The bells of the Cathedral of Radiance were tolling when Aren crossed its threshold.
They did not sound like welcome.
The marble hall stretched long and cold, its light filtered through high stained glass saints, martyrs, and angels gazing down with painted piety.
He walked between them still in his battered mail, the white of his tabard scorched and torn, his sword-belt heavy with the dust of Harrowhall’s ruins.
Behind him trailed silence.
Before him waited judgment.
At the far end of the chamber, on the dais beneath the holy sigil of the Eternal Flame, stood Archcleric Durn Valen his uncle.
Flanked by bishops, paladins, and the court scribes, he looked every bit the Church’s perfect blade: silver-robed, posture straight, voice like iron wrapped in silk.
“Prince Aren Valen of Sungrace,” Durn began, his tone ceremonial. “You stand before this council not as kin, but as a servant of the Light. You led the mission to secure the fortress of Harrowhall in the name of King Valecrest and the Radiant Faith.”
He paused. The silence dragged.
“And you failed.”
Aren wished his father was alive to hear such words pour from his own kin’s mouth.
Aren stiffened. “Harrowhall fell because it was not a priority to our Beloved King to secure the kingdom until it became a strategic advantage to line his coffers.. When the Fanglord came, their own king broke the Skybreaker rather than let it fall into darkness.”
“And you?” one of the bishops hissed. “Did you break too, my prince? You stand here unburned, while true heroes lie in ash.”
A murmur spread whispers like rustling cloth.
“Why did he not fall beside them?”
“He fled.”
“He should have come home on his shield.”
Aren’s jaw clenched. The memory of the siege still haunted him the fire, the screams, the sight of that ash-skinned warlord standing over King Durak’s corpse.
He could still hear the echo of the Fanglord’s voice:
You fight like a man who doesn’t want to live, princeling.
And for a moment, he hadn’t.
Now, under the holy light of the cathedral, that memory twisted like a blade in his chest.
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“If I’d died there,” he said quietly, “Harrowhall would still have fallen.”
From the side benches, a voice cut through the murmurs strong, commanding, soldier’s steel beneath courtly grace.
Lord-General Cassian Merrow rose, his white cloak still dusted with travel.
“Enough,” he said. “You shame yourselves with this farce.”
The bishops turned, scandalized. Durn’s eyes narrowed, but he did not interrupt.
Cassian stepped into the light, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“I saw the reports. I’ve spoken with the survivors. The prince fought the Fanglord himself and lived. That is not cowardice that is endurance. The city still stands because he warned us before the tide reached these walls.”
His words carried through the chamber like hammer-strikes.
The murmurs died.
Aren met his gaze and saw no pity there only grim respect.
“If the Faithful wish for martyrs,” Cassian went on, “Then you may hang the rest of us for not dying in the mud beside him. But if you still value survival, then commend the man who brought you warning.”
Durn’s expression barely shifted, but his tone chilled the air.
“You speak boldly, Lord-General. Yet you forget your place. The Faith endures because sacrifice is demanded of those who bear its light.”
Cassian bowed slightly, his smile thin.
“And yet, my lord, light without wisdom only blinds.”
That earned a ripple of anger from the clergy. But Aren saw something else behind his uncle’s eyes a flash of fear.
Fear that the Church’s authority had cracked, if only for a heartbeat.
He understood, then, how fragile their order truly was.
After the session, Aren stood alone in the outer cloister, staring up at the towers of Fairehaven.
The bells still tolled, but now they sounded hollow.
Below, the people of the city went about their lives unaware that their priests debated honor while soldiers bled in foreign dust.
Cassian joined him a moment later, leaning on the parapet.
“They won’t forgive you, you know,” he said softly. “The Church needs a symbol. They’d rather crown your corpse than praise your courage.”
Aren said nothing.
“You did what any commander would do,” Cassian went on. “You survived. That’s more than most.”
The prince looked out across the harbor, where the ships of Fairehaven rocked on the waves the same ships that had carried him home while the mountains burned behind him.
“Tell me something, Cassian,” he murmured. “If the light demands we die in its name… whose hands hold the torch when we’re all gone?”
Cassian’s mouth tightened into a grim smile.
“That’s the right question, Your Grace.”
He straightened, his eyes hard.
“There are those who think as I do soldiers, captains, even nobles. Men tired of watching priests send others to die for their sermons. If the Church won’t protect this kingdom, then we will. Free of its leash.”
Aren turned to him slowly.
“A free militia.”
“A free army,” Cassian corrected. “Loyal to crown, not creed.”
Aren looked back to the horizon. The sun was setting over the sea, the light bleeding crimson through the mist.
“Then maybe it’s time the Light learned it doesn’t own the dawn.”