inescapable. It is called the Cyrinishad, and when spoken or read, it will bind the listener’s will to Cyric’s own. It is not faith, nor devotion. It is obedience.

While he grows tired of being feared, he does not wish for it to end. Especially for those who still worship Bane. And so, as the book is being written, his Aspect marches through the Unclaimed Lands with a host of blood-fueled zealots. Their purpose is clear - to burn out what remains of Bane’s worship.

Temples are desecrated and shrines are pulled down stone by stone. Altars are blackened and broken and holy symbols are shattered. But this time, the cities are left standing. The people are untouched - unless they kneel before Bane. This is a cleansing. A purge, precise and deliberate.

Only Banites are hunted. Priests of the Black Hand are dragged from their sanctuaries and executed. Some are given a chance to convert, for theater more than mercy. The faithful of other gods are left alone. And so the world watches, but does not act. After all, some whisper, they are only killing tyrants. They call it the Second Banedeath. But this time, no god comes to stop it.

There is however another thing some gods will stop. Some gods fear what would happen if the Cyrinishad were to be created. And so, a man appears to Selithra. He is called Marvek. He was once a high priest of bane, but now, he feigns worship of Cyric, and he brings to Selithra the true knowledge of what she is creating. But he also brings something else - the combined help of three gods. Oghma, Selithras patron; Mask - and myself.

Marvek shows her how to create a second book, The True Life of Cyric. If the Cyrinishad will bind the world to a lie, then the True Life of Cyric will be the truth to unbind it. The True Life of Cyric works in much the same way the Cyrinishad will, but instead of forcing devotion, it shows Cyric’s faithful who he really is - the fraud, the betrayer, the murderer. The mad. And so, in secret, Selithra begins work on the second book.

Cyric does not fear destruction. He fears irrelevance. That is why, after his second purge, after his book of lies is nearly complete, he begins planning something far worse than slaughter.

He plans to become a savior.

It begins with the Ring of Winter, a powerful artifact once belonging to the giants. Stealing it from a frost giant was how we met, back when we were still mortal. Back when ambition hadn’t yet outpaced conscience. He offers it now to a jarl-king of the frost giants, and to the covens of white dragons who slumber in the glacial heights of the Red Range. He doesn’t offer it as a gift, but as a bargain. One they accept. And they march on Ghazan’Tor.

His plan is elegant, in the way poison is. Let the beasts tear down the walls and let the people scream and burn and beg for deliverance. And then he will come, cloaked in radiance and mercy. His faithful will descend as rescuers, and when the people of the city gather to sing his praise, they will hear the words of the Cyrinishad. And they will be converted.

In a sanctum near the outer edge of Ghazan’tor, Cyric summons both Selithra and Marvek. The Cyrinishad lies before him, newly bound in leather, freshly inked on pages of humanoid skin. It pulses with divine power, and Cyric smiles at it. But it is without joy.

“I know,” Cyric says to them, “of your betrayal.”

Selithra freezes. Her fear is not acted - it is sharp and honest, catching her breath in her throat. She doesn’t speak or plead. She just stands there, shaking. Marvek flinches as well, but it is a measured reaction. It’s the kind of fear one wears like a cloak. Cyric does not strike or smite them. No, he has something else in mind. And so, he turns to Marvek.

“Marvek… you served Bane once. Now you will truly serve me. Read it,” he says, gesturing towards the Cyrinishad. “And when you finish… kill her.”

The man nods, and steps towards the book. But it is not Marvek. Cloaked in mortal flesh, hiding behind a stolen face, stands Mask. But Cyric does not realize, and so he watches as Mask , without a word, begins to read. The words of the Cyrinishad are not poetry. They’re chains, forged from praise and deception, woven to bind the will of any who reads them. But Mask is still a god. It cannot take his will. His mind is his own.

But even so, it affects him. As I watch, I can see his posture change, slowly. His fingers curl a little tighter against the page. His breath shortens. Any mortal would have been broken by now, but Mask endures. But it costs him. A sliver of his power peeled away, word by word. By the time he finishes, the toll on his face is clear. He is not broken, but he is lessened.

Mask then turns to Selithra, drawing his blade. And with a flash of motion, and a convincing scream, Selithra collapses. Cyric watches, satisfied with what he believes to be the work of the Cyrinishad.

“Go,” he says. “Take the book. Prepare the reading. The city will see me for what I am.”

Cyric and Mask leave, Mask with the Cyrinishad in hand. And Cyric, for all his cleverness, never saw what he had invited into his confidence.

Selithra lies on the stone floor, unmoving. But she still breathes. And the True Life of Cyric, the real weapon, remains safe, hidden deep in Oghma’s keeping, waiting for the right moment to be revealed. And soon, the truth will be.

I do not know if Cyric smiled when the gates of Ghazan’Tor were opened for his faithful. But I imagine he did. His dragons circle overhead while his giants march below, and the city’s defenders falter, outnumbered and outmatched. The city is meant to fall, and that’s when Cyric would arrive as its savior. That was the plan.

What Cyric does not know was that Marvek, the man he sent to carry his voice, no longer exists. What stands before the people of Ghazan’tor is not the former priest of bane. And so, Mask stands before the crowds who have gathered in fear and desperation, ready to be told who to kneel to next. And then he reads. Not the Cyrinishad. Not a lie. But the truth. The True Life of Cyric.

He speaks of Cyric’s rise - not as glory, but as betrayal. He tells them of Twilight, and of Antael, and of Godsbane. He tells them of how Cyric had taken his throne - baptized in the blood of his comrades. He tells them who Cyric really is. A god not of strength, but of weakness, and a tyrant who feared being forgotten.

As he speaks, the crowd does not kneel. They listen. And then, they move. Some weep. Others shout. Some throw down symbols of Cyric they had never wanted to wear. And across the city, the riots begin. Cyric’s temples are the first to burn, and his faithful the first to fall. And as the dragons and giants breach the walls and storm the streets, they find not a city waiting for salvation, but a city that has already rejected its god. They do not meet prayer. And at last, Cyric’s power began to slip. And that is when I arrive.

I step into Ghazan’Tor’s broken heart - the square once lined with Banite banners, now burned black and ash-grey. The sky above is red with fire and the wings of dragons. The streets echo with screams and steel. And at the center of it all stands Cyric, radiant and triumphant, still convinced the world belongs to him. He turns when he sees me.

“You,” he snarls. “You arrive too late.”

“No,” I say. “I’ve come to end this. You’ve run unchecked long enough.”

And then I raise my hand. The wind stills, and the air hums. And then, standing beside me is Antael, eyes burning both with fury and hurt. He doesn’t look at me. He looks straight at Cyric.

“You killed me,” Antael says quietly, but not gently. “Now I’ve come to return the favor.”

He steps forward, and the shadows gather in his hand. The shadowblade appears, long, dark and silent. But not yet Godsbane.

Not yet.

Another figure appears behind us, stepping from between the folds of smoke and fire - Marvek. The priest’s face melts away, fading like ash on the wind.
And where Marvek once stood, now stands Mask. No more tricks or guises. No more hiding.

“I gave you your godhood,” he says. “And I’ve regretted it every moment since.”

Cyric stares at him, wide-eyed and confused.

Mask then walks to Antael, and without a word, he places his hand against the blade. And then he pours himself into it. The blade flares - not with light, but with presence. It sharpens, deepens.

And it becomes Godsbane once more.

Cyric recoils, a flicker of uncertainty cracking through his fury.

“You,” he spits. “It was you. All this time…”

“You were mine,” he growls - to the blade, to Mask, to all of it. “I wielded you. You were supposed to serve me.”

“No,” Antael answers. “You borrowed him. Now he’s where he belongs.”

Cyric turns to me - eyes wild, voice raw.

“Kerelan,” he breathes. “You hid him. You hid both of them.”

“All this time,” he says, almost to himself. “You kept them from me.”

“Yes,” I say. “I did.”

Because I knew he would never stop hunting, and never stop reaching for more power. Because I knew what he would do, if he ever got them back. And now, standing here as he sees it all laid bare, I see the moment it lands. That, in all his godhood, all his conquests, all his lies, he had been outplayed.

Cyric roars, draws his own blade and charges at us. Divine power clashes against the will of a soul reborn. Antael fights like a storm unleashed, and Mask strikes through him with every blow. But Cyric is strong. Too strong. He moves with rage - not wild, but focused. And then, in a single violent lunge, he grabs hold of Godsbane. His hand closes around it, and he howls.

And then he snaps it in half, wrenching it apart with raw force.

The blade breaks, and so does the god inside of it. Mask’s scream isn’t heard through the air, but felt in our chests, like a weight dropping on your ribs. It is sudden, deep. And wrong. Mask does not die, but what weakened parts remain of him slip away into the broken halves of the blade. The halves of the blade fall to the stone, still smoldering with what they once were. Cyric staggers back, breathless - but smiling. And I feel it then. The shift. The Domain of Intrigue, once Mask’s now bleeding into Cyric like oil into flame.

Cyric laughs, staggering back with power in his veins and nothing in his heart.

“You think any of this matters?” he hisses. “I am a god__. I take what I want__.”

He turns - to gloat, to burn and ready to kill again. But in the brief moment of distraction, we see our chance. Antael grabs one half of the broken blade. I grab the other. Even in my hand, I feel the flickering weight of Godsbane and the waning power.

Still, we strike together. I plunge my half into Cyric’s chest, and Antael’s sinks into Cyric’s abdomen. Cyric gasps - not in pain, but in realization. He staggers back, convulsing. He fights against the pain for a moment, pulling out the halves of Godsbane stuck in him - and then he vanishes. Not shattered or slain, but pulled. Dragged away, back into the one place that will still have him - The Supreme Throne. His domain. And now his prison.