He turned into a haunted tale that still throbbed with life.
He traveled from one valley to another from homestead to solitary inn, a worn man whose eyes had witnessed the depths of despair. He never preached. He merely recounted. He spoke of the village of Oberalp, where inhabitants sat alive yet hollow their wills drained like water slipping from a vessel. He portrayed it not as possession but, as a "grey peace " a quietude that felt like a robbery.
He also described the conclusion—the one guaranteed by the men dressed in gold and white who were enlisting their sons. He mentioned a light so immaculate it would erase suffering, memory and free will creating a world as perfect and motionless as a painted alpine lake frozen beneath ice.
He presented no choice. No lofty optimism. He simply delivered the mature reality: they were trapped between a mournful emptiness and a quiet blaze.. Each faction viewed them either as fuel or as barriers to be removed.
The responses displayed the range of dread. Some branded him a lunatic, a whisperer from the depths. Chased him away with rocks and insults. Others heard him in unblinking silence their darkest fears validated. A handful, the elders who recalled ancient tales acknowledged him somberly and gave him a piece of bread a spot beside the fire, for a night. They were not hopeful; they were defeated. But in their resignation was a seed—the understanding that this was not a holy war, but a harvest.
He had been on this journey for two weeks making his way down from a lofty pass, into the Lotschen valley, when the chase truly started.
He was aware the Radiant Host would seek him out. A heretic disrupting their efforts was a target deserving of redirected resources. Yet the manner of the pursuit felt off.
He was setting up camp among a cluster of larch trees when he caught the sound—not the step of human followers but a gentle skittering shuffle, like dry leaves swept over rock coming from every direction. The atmosphere turned cold not with the chill of high elevation but, with a weakening dull coldness.
They appeared from the darkness amidst the trees. Not the noble fervent paladins of the Host. These were creatures. Men—. What once were men—, in dulled stripped-down renditions of the white and gold armor. Their faces were ashen their eyes yet fixed with one cold unnerving goal: destruction. They advanced with a coordinated insect- precision lacking any emotion. They served as the Host's response to the dust-shapes of the Abyss—a maintenance team, created for effectiveness, than fame.
Purifiers. The term appeared in his mind. Their task was not to argue about heresy but to eliminate it.. He was the central heresy.
There were six individuals. They made no request, for his capitulation. They refrained from branding him a heretic. They merely lifted their shining, silver blades. Moved forward spreading out to surround him.
This was not the mournful, philosophical clash with Duncan. This was pest control.
Alexander was armed with his knife. He leaned against the trunk of a larch tree his thoughts scrambling. He stood no chance, against six cold-blooded assassins.
When the initial Purifier charged, its blade a flash of silver Alexander chose not to block. He lowered himself rolling beneath the strike then rose behind the assailant. He cut with his knife at the knee's rear, where the armor flexed. The blade struck something that resembled leather rather, than skin and a faint clear liquid, not blood oozed out. The Purifier made no sound. It faltered, regained balance and spun around with detachment.
The rest surrounded him. Their strikes weren't intended to engage in a duel; they aimed to restrain, injure and tire him out. A sword cut across his shoulder burning like a streak of flame. Another nicked his ribs. He was a rat caught in a snare. The noose was tightening.
He darted through an opening between two figures rushing further into the forest descending the sharp incline, toward the thunderous sound of the Lotschen river. The Purifiers trailed behind not with warnings but at a quiet unyielding speed. They showed no signs of fatigue. They never hesitated. They were automatons driven by order.
The trees grew sparse close to the rivers edge opening up to a floodplain strewn with stones and fast-moving glacial water. He stood revealed. He spun around facing away from the rushing water the blade slick, in his palm.
The Purifiers appeared from the edge of the forest dispersing more. They had caught him.
Next emerging from the darkness, behind a water-shaped rock upstream another silhouette entered the dimming light.
General Nicolette Louisa.
She wasn't dressed in her court attire. Instead she donned worn leathers and a steel chestplate holding a long sword with her silver braid concealed beneath a plain cap. Her expression was marked by determination.
"Stop " she ordered, her tone piercing the sound of the rushing river.
The chief Purifier directed its gaze at her. "This concerns Radiant Host affairs, General. The apostate belongs to us. Do not meddle."
"You stand on Scarlet land " Nicolette declared, moving ahead. "You act without the king's approval. Surrender your weapons."
The Purifier's head inclined. "Approval is meaningless. The taint has to be cleansed. Step back. Be marked as a hindrance."
It wasn't a threat. It was an assertion of reality. They would pass right through her.
Nicolettes jaw clenched. She avoided meeting Alexander's gaze. "Run " she ordered, the word forceful. "Downstream. There's a ford a mile away. Cross it. Reach the bank."
"General—"
"That's a command you blasted variable!" she barked, her gaze locked on the approaching Purifiers. "You belong to my realm's assets now. Move!"
She lifted her blade. Lunged, not toward the commander but at the pair, on the left side shattering their orderly line with a savage skillful assault. Her technique was not divine; it was harshly pragmatic sharpened through frontier clashes and outlaw pursuits. She battled not for a realm but under a ruler's command.
Alexander paused briefly. Then he sprinted, clambering over the rocks beside the river chasing the roar of the rushing water. Looking back he noticed Nicolette, a tempest of steel keeping three of the Purifiers, at bay. The remaining three veered aside quietly continuing their chase after him.
He sprinted until his lungs burned fiercely. The pledged ford was a shallow area where the river split around gravel islets. He dove in the water startling him into pushing harder. He tripped, tumbled, clambered up the flow attempting to pull him. He got to the shore pulled himself onto the stones and looked back.
The trio of Purifiers arrived at the shoreline. Without pause they stepped into the water their motions unaffected, by the chill or the flow.
However on the shore the battle was concluding. He witnessed Nicolette pull away a gash, on her cheek pouring blood. One Purifier lay still at her feet its neck twisted unnaturally. The other two advanced upon her but she retreated toward the trees her goal fulfilled—she had gained him some time.
The three in the river were halfway across.
Alexander spun around. Ran into the pine woods on the distant side the encroaching darkness engulfing him in shadows. The chase persisted,. Its character had shifted. He was not merely a heretic anymore. He had become a rebel who had caused the bleeding—or its equivalent—, among the Scarlet Kingdom's forces. He was now opposed by both the divine and the closest terrestrial authority.
He sprinted until the final glow vanished, until the scurrying noises of those chasing him dissolved into the whisper of the darkness. He fell against the trunk of a tree trembling, soaked, bleeding from minor scratches. He lived through it.. Nicolette's aid was both a debt owed and a message sent. The compromise was more than a concept. It had protectors, realistic.. It was ready to battle, not for a conclusion but, for persistence.
He looked up at the stars through the pine boughs. The pursuit through the falling dark was over for now. But the greater pursuit—the hunt for the soul of a world—was just beginning. And he was no longer just a witness. He was a fugitive, a symbol, and a spark. The quiet and the silence were coming for everyone. And he was determined to be the last, stubborn, noisy thing they would have to extinguish.