THE LAST GODSLAYER

Chapter 4 - THE FIRST MOVE

The underground library smelled of dust, old parchment, and shattered glass.

No one spoke.

The strip of black cloth rested in the Commander's gloved hand like a venomous snake.

The silver emblem—a crown pierced by a sword—caught the lantern light with an unnatural sheen.

Father Cassian's voice broke the silence.

"You know that symbol."

The Commander slowly nodded.

"I prayed I would never see it again."

He folded the cloth with extraordinary care before placing it inside his cloak.

The younger Inquisitor stepped closer.

"It can't be them."

"It is."

"They were destroyed."

"So were the Godslayers."

The words hung heavily over the chamber.

Hans caught them immediately.

"The Godslayers again."

No one answered.

Instead, the Commander looked toward the shattered display case.

"The journal wasn't their objective."

Cassian frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"They could have killed the boy."

"They chose not to."

"They could have killed us."

"They chose not to."

The Commander surveyed the damaged library.

"They came for information."

"And they found it."

---

Miles away...

Beyond the walls of the capital...

A lone rider crossed the northern plains beneath the grey afternoon sky.

His horse was black from mane to hoof.

Its armour bore no crest.

The rider's face remained hidden beneath a hood.

Strapped across his back was a long wooden case wrapped in iron chains.

Every few miles...

The horse became restless.

Not from exhaustion.

From the object chained to its master's back.

The rider finally reached the top of a barren hill overlooking the Kingdom of Asterion.

Far in the distance...

The white towers of the Grand Temple pierced the clouds.

He stopped.

Without removing his hood, he spoke.

"They've awakened."

No one stood beside him.

Yet a second voice answered.

"Not fully."

The voice came from his shadow.

The rider remained perfectly calm.

"The journal?"

"Recovered."

"The heir?"

A brief silence.

"Confirmed."

The rider slowly closed his eyes.

"So..."

"...the prophecy survives."

His shadow rippled unnaturally.

"The others have begun moving."

"They'll arrive within days."

The rider tightened the strap holding the chained case against his back.

"Then we don't have much time."

---

Back beneath the Temple...

Temple Knights secured every entrance to the library.

Broken shelves were carefully inspected.

Not for stolen books.

For hidden messages.

The Commander walked through the destruction without speaking.

Eventually he stopped before Hans.

"You evaded an assassin."

Hans nodded.

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I didn't know what I was doing."

The Commander believed him.

That was the unsettling part.

He turned toward Cassian.

"Has he received military training?"

"No."

"Swordsmanship?"

"No."

"Combat instruction?"

"None."

The Commander remained silent.

Then...

"He moved like someone remembering forgotten habits."

Hans frowned.

"What does that mean?"

The Commander answered honestly.

"I don't know."

It was the first answer all day that didn't hide behind mystery.

Hans appreciated that.

---

High Priest Aurelius descended into the library several minutes later.

The moment he entered...

Every White Inquisitor bowed.

Not deeply.

Just enough to acknowledge his office.

His eyes immediately found the empty display case.

"So."

"The journal is gone."

The Commander nodded.

"It was taken during the smoke."

Aurelius wasn't surprised.

"They planned this well."

"They knew exactly where to strike."

Cassian folded his arms.

"Someone inside the Temple helped them."

The room grew quiet.

That possibility had been obvious.

None of them had wanted to say it aloud.

The Commander finally spoke.

"How many people knew the journal was kept here?"

Cassian answered immediately.

"Six."

The Commander slowly looked around the room.

"There are now five people I trust."

Nobody needed him to explain.

The sixth...

Was the traitor.

---

Hans remained near the broken display case.

His eyes drifted toward the crack in the stone floor left by the explosion.

Something glimmered beneath the rubble.

He crouched.

Carefully brushing away dust with his fingers.

A small object emerged.

A coin.

Unlike any coin he had ever seen.

One side bore the familiar symbol of the Twelve Gods.

The other...

Depicted a tree with silver roots stretching into the sky instead of the earth.

He turned it over.

No value.

No writing.

Only those two symbols.

The moment his thumb brushed the silver tree—

A faint warmth spread through the coin.

Then vanished.

Hans quietly slipped it into his pocket.

No one noticed.

Except...

The elderly caretaker standing silently at the far end of the library.

The old man still leaned on his broom.

Still looked like nothing more than another servant.

Yet his eyes rested calmly on Hans.

And for the first time...

He smiled.

Not because Hans had found the coin.

Because the coin...

Had chosen to be found.

---

Outside...

The rain finally stopped.

Sunlight pierced the clouds for the first time in over a week.

Citizens slowly emerged from their homes.

Merchants reopened their stalls.

Children returned to the streets.

To the people of Asterion...

The danger had passed.

Inside the Temple...

Everyone knew it had only begun.

---

Late that evening...

Hans finally left the Temple.

His shoulders felt heavier than the empty delivery baskets he carried.

The city seemed unchanged.

Yet every familiar street now felt different.

He couldn't stop thinking about the questions.

Who was his grandmother?

Why had everyone recognised her name?

Why did ancient books respond to him?

Who were the Godslayers?

Why had the assassin tried to seize him alive?

Most of all...

Why had that lonely voice spoken as though it had known him?

He walked through the market in silence.

The shops were beginning to close.

Old Bram's bakery still glowed warmly in the fading light.

Hans smiled faintly.

Home.

Or as close to one as he'd had in years.

He pushed open the door.

The familiar scent of fresh bread greeted him.

But something was wrong.

Far too quiet.

"Master Bram?"

No answer.

Hans stepped farther inside.

The oven still burned.

Dough rested on the table.

A loaf had blackened inside the furnace.

Abandoned.

His heartbeat quickened.

"Master Bram?"

Still nothing.

Then...

He noticed it.

The back door.

Wide open.

Rainwater had soaked the floor beneath it.

And resting on the threshold...

Was Old Bram's wooden rolling pin.

Split cleanly in half.

Hans slowly bent down.

Beside it...

Scratched into the wood with something impossibly sharp...

Were four words.

> **WE FOUND HIM FIRST.**

Hans's grip tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Outside...

A lone figure watched the bakery from the rooftops.

Hidden beneath a dark cloak.

Watching.

Waiting.

Smiling.

Hans stared at the shattered rolling pin.

His breathing slowed.

Not because he was calm.

Because panic clouded judgment.

His grandmother had taught him that.

*"When your heart races..."*

*"...let your mind walk."*

He repeated those words silently.

Once.

Twice.

Then he forced himself to observe.

The bakery wasn't ransacked.

The shelves were untouched.

The money box beside the register remained open.

Inside...

The day's earnings were still there.

Not a single coin had been taken.

Whoever had entered...

Hadn't come to rob Old Bram.

They had come for one thing.

Or one person.

Hans.

---

He stepped carefully through the bakery.

No signs of blood.

No overturned furniture.

Only interrupted work.

The dough on the table had begun to dry.

A kettle still sat over the fire.

Steam no longer rose from it.

"Master Bram..."

His voice was quieter now.

Hopeful.

The storeroom.

Empty.

The flour cellar.

Empty.

The sleeping room upstairs...

The bed was neatly made.

Exactly as Bram always left it.

Nothing looked disturbed.

Except...

Hans noticed a small loaf resting on the pillow.

It hadn't been there that morning.

He approached slowly.

A folded piece of parchment had been tucked beneath it.

Hans unfolded it.

Only six words were written in hurried handwriting.

> **Don't follow. Stay alive. Trust no one.**

Hans recognised the handwriting instantly.

Old Bram's.

There was no signature.

None was needed.

---

A cold wind drifted through the open window.

Hans turned toward it.

Across the street...

An old woman was closing her curtains.

She paused when their eyes met.

Then hurried inside.

Every neighbour who normally greeted Bram's bakery now avoided looking at it.

Fear spread faster than rumours.

Someone had made sure of that.

Hans folded the note and slipped it inside his cloak.

He would keep it.

No matter what happened.

---

A floorboard creaked.

Behind him.

Hans spun.

Nothing.

Only silence.

His eyes swept across the bakery.

Then...

Movement.

A shadow crossed the back doorway.

Not running.

Walking.

Slowly.

Hans didn't hesitate.

He sprinted outside.

The alley behind the bakery was narrow and empty.

Rainwater dripped from the rooftops.

Wooden barrels lined one wall.

Fresh footprints crossed the mud.

One pair.

Heavy boots.

Recently made.

Hans followed.

---

The trail wound through the older district of the capital.

Past abandoned workshops.

Past broken fountains.

Past homes that had stood empty for years.

The footprints never disappeared.

Whoever had made them...

Wasn't trying to hide.

Hans slowed.

That bothered him.

Someone experienced enough to abduct a man like Bram wouldn't leave such an obvious trail.

Unless...

They wanted someone to follow.

He stopped walking.

The footprints continued ahead.

Hans looked upward instead.

The rooftops.

A torn strip of black cloth fluttered from a broken chimney.

Not caught accidentally.

Tied there.

A marker.

Someone had expected him to notice.

A test.

Hans took one step backwards.

Then another.

"I'm not following your path."

His voice echoed softly through the alley.

No answer came.

Yet somewhere above...

Someone smiled.

---

From the rooftop...

A cloaked figure watched Hans retreat.

"Interesting."

The voice was young.

Almost amused.

"He noticed."

Another figure landed beside him without making a sound.

"Should we continue?"

The first shook his head.

"No."

"He thinks before moving."

"That's inconvenient."

The newcomer looked toward the bakery.

"What about the baker?"

"Leave him alive."

"For now."

"The old man still has uses."

Both figures disappeared into the night.

Not with speed.

With silence.

As though darkness itself swallowed them.

---

Hans didn't return to the bakery immediately.

Instead...

He headed toward the Temple.

Old Bram's note echoed inside his mind.

**Trust no one.**

That included the Temple.

Yet it was the only place where he knew people powerful enough to search the city.

He stopped outside the enormous gates.

Temple Knights still guarded the entrance.

Twice as many as yesterday.

One recognised him immediately.

"Hans."

"I need to see Father Cassian."

"He's occupied."

"It's urgent."

The knight hesitated.

"What happened?"

Hans looked directly into his eyes.

"My guardian has been taken."

The knight's expression hardened.

"Wait here."

---

Several minutes later...

Cassian descended the Temple steps.

He had changed clothes.

The white ceremonial robes were gone.

In their place he wore a simple travelling cloak.

Hans had never seen him dressed that way.

"What happened?"

Hans handed him Bram's note.

Cassian read it once.

Then again.

His expression became unreadable.

"You recognise the handwriting?"

"It's his."

Cassian folded the parchment carefully.

"Show me the bakery."

---

The two of them arrived less than fifteen minutes later.

Cassian inspected everything.

The broken rolling pin.

The message.

The open door.

The flour scattered across the floor.

He crouched beside the threshold.

Then frowned.

Hans noticed.

"What is it?"

Cassian touched two fingers to the wet stone.

"There were more people here than I expected."

"How many?"

"At least five."

Hans blinked.

"I only saw one set of footprints."

Cassian looked toward the alley.

"Exactly."

He stood.

"Someone erased the others."

---

Before Hans could ask how that was possible—

A sharp whistle echoed from the street.

A Temple falcon circled overhead before landing on Cassian's arm.

A tiny scroll was tied to its leg.

Cassian removed it.

Read it.

Then closed his eyes.

"What is it?"

Hans asked.

The priest looked at him for a long moment.

"The Commander has called an emergency council."

"About Bram?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Cassian handed him the message.

It contained only one sentence.

> **A second God has fallen.**

Hans frowned.

"What does that mean?"

Cassian didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he looked toward the dark horizon beyond the capital.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"It means..."

"...someone has just declared war on Heaven."

The wind rose once more.

Far beyond the Kingdom of Asterion...

Beyond mountains no map dared describe...

A colossal body crashed into an endless sea of clouds.

The impact shook the heavens.

Golden blood rained through the sky.

And standing upon the fallen giant's chest...

A lone warrior pulled a jet-black sword free.

His face remained hidden.

His voice was calm.

"The first was a warning."

He looked upward.

Eleven immense presences stirred beyond the clouds.

"This one..."

He rested the sword across his shoulder.

"...is a promise."

The words refused to leave Hans's mind.

**A second God has fallen.**

He had grown up hearing that the Twelve Gods were eternal.

Unchanging.

Invincible.

Children were taught that kingdoms rose and fell, oceans shifted, mountains crumbled...

But the gods remained.

Now Father Cassian was telling him that one had died.

Not in ancient legend.

Now.

Hans looked at the priest.

"If a god can die..."

"...why doesn't anyone know?"

Cassian didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he watched the people walking through the market.

Merchants haggled over prices.

Children chased each other through puddles.

A musician played a cheerful tune beneath a faded awning.

Life continued.

Unaffected.

"Because," Cassian finally said, "people only know what they're allowed to remember."

Hans frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"It means history has been rewritten more times than you can imagine."

---

The Temple Council convened before sunset.

Deep within the Hall of Twelve Flames, twelve stone thrones formed a perfect circle.

Only eight were occupied.

High Priest Aurelius stood in the centre.

The White Inquisitors stood along the walls, silent observers.

No servants were permitted inside.

No records would be written.

Everything spoken here would exist only in memory.

Aurelius looked around the chamber.

"The confirmation came an hour ago."

One elderly priest clenched the arm of his throne.

"Which one?"

"The God of Oceans."

Silence.

Another priest whispered a prayer.

A third simply lowered his head.

Temple Knight Garrick stood near the entrance, saying nothing.

The Commander of the White Inquisitors finally spoke.

"The body?"

"Not recovered."

"The weapon?"

"Confirmed."

Every eye turned toward him.

"The wound matches the First Death."

A chill spread through the chamber.

One of the younger priests shook his head.

"No..."

"That sword was destroyed."

The Commander replied calmly,

"No."

"We hoped it was."

---

Far beyond mortal lands...

The heavens trembled.

A sea of golden clouds stretched without end.

Floating islands drifted silently through the sky.

Ancient cities carved from white crystal glowed beneath an endless dawn.

At the centre of it all stood an enormous palace.

Its gates alone were taller than mountains.

Inside...

Eleven colossal thrones surrounded an empty twelfth.

None of their occupants resembled ordinary humans.

One appeared woven from lightning itself.

Another possessed skin that resembled polished marble.

A third had countless silver eyes opening and closing across its arms.

The Empty Throne remained stained with fresh golden blood.

No one spoke for a long time.

Finally...

The figure seated upon the highest throne rose.

Its voice echoed across Heaven.

"The Slayer has returned."

Lightning cracked across the endless sky.

Another god stood.

"Impossible."

"The bloodline ended."

"So we believed."

The highest god slowly turned toward the empty throne.

"Our mistake..."

"...was believing blood alone made a Godslayer."

---

Back in the capital...

Hans and Cassian walked through the quiet streets.

Night had settled over Asterion.

Temple patrols doubled their numbers.

No one explained why.

Hans broke the silence.

"You knew this would happen."

Cassian glanced at him.

"No."

"You expected something."

"Yes."

"The journal."

"The Inquisitors."

"My grandmother."

Hans stopped walking.

"Everyone keeps speaking around the truth."

His voice remained calm.

"But no one speaks to me."

Cassian met his eyes.

"I know."

"No, Father."

"You don't."

Hans looked toward the stars hidden behind the clouds.

"I've spent sixteen years wondering who I am."

"I thought I had accepted not knowing."

A faint smile crossed his face.

"I was wrong."

Cassian said quietly,

"If I tell you everything today..."

"...you'll lose something."

"What?"

"The chance to decide for yourself."

Hans looked unconvinced.

The priest continued.

"There are people who will tell you the Godslayers were heroes."

"There are others who will swear they were monsters."

"Most will lie."

"Some won't know they're lying."

He rested a hand on Hans's shoulder.

"I don't want your first belief to become your prison."

Hans thought about those words.

For the first time...

He didn't argue.

---

They reached the bakery.

Temple Knights now guarded every entrance.

Inside, investigators carefully searched every room.

One of them approached Cassian.

"Nothing."

"No blood."

"No signs of struggle."

"Just this."

He handed over a small wooden token.

Cassian's expression changed the instant he saw it.

Hans noticed.

"What is it?"

The priest turned the token over.

Burned into its surface was the same symbol they had found on the strip of cloth.

A crown...

Pierced by a sword.

"The Veiled Crown."

Cassian whispered.

Hans frowned.

"The what?"

Before Cassian could answer—

The Commander appeared in the bakery doorway.

His white cloak was damp from the rain.

"We've identified them."

Cassian looked up.

"I was afraid you would."

"They shouldn't exist anymore."

"They do."

The Commander placed another object onto the table.

A weathered book.

Its cover bore no title.

Hans recognised it immediately.

"The journal."

Cassian stared.

"You recovered it?"

"No."

"It was returned."

The room fell silent.

"Returned?"

The Commander nodded.

"It appeared outside the Temple gates."

"No guards saw who left it."

He slowly opened the journal.

The blank pages were no longer blank.

Across the centre of the first page...

Fresh black ink shimmered.

No one had written it.

Yet the words were unmistakable.

> **THE GAME HAS BEGUN.**

A second line slowly formed beneath the first.

Every person in the room watched as invisible ink carved itself into the ancient page.

> **FIND THE BOY...**

The writing paused.

Then continued.

> **...BEFORE HE FINDS THE TRUTH.**

The lantern flames dimmed.

The windows rattled.

Somewhere far beneath the Temple...

A third ancient chain snapped.

**CRACK.**

This time...

Hans didn't just hear it.

He saw it.

For the briefest instant, the world disappeared.

He stood upon an endless battlefield beneath a crimson sky.

Millions of broken weapons covered the ground.

Towering corpses of impossible beings lay scattered to the horizon.

And in the distance...

A lone man stood with his back turned.

His black cloak stirred in the wind.

The jet-black sword rested in his hand.

Without turning around...

The man spoke.

"You're late."

Hans felt his throat tighten.

"Who are you?"

The man was silent for several seconds.

Then...

He answered with quiet certainty.

"I..."

"...am what you become."

The vision shattered.

Hans staggered backwards.

The journal slammed shut on its own.

Every lantern flared back to life.

The room returned to normal.

No one had seen what Hans had just witnessed.

But everyone saw the expression on his face.

The Commander took one step forward.

"What happened?"

Hans looked at the ancient journal.

Then toward the darkness beyond the bakery window.

His voice was barely a whisper.

"I don't think..."

"...we're the ones hunting anymore."

Outside...

Beyond the rooftops...

A pair of crimson eyes opened in the night.

Watching the bakery.

Watching Hans.