He walked for a day and a night, drawn by the faint, comforting smells of woodsmoke and baking bread that rode the wind. The field of silver-needles gave way to a lush, green countryside of gentle hills and tidy, stone-lined paths that spoke of thirty years of orderly, peaceful cultivation. There were no fortifications, no watchtowers, only prosperous-looking farmsteads with fat livestock in the fields.
The town of Oakhaven was nestled in a gentle valley, a picture of idyllic prosperity that made his heart ache with a bittersweet joy. Timber and stone houses with neatly thatched roofs lined clean, cobbled streets. Children chased a barking dog around a central well, their laughter echoing freely. A market was in full swing, the air filled with the haggle of merchants and the scent of fresh produce. It was everything he had fought for, everything he had died to create.
As he walked through the open gates, the laughter died.
The children stopped their game, staring with wide, unblinking eyes. A woman drawing water from the well dropped her bucket, the clatter unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. A merchant mid-sale froze, his hand hovering over a basket of apples. All eyes were on him. It wasn't curiosity he saw, but a slow-dawning, primal fear. His aura, the visible manifestation of his soul, marked him as alien. The gold was familiar to them, a holy color from their scriptures. But the violet? The violet was a blasphemy, a color of nightmares and heresy.
He ignored their stares, his own eyes searching for a familiar face, a banner of the old kingdoms, anything. And then he saw it, dominating the central square. A statue of magnificent white marble, twice the height of a man, polished to a brilliant sheen.
His breath caught in his throat.
It was his face. His strong jaw, his determined brow, the slight crook in his nose from a break that never set perfectly. His armor, the Dawnforged Plate, meticulously carved in every fluted detail. His stance, with Dawnbringer held aloft in a two-handed grip, ready to strike down evil. A wave of warmth, of validation, flooded him, so intense it was dizzying. They had remembered. They had built a monument to his sacrifice. He stepped closer, his heart swelling, ready to see his own name carved in stone for all posterity, a final testament to the price of peace.
The plaque at the statue's base was simple, elegant, and utterly shattering.
"Saint Arlen Valen, The Blade of Dawn, Who Sealed the Darkness With His Sacred Light. May His Light Guide Us Forever."
Arden stared. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the cheerful sounds of the market becoming a distant, muffled roar. His mind, still clinging to the certainty of his sacrifice, rejected the evidence of his eyes. A mistake. A stonemason's error. A misunderstanding born of grief. Arlen must have taken his name to honor him, to carry on his legacy, to ensure the Valen name was remembered. That had to be it. It was a gesture of love, however misguided.
"You there!" a voice barked, shattering his stupor. A town guardsman, his spear held in white-knuckled hands, approached. Two others flanked him, their expressions grim. "State your business. And explain… explain that aura. It's… wrong."
"I am Arden Valen," he said, his voice echoing with a hollow dignity he did not feel. He gestured to the statue. "I fought on this ground thirty years ago. I was one of the Blades of Dawn."
A nervous titter ran through the crowd. The guardsman's face hardened, his grip tightening on his spear. "A lie. A foul lie. There was no 'Arden Valen'. The Saint was the last of the Valen line. He bore the light alone at the end, and with it, he smote the darkness."
"No," Arden insisted, a note of desperate pleading creeping into his voice. He took a step forward. "I was there. I was the one who stepped into the circle. I was the one who–"
"Abyss-touched!" a woman shrieked from the crowd, her voice raw with terror. The word was a spark on dry tinder.
"The Saint warned us in his last sermon!" another man yelled, shaking a fist. "He said the defeated darkness would try to return, to wear the faces of our fallen to lead us astray! To make us doubt!"
The crowd, once fearful, became a mob. Fear turned to righteous, blinding fury. They surged forward. They did not have powerful weapons, only farming tools, stones from the street, and a fervent belief in their own salvation.
Arden did not raise his hands. He did not summon his power. He let them come. The first stone struck his temple, and he welcomed the bright flash of pain, an anchor to reality. A club, a simple piece of firewood, slammed into his back, and he grunted, falling to one knee. They beat him, their blows a rain of indignity and confusion. He felt a rib crack. Blood trickled from his lip.
He did not fight back. His faith was his shield. They are afraid. They have been deceived. There is a reason for this. Arlen will explain. Elara will know. I must endure. I must understand.
When he lay bruised and bleeding in the dust at the foot of his own statue, the guardsman stood over him. "Be gone, creature. Consider this mercy. If we see your tainted face again, if we feel that corrupted aura, it will be the pyre for you. The Saint's peace will be protected."
Spitting blood, Arden pushed himself to his feet, his body screaming in protest. He stumbled out of Oakhaven, the cheers for Saint Arlen ringing in his ears, a cruel mockery of the peace he had died to create. He collapsed at the edge of the silver-needle field, the glowing flowers offering no solace, their beauty now feeling alien and cold.
As he lay there, the physical pain a dull echo of the fracture in his soul, he looked up at the unfamiliar stars.
"If this is the peace we bought," he murmured, the words a prayer and a surrender to a god that had forsaken him, "maybe my name doesn't matter."