Path of the Forsaken Sigil

Chapter 4

The silence in the Great Plaza was not a peaceful one. It was the kind of silence that happened right after a lightning strike, before the thunder broke the sky.

Bruce Thompson stood in the center of the ruin. Rain still fell, but it didn't touch him. 

The heat radiating from the Ashen Seraph created a dry circle around him, turning the falling water into thin, ghostly steam. 

Behind him, the six-winged creature held the Silver-Gale Falcon by its neck. The majestic bird, which had been the symbol of Nicholas’s pride, looked like a broken toy in the angel’s silver grip.

Nicholas was on his knees, clutching his chest. His face was a mask of pure agony. In the world of Oakhaven, a sorcerer and his spirit were connected by an invisible cord of light. Whatever the spirit felt, the master felt.

"Please..." Nicholas gasped, a string of bloody saliva dripping from his lip. "Bruce... it hurts... tell it to let go..."

Bruce looked at his cousin. He remembered three winters ago, when Nicholas had locked him in the ice-shed for two days just to see if a "bastard’s blood" would freeze faster than a noble’s. 

He remembered Nicholas laughing while Bruce ate scraps from the dog’s bowl because he had been denied dinner.

"You called me trash, Nicholas," Bruce said. His voice was steady, almost too calm. "You said I would awaken a cockroach. You said I was a mistake that should have been drowned at birth."

"I was... I was joking!" Nicholas cried out. He reached a trembling hand toward the stage. "We are family! We share the same blood!"

Bruce looked up at the Ashen Seraph. The creature’s skeletal mask seemed to tilt, waiting for a command. 

The pits of fire in its eyes flared with a hunger that Bruce could feel in his own soul. It was a hunger for justice. No, it was more than that. It was a hunger for erasure.

"You didn't treat me like family when you used me as a mounting block for your horse," Bruce whispered.

He looked at the falcon. "End it."

The Seraph didn't hesitate. Its long, silver fingers tightened. CRACK. It wasn't just the sound of bone breaking. It was the sound of a soul snapping. 

The Silver-Gale Falcon didn't bleed. It didn't die like a normal animal. Instead, its body began to crack like a porcelain vase. 

Bright silver light leaked out of the cracks, and then, with a final, hollow scream, the bird exploded into a cloud of glowing spiritual dust.

The dust didn't fall to the ground. The Seraph opened its mouth and inhaled, drawing the silver mist into its skeletal chest.

"NO!" Nicholas screamed.

The scream was the most horrific sound the crowd had ever heard. Nicholas’s body jerked violently. 

He collapsed face-first into the mud, his back arching as if an invisible hand were trying to rip his spine out. 

A "Soul-Fracture" was a wound that never healed. By destroying the spirit completely, the Seraph had effectively cut away a piece of Nicholas’s mind.

Nicholas lay still in the mud, his eyes wide and vacant. He wasn't dead, but the "Golden Boy" of the Iron-Heart Clan was gone. He was now little more than a hollow shell, unable to ever use magic again.

The crowd screamed. Mothers pulled their children away. The nobles in the front row scrambled back, tripping over their chairs. 

The sight of a spirit being consumed was a taboo so dark it was only whispered about in ancient forbidden texts.

"He killed it..." Elder Margaret whispered, her face turning gray. "He didn't just defeat the spirit. He killed it."

Lady Hestia stood on the edge of the stage. Her shock was quickly being replaced by something else. She looked at the Ashen Seraph, not with fear, but with an ugly, burning greed. 

She saw the power. She saw a creature that could consume other spirits. To a woman who valued strength above all else, this wasn't just a monster—it was the ultimate weapon.

She stepped forward, her silver staff glowing with a protective shield.

"Bruce!" she shouted, her voice booming over the sound of the rain. "Stop this madness at once!"

Bruce turned to look at her. The Seraph shifted, its six wings unfurling to their full span. The shadow it cast reached all the way to the back of the plaza.

"Madness?" Bruce asked. "You were the one who branded me, Matriarch. You were the one who called for my exile. I am just doing what the Iron-Hearts taught me: the strong rule the weak."

Hestia narrowed her eyes. She didn't believe for a second that a "Void-Born" like Bruce could have this much power on his own. Her mind searched for an explanation, a way to reclaim control of the situation.

"Enough of your lies!" Hestia barked. She looked at the other Elders who were beginning to surround the stage. "Look at him! A boy who could not even light a candle yesterday suddenly summons a Forbidden Angel? It is impossible! He is cheating!"

The Elders nodded, their faces twisting with suspicion. "He must have stolen it," one of them shouted. "He found a relic! He is using a Forbidden Artifact of the Old Gods!"

Hestia pointed her staff at Bruce. "Bruce Thompson, you are a thief as well as a bastard! You have stolen a holy relic from the clan’s secret vaults! That beast is not yours. It belongs to the Iron-Heart family! Hand over the artifact you are hiding, and perhaps we will let you live in a dungeon instead of executing you!"

Bruce felt a bitter laugh bubble up in his throat. Even now, when he held their lives in his hand, they couldn't see him as a person. To them, he was just a vessel for a "thing" they wanted to own.

"An artifact?" Bruce asked. He held up his empty hands. The mud was still under his fingernails. "I have nothing but the skin you tried to burn. The Seraph didn't come from a box or a ring, Hestia. It came from me."

"Liar!" Elder Margaret screamed. She was Nicholas’s grandmother, and seeing her grandson a vegetable in the mud had driven her into a frenzy. "Guards! Seize him! Strip him naked if you have to! Find the relic and kill the boy!"