Morning came earlier than I would have liked-a feeling I figured I would be experiencing a lot as the clock ran down. Another three days had passed since Karion came and went, and I had only made some marginal progress on opening the bronze door. Theron hadn't been acting any different despite the deadline closing in, and while supplies got notably tighter, it hadn't yet reached the point of desperation.
A few got sick, and a couple of the weaker refugees even died, but order was maintained for the most part. There were no actual sings of the approaching apocalypse either: the weather hadn't changed noticeably, nor had the ground shook. The sun was still a grey blob in the sky, but it had been that way for weeks apparently. While his attempts to get more information on what was behind the door, what the "Radiance" mentioned by the two Saints was, had failed, he was more successful in his...other ventures.
For three days, my became a ghost in the temple's nervous system. I did not command or confront. I simply… nudged those around me in the way I wanted, but only using the tools they themselves prepared.
Leaning against a wall near a group of grumbling guards, I'd sigh, just loud enough to be heard. "It's a shame. All this strength, waiting to be used. If only we had a plan." The words were vague, but they fell on the fertile soil of their frustration, giving their inchoate anger a shape: the lack of a plan.
These were men trained from a young age, since I knew the temple adopted orphans, who held more zealotry than even Theron himself (as bizarre as that may be). They desired action, a definitive move to do...something, even if it was ineffective. Being in the forefront of handling the refugees had also frayed their nerves. Even the toughest soldier can only handle the wailing of children and mothers before they started to crack.
Serving stew to a family, I'd murmur to a grim-faced father, "The children look so pale. I hope the Saint has a strategy to protect the most vulnerable." The man's fear for his family was subtly redirected from the external threat to the internal leadership, a quiet question of Theron's capability forming where blind faith had been.
These people knew Theron: not personally, but through stories passe down for years. They all depicted him as a godly and kind man, but not a fighter, not a negotiator. The grim father could not draw upon stories of Theron's prowess or leadership, though the Saint was certainly brave, this no one denied. But would that be enough? Could mere courage save them in these times?
I never lied. I simply highlighted existing fears and unspoken doubts, weaving them into a narrative of unease. I was an author composing a symphony of discontent, each note perfectly chosen to resonate, yet the music felt like the listeners' own thoughts. I was the Manipulator, the Author of a new, defiant story, carefully editing out the passages on passive acceptance and writing in margins of rebellion. I watched the atmosphere shift, the tension coiling tighter, ready to spring.
There was no malice towards Theron, even though I will not claim I held no frustration towards the older man. As Noctis had said, the Age of Heroes was long past. The Gods had fallen silent, and soon They would fall dead. It was up to me to ensure the same fate did not befall the hapless souls here. Even if this was a mere false history generated by the Spell.
The manipulations continued on the next day. Saint Theron's compassionate inaction was a slower, kinder death sentence than the horde climbing our mountain. I wasn't trying to betray the man I respected; I was trying to save everyone from the despair he wore like a shroud. This was the message I slipped between my gilded words, a backdoor I left in case anyone reported me for betrayal. 'I am not evil; I am merely trying to help!'
My Spectator ability became my scalpel. I could see the frustration in the set of a guard's jaw, the silent terror in a mother's eyes, the grim acceptance in a soldier's slouch. I didn't invent their fears. I simply found them, and I gave them a voice.
Leaning against a sun-warmed wall near a group of guards, I let out a weary sigh, just loud enough to be heard. "The masonry on the eastern wall is so strong," I murmured, as if to myself. "A real shame we don't have a plan to use it. All this strength, waiting." I saw one guard's hands still on his spear. Another glanced toward the wall I'd mentioned. I'd redirected their aimless anxiety into a tangible, solvable problem.
Serving thin stew, I knelt beside a young mother. "He feels the cold, doesn't he?" I said softly, nodding at her shivering child. "I overheard the priests say the inner sanctum retains heat best.
Reserved for... well." I let the sentence hang, leaving her with the unspoken question: Reserved for who? The sick of course, for they needed it badly. But perhaps the mother thought of a different group. I wasn't lying. I was just suggesting that the strategy of shared suffering might not be the only way.
I listened to the blacksmith curse his lack of decent metal, and later I mentioned to one of the Ascended female Temple warriors, "It's amazing what that man can do with scrap. Imagine if he had real ore." I was connecting people, building a subconscious web of capability and need that completely bypassed Theron's paralyzed leadership.
By the time the sun rose on the fourth day, I knew I had achieved the first level of success. Portion of the crowd stared with emotional eyes at the guards and servers, and when Theron showed up for his daily inspection, there was less warmth and hope in the eyes of his observers. This change did not go unnoticed by the man, as his jaw tightened slightly. He stayed for longer that day, speaking with men and women I assumed held local influence. I had also marked them and dropped a few words here and there, but never made proper contact.
I was afraid they would point me out as the source of discontent spreading through their ranks. I had less to worry about from the guards and other priests, I had already found out, as Jeryl and more shared my frustrations to some extent. The priests were all young, the older and more experienced taken away to fight in the Doom War. That meant the ones who stayed behind were eager for action, for glory in the name of their God.