Novels by Hencho

The warfront smelled like ash and old prayers.Everywhere you looked, there was smoke, cooking fires, burning tents, scorched wood from buildings the Church had cleansed. The soldiers kept their heads low and voices lower. The ones who still wore their insignia did so out of habit, not pride. And in the heart of it all, Saint Varn stood untouched, his robes still a perfect white.He didn’t speak much, but he didn’t have to. His sword did most of the talking. It was the kind of silence that made people obey.The Church had taken over fully now. They didn't even pretend to answer to the royal camp anymore. The banners of the Eight fluttered next to the royal crest, but only one actually mattered now.Sir Dave had returned from his mission two days ago. He barely had time to breathe before he realized what had changed.“What the hell happened?” he muttered under his breath as he and Ferrin passed the main camp. “We were only gone for a week.”Ferrin looked away. “They're calling it a pur

Back at the warfront, the camp wasn’t the same.The air felt heavier.After all, Rhok was gone.There had been no funeral, no body, no real proof of death, but the word had spread fast. Soldiers whispered that he had fallen into a volcano. Others believed he had vanished by his own choice. Either way, he was off the map.The Church didn't wait long.Three days after the news reached them, an official decree arrived.It was posted on every wall, every post, and carved into stone where there was no wood."By the will of the High Sanctum and under the authority of the Eight, all persons, knights, mages, and soldiers found to have aided or allied with Rhok, the Heretic, shall present themselves to be judged and questioned under holy law. Refusal is considered treason against the divine will."They called it a simple inquiry, but everyone knew better.Saint Varn arrived the next morning but he didn’t come alone.Four saints came with him, cloaked in silver, shiny swords, and cold faces. Be

Rhok didn’t leave the ruins.Not right away.The further he walked, the more he realized how deep the temple really went. The halls turned into tunnels, the tunnels led into chambers, and each chamber told a different story. Stories older than time itself. Stories no one was supposed to remember.He found carvings of symbols he didn’t understand, but they didn’t feel foreign. They felt familiar in a way he couldn’t explain. Like dreams that almost made sense.Aby stayed quiet for most of it, only flickering once in a while to light the way.She didn’t interrupt, she just watched.Finally, Rhok came across a different room—one smaller than the rest.There were no statues, no altars, no crowns.Only one thing.A flat black tablet in the center of the floor.It was shaped like a coffin lid, long and smooth, carved from a single stone. The surface shimmered faintly, like it wasn’t stone at all but something older. Something alive.Names were etched into it. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

Rhok didn’t die.Though he came close though, but he didn't die, you would think that killing a body close to a gods would take so much difficulty.He had fallen into the volcano on purpose, let go of the ledge without fear or hesitation. It wasn’t just to escape the Church, or the whispers growing in the camp, it was to breathe. To disappear from everyone and everything, even for just a while, to grasp the eternal grasp of death if only for a moment, and yet that grasp almost took him.The world believed he was dead now.That was fine by him.He crawled out of the volcano three days later, burned but not broken. The divine flame inside him didn’t do any abnormal things this time, it welcomed the fire around him like an old friend. It healed him from the inside out, soothed the wounds before they could scar. His clothes were half charred, his body aching, but he was alive.The sky above was wide and gray. There were no signs of demons, no voices, no searching troops.'Good.'He walked

Three days had passed since Saint Varn left the war camp, but the air hadn't gotten any lighter.If anything, it felt heavier.Not from the weight of battle or even the sound of steel being sharpened for war, but from words. Words that were whispered, preached and repeated over again."Heresy."It came from the church tents near the east wall. A cluster of white robed clerics had arrived not long after Varn. They weren’t warriors. They weren’t healers either. They were speakers. And they only had one sermon:'Rhok is not divine. Rhok is dangerous. Rhok must be watched.'They never said his name outright in public, but everyone knew. The soldiers heard it during lunch. The wounded heard it in the infirmary. Even the cooks whispered it while stirring soup.And as for Rhok... He heard every word.He didn’t fight it, didn’t argue, he didn’t even try to defend himself. He just listened, nodded when he had to, and walked on.But inside, he could feel something building. Not anger or sadness

The room emptied slowly after Saint Varn left, but the tension clung to the walls like a fog.Prince Caelan didn’t move right away. He stood near the war table, one hand resting on its edge while his other rubbed the bridge of his nose. Maps were still in front of him, battle lines sketched in red ink and tiny flags marking troop positions. But none of it mattered right now.The Church had made its first move.And the game wasn’t going to stay on the board for long.Sir Dave stood near the entrance with arms folded, his face hard but unreadable. Ferrin lingered a few steps behind him, unsure where to stand or even if he was supposed to be here.Rhok stood alone by the window.He didn’t look out at the camp or the horizon. His gaze was somewhere else, somewhere deeper. His arms hung loosely by his sides, his shoulders slightly hunched. He looked like a man thinking about walking away from it all.Finally, Caelan broke the silence.“I don’t know how to explain this to my father.”Sir Da