The subtle cracks I'd been carefully etching into the foundation of Theron's peaceful sanctuary finally began to spread. I saw it in the way the guards now stood their ground when he passed, their nods less deferential, their eyes holding unspoken questions.
I heard it in the low, tense murmurs that rippled through the refugee crowds, no longer just fear, but a sharp, frustrated anger. My whispers had taken root. Theron had to personally intervene more and more, his calming aura now a visible effort, a light straining against a rising tide of discontent he couldn't understand.
It culminated in a tense gathering in the main hall. Myself, a handful of the most resolute guards whose resolve I'd hardened, and even a few younger priests whose faith had curdled into a desperate need for action, stood before Theron. Jeryl and one of the two Ascended woman were with me, though the third remained indecisive even now. We had talked over what we would say to the Saint for several hours, choosing the early rays of the morning when there would be less people. I wanted to spare Theron the humiliation of being questioned by his own subordinates, even if it would be a better stage for my ends. I knew the feeling myself from my past life after all, and it struck a particular chord of distaste.
"Saint Theron," I began, my voice respectful but firm, acting as the group's "reluctant" speaker. "The people are afraid. We are all afraid. But fear is curdling into panic. We have strong walls, able bodies. Let us form a militia. Let us prepare a defence. Give us a plan, any plan, to fight for this sanctuary."
He looked at us, his face etched with a profound, weary sadness. "To fight is to invite the darkness inside," he said, his voice hollow. "Our strength is in endurance, in faith. To raise a weapon is to become what we fear. I will not lead you down that path."
"That's nonsense!" roared Jeryl, before swallowing his voice after Theron looked at him. "Please, Sir, at least let the volunteers choose to fight. The Radiance, the things the temple sealed behind that door, let us wield it. We do not fear oblivion if it means saving the lives of hundreds of others!"
"My answer is no! Now, disperse and resume your duties. I am sure your absence is negatively affecting your brothers and sisters."
"What are you afraid of, Saint Theron?" I spoke clearly, my voice piercing the old man's heart. His brows furrowed and then relaxed, but in a way that made my stomach drop. "There are worse fates than death, boy. Now leave."
The finality in his tone was a door slamming shut. The hope in the eyes around me died, replaced by a bitter helplessness. I felt it too—a cold fury at his beautiful, suicidal philosophy.
He refused. He would let us all die peacefully rather than risk our souls, believing that being torn apart and devoured by Nightmare Creatures was better than the "Oblivion" mention by Jeryl. Was it ignorance, I wondered? Did growing up in an era of peace leave Theron without understanding of the terrors of the Corruption? Entirely possible, I mused.
The Gods had been damn effective at hunting down the Void's spawn, and the Daemons kept to themselves apart from the occasional love-spat between Nether and Storm. Maybe men like Theron were genuinely ignorant. Or perhaps I was the ignorant one, since I still didn't know what the temple's secret weapon was.
Turning to Jeryl, I tried my luck. "Ascended Sir, what do you know about the bronze doors?"
"Only what I told you before" he sighed. "It houses either a great weapon or a terrifying power that requires the Supreme Venerable to watch over. The seal itself was created many centuries ago: the Venerable is merely this generations guardian.
I don't know if his absence has had any effect on the seal, but Theron doesn't seem to spend much time around it. As for opening the door itself, the only key is in the Bishop's office."
"And the oblivion you mentioned?"
"The Venerable's own words, apparently. I can only guess based off them, but it seems those unable to bear the weight of the weapon are erased beyond all measure...including their souls."
Jeryl had nothing knew to offer, and the other Ascended only had hearsay. And so, I had no choice but to change my game. I stopped being a surgeon. I became an arsonist.
I let my Spectator sight flare, pinpointing the most volatile elements in the crowd—a man with a hair-trigger temper who'd been robbed on the road, another who'd lost his family and had nothing left to lose. I didn't need to be subtle know, a few probs and deliberate mistreatments and he would lash out.
The guards and priests would come to my defence, and the situation would escalate from there. I was already aware of a dozen or so strong-ish men who looked at us temple folk meanly. Another problem with Theron's mercy was his failure to properly screen those who came to him.
The air in the great hall was thick enough to choke on—a stew of fear, sweat, and simmering rage. I could feel it, a pressure against my skin, every frayed nerve in the place humming a tune of impending violence. My Spectator's sight picked out the threads of it, the micro-expressions of people pushed past their breaking point. It was a tapestry of despair, and it needed one final, brutal pull to unravel completely. I took a breath and tried to psyche myself up for what was to come. I needed to manage my expressions carefully, and keep my voice controlled just enough so only those I want to hear will do so. This wasn't in line with the Acting Method of a Spectator, quite the opposite in fact, but I had no push through.
I found my thread. He was a big man, shoulders slumped not in defeat but in a coiled, dangerous grief. His eyes were hollow, the eyes of a man who had lost everything—family, home, any scrap of future. He was a bomb waiting for a fuse.
Taking a deep breath, I walked straight into him, my shoulder hitting his arm with a solid thud. I didn't apologize. I sneered, letting all the calculated contempt I could muster into my voice.
"Watch where you're standing, you oaf. Some of us have actual work to do."