# Chapter 315: Valerius's Proclamation
The tremor faded, leaving a ringing silence that was more terrifying than the shaking itself. Down in the camp, the chaos was a symphony of fear—shouts, the clang of steel, the panicked cries of men who felt the very ground betray them. Soren's mind was a maelstrom, one thought screaming louder than the rest: *Zara. The team.* They were out there, heading directly into the heart of that impact. He had sent them to their deaths. He opened his mouth to shout an order, to command a rescue, to do *something*, but a new sound cut through the din. It was a clear, pure tone, like a great bell struck once, and it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Every head in the camp, on the tower, in the trenches, snapped upward. A shimmering, golden light coalesced in the sky above them, forming the serene, beatific face of a man they all knew. High Inquisitor Valerius. His voice, calm and resonant and imbued with an undeniable power, rolled across the camp, not as a shout, but as an intimate whisper in every soldier's ear. "Do not be afraid," the projection said, its eyes filled with a manufactured compassion. "The old world is breaking. The Concord of Cinders has failed to hold back the darkness. But you are not alone. I am with you."
The projection of Valerius was a masterpiece of divine artifice. His features were perfect, unlined by age or worry, his eyes pools of liquid gold that seemed to look into each man's soul and offer solace. He was not dressed in the severe black of an Inquisitor but in flowing white robes embroidered with silver thread, a stylized sunburst over his heart. The light emanating from him was warm, a stark contrast to the cold, ethereal shimmer of the Sky-Tears. It felt like a promise, a beacon in a storm. For a moment, the panicked shouts in the camp below died down, replaced by a stunned, reverent hush. Soldiers who had been scrambling for weapons now stood transfixed, their faces tilted toward the sky, their fear momentarily soothed by the celestial spectacle.
Soren, however, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. This was not a message of comfort; it was a declaration of war. "Bren," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Get down there. Lock down the camp. No one moves in or out. I don't want a single man looking at that… thing… and thinking it's his salvation."
Captain Bren, his face grim, didn't hesitate. "Aye, Commander." He clapped a hand on Soren's shoulder, a brief, solid gesture of support, then turned and sprinted for the tower stairs, his heavy boots thudding a rhythm of urgency.
On the platform, Soren, Nyra, and Sister Judit remained, a small island of defiance beneath the glowing god-head. The air grew thick with the scent of ozone, a sharp, clean smell that prickled the nose and dried the throat. The projection's voice resumed, its cadence slow and deliberate, each word a stone laid in the foundation of a new reality.
"For generations, we have lived under the Concord of Cinders, a treaty born of weakness and fear. It promised peace, but what did it deliver? It delivered division. It delivered the Ladder, a spectacle where the Gifted are forced to bleed for the amusement of the powerful. It delivered the Sable League, merchants who would trade our souls for a bushel of grain. It delivered heretics who whisper lies and stir rebellion, promising freedom while leading you all to damnation."
As he spoke, the image behind him shifted. The serene face of Valerius remained, but now it was superimposed over scenes of carefully curated chaos. They saw images of Ladder arenas, the sand stained with blood. They saw grain silos burning, the implication being Sable League treachery. They saw shadowy figures meeting in dark alleys, their faces obscured, meant to be Cassian's conspirators. The magic was potent, a subtle weave of light and suggestion that preyed on every insecurity, every hardship the soldiers had ever known.
Nyra stepped closer to Soren, her good hand resting on his forearm. Her voice was a tense whisper. "He's not just talking to them, Soren. He's rewriting history. He's taking every legitimate grievance they have and twisting it to serve him."
"He's offering a scapegoat," Soren murmured, his eyes locked on the projection. He could feel the will of the man behind it, a palpable force pressing down on them, an attempt to bend their minds to his purpose. "It's easier to hate a person than a system."
Sister Judit clutched the wooden rail of the tower, her knuckles white. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a terror that went deeper than fear for her own life. "This is blasphemy of the highest order," she breathed, her voice trembling. "To place himself in the sky… to claim the Concord is broken… He is not just declaring political supremacy. He is declaring himself a god."
The projection's voice swelled, taking on a passionate, fiery intensity that swept across the camp. "But the Bloom has returned! The heavens themselves weep with its power! The old ways are gone! The Concord is ashes! This unnatural light, this trembling of the earth—it is a sign! A judgment upon a world that has forgotten the true source of power, the one true path to salvation!"
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. The image of the burning silos faded, replaced by a close-up of his own beatific face. His golden eyes seemed to burn with righteous fury.
"And so, I, High Inquisitor Valerius, servant of the one true light, declare the Concord of Cinders null and void! It is a relic of a fallen age, a failed pact that has brought us only to the brink of annihilation! From this day forward, there is only one law, one authority, one path to survival: the Radiant Synod!"
A wave of sound rippled through the camp below—not of panic, but of awe. A few men dropped to their knees. Others raised their hands as if to receive a blessing. The propaganda was working. It was a poison coated in honey, and they were drinking it eagerly.
Soren's jaw tightened. He could feel the despair trying to take root. Valerius had the power, the resources, and now, the narrative. He was cornering them, not with armies, but with ideas. "We have to counter this," he said to Nyra. "We have to get our own message out."
"How?" she asked, her voice sharp with frustration. "He controls the Ladder Commission's criers, the public broadcast systems. He has a network of Inquisitors in every city. We have a handful of scouts and a lot of desperate people. He's turned the entire world into his pulpit."
The projection of Valerius gestured grandly, a shepherd addressing his flock. "To those who follow the false prince, Cassian, I say this: lay down your arms. He is a boy playing at war, a puppet of the Sable League, leading you to a slaughter you cannot comprehend. To the merchants of the League, I say this: your greed has poisoned this world. Your time is over. To the Gifted who cower in the shadows, led by the Cinder-Born, I offer you a choice."
The image zoomed in, the face of Valerius filling the sky, his golden eyes seeming to bore directly into Soren. The air grew heavy, charged with an oppressive energy that made it hard to breathe.
"You have been lied to. You have been told your power is a curse, a burden to be borne. This is a lie spread by those who fear you! Your Gifts are not a curse; they are a divine spark! A reflection of the light I wield! But you have been led astray by a broken vessel, a man who has squandered his gift and now seeks to drag you all down with him. They call him the Cinder-Born, but I name him for what he truly is: the Ash-Herald. A harbinger of decay, a false prophet whose very presence invites the Bloom's corruption."
Soren felt the words like physical blows. *Ash-Herald.* The name was a branding iron, searing his reputation, twisting his identity into a symbol of everything people feared. He could see the effect below. Soldiers who had looked to him with hope now glanced at the watchtower with suspicion, with dawning horror. The seeds of doubt Valerius was planting were finding fertile ground.
"He tells you he fights for freedom," Valerius's voice boomed, laced with pity and contempt. "But what freedom is there in a world consumed by ash? He offers you rebellion. I offer you salvation. He offers you a war you cannot win. I offer you the strength to end the war before it truly begins. Join me. Bring the Cinder-Born to justice. Purge this world of the Sable League's corruption and the Crownlands' weakness. Together, under the Synod's light, we will not just survive the coming storm. We will become the storm. We will scour this world clean and forge a new order, pure and eternal."
The projection held for a final, silent moment, the serene face promising a paradise built on bones. Then, just as it had appeared, it began to dissolve, the golden light breaking apart into motes that faded into the night. The oppressive pressure lifted, leaving behind a vacuum filled with a new, more dangerous kind of silence. The Sky-Tears continued their silent, beautiful dance, now seeming less like an omen and more like a backdrop to Valerius's ascension.
Down in the camp, the silence was broken by a single voice, then another, then a dozen. Men were talking, arguing. The lines were being drawn. Soren could see small clusters forming, some pointing up at the tower, others gazing at the empty space where the god-head had been. His army was fracturing before his eyes.
"He's a master," Nyra said, her voice hollow. "He didn't just attack us. He gave them a new identity, a new purpose. He made them feel chosen."
Soren leaned against the parapet, the rough wood digging into his back. He felt a profound weariness that went deeper than his depleted Gift. He was fighting a ghost, a concept, a lie wrapped in the truth of their suffering. How could you fight a man who offered the world everything it wanted, even if the price was its soul?
Sister Judit finally straightened up, her expression no longer just terrified, but hardened with resolve. "He has made a critical error," she said, her voice firm.
Soren looked at her. "How? He just won the hearts and minds of my army."
"No," she insisted, turning to face him, her eyes burning with a feverish intensity. "He declared the Concord null and void. In doing so, he has broken the most sacred law of the land. The Concord wasn't just a treaty; it was the divine mandate, the covenant that kept the great powers from tearing each other apart. By unilaterally dissolving it, he has not declared himself a god. He has declared himself the ultimate heretic. He has spat in the face of the very history he claims to uphold."
A flicker of understanding sparked in Soren's mind. She was right. Valerius had overplayed his hand. He had traded legitimacy for absolute authority. But what did that matter when he held all the power?
Before Soren could respond, the clear, pure tone rang out once more. The golden light began to coalesce, but this time it was smaller, more focused. It did not form the face of Valerius. Instead, it took the shape of a Synod crier, his robes immaculate, his face a mask of solemn piety. He hovered in the air above the camp's central square, a lesser angel delivering a final edict. His voice, though not as intimate as Valerius's, was amplified by the same potent magic, carrying with the force of a divine decree.
"The High Inquisitor has spoken," the crier intoned, his voice ringing with unshakeable conviction. "The age of compromise is over. The age of salvation is at hand. Let all who hear this message choose wisely. Stand with the heretics and be consumed by the coming storm. Or stand in the light of the Synod and be reborn."
The crier's gaze swept across the camp, and for a horrifying moment, Soren felt as though those lifeless, magical eyes were looking directly at him. The figure raised a hand, pointing a single, accusatory finger toward the main watchtower.
"Do not listen to the false prophet Cinder-Born," the crier's voice boomed, echoing in the sudden stillness of the night. "Only in the Synod's light can you find shelter from the coming storm."