The world did not begin in darkness.
That was the first lie history ever taught.
Aethryn was born in light—blinding, merciless, absolute. A radiance so complete it left no room for shadow, no refuge for doubt, no mercy for those who could not endure its brilliance. Mountains rose gleaming like polished gold beneath eternal suns. Rivers reflected the sky so perfectly that the horizon vanished into itself. Cities of ivory and crystal spread across the continents, their spires piercing the heavens as if daring the gods to look away.
And the gods did not.
They watched. They smiled. They named it order.
On the Day of Radiant Accord, bells rang across every kingdom. From the humblest chapel carved into stone to the grandest cathedral crowned in halos of floating light, prayers echoed in perfect unison. White banners unfurled from palace walls, stitched with the sigils of Lux—the divine principle of purity, justice, and eternal clarity.
The world celebrated another year without chaos.
Another year without shadows.
Another year without asking what had been erased to make it so.
Kaelith Veyr Ashborne stood at the highest balcony of the Sanctum of Pure Will, watching the city glow beneath him.
From above, Soltharion's capital looked flawless.
Wide avenues of marble stretched in geometric precision. Towers rose in concentric harmony, each one aligned to channel holy light down into the streets below. At the city's heart stood the Spire of Judgment, its crystal core pulsing softly as it filtered Lux into every district. Not a corner existed where darkness could settle. Even night was an illusion here—softened by floating orbs of radiance that ensured no citizen ever truly stood alone with their thoughts.
The people below laughed.
Children chased drifting motes of light, their faces unscarred by hunger or fear. Merchants traded beneath banners that promised protection, fairness, and moral certainty. Knights of the Radiant Order patrolled with serene expressions, their armor glowing faintly as if blessed by approval itself.
It was a beautiful lie.
Kaelith folded his hands behind his back, long black hair stirred by the wind. His robes were simple—dark gray, unadorned, intentionally plain. He wore no sigils of rank despite standing among the highest echelons of power. To the world, he was merely the High Strategist, an advisor whose brilliance was praised but whose presence faded easily into the background.
He preferred it that way.
"Magnificent, isn't it?"
The voice came from behind him—warm, melodic, brimming with pride. High Priestess Elaris Vayne stepped onto the balcony, her white-gold vestments catching the light. The Lux sigil at her throat glimmered like a living thing, responding to her faith.
Kaelith did not turn.
"Yes," he said calmly. "It is."
Elaris smiled, mistaking his tone for agreement rather than observation. "Every year, I worry the Accord will lose its meaning. And every year, I'm proven wrong. Look at them. Peaceful. Safe. Free from fear."
Free from something, certainly.
Kaelith watched a group of attendants escort a hooded family through a side street far below. The parents walked stiffly. The child clutched a worn toy too tightly, knuckles white.
They disappeared behind a white archway marked with a sunburst.
No screams followed.
"They look content," Kaelith said.
Elaris nodded. "Because they are. Lux does not lie, Kaelith. Order brings happiness. Clarity brings peace."
"And ambiguity?" he asked softly.
She hesitated. Only for a heartbeat. "Ambiguity breeds corruption."
Of course it does, the doctrine whispered. Anything undefined is dangerous. Anything unmeasured is sinful. Anything that does not reflect the Light must be corrected—or removed.
Kaelith turned at last, meeting her eyes. "How many were corrected this year?"
Elaris stiffened, though her expression remained serene. "You know I cannot disclose purification numbers."
"No," Kaelith said gently. "But I know them anyway."
The silence stretched. Somewhere below, bells chimed again.
"Thirty-seven thousand," he continued. "Across Soltharion alone. Displaced, reclassified, or erased for failing moral alignment thresholds. That is a twelve percent increase from last year."
Elaris's lips pressed together. "You make it sound cruel."
"I make it sound accurate."
Her gaze sharpened. "These measures preserve harmony. Without them, chaos returns. We have seen what unchecked darkness does."
Kaelith inclined his head slightly. "Yes. We have."
What she did not say—and what he did not accuse—was that the darkness she feared no longer existed.
Not truly.
The Hall of Ascendant Judgment shimmered with holy geometry. Light bent itself into pillars, arches, and floating runes that drifted slowly like thought made visible. At the center of the chamber hovered the Crystalline Conclave, thirteen elders encased in halos of Lux, their voices amplified by divine resonance.
Heroes knelt before them.
Sir Aldren Thorne was foremost among them, armor gleaming, sword planted before him in reverent submission. His face was youthful, earnest, and painfully sincere. He was everything stories loved.
Kaelith stood to the side, observing.
"Sir Aldren Thorne," intoned the First Elder, voice echoing with layered authority. "Chosen of Lux. Bearer of the Radiant Blade. Do you swear to uphold purity, to erase corruption wherever it festers, and to place the world above all personal sentiment?"
Aldren did not hesitate. "I swear."
The runes flared brighter.
Kaelith felt it then—a subtle tremor beneath reality itself. Like glass strained too tightly.
"Then rise," the Elder commanded, "and be the sword that keeps Aethryn pure."
Applause erupted. Cheers filled the hall. The narrative completed itself neatly.
Kaelith alone noticed the faint distortion rippling outward from the Conclave—a fracture no one else could perceive because no one else was looking for it.
He closed his eyes.
There it was again.
That pressure. That silent compression in the fabric of existence. Like reality holding its breath.
That night, Kaelith descended alone into the Archive of Sanctified Truths.
The lower vaults were forbidden to all but a handful of scholars. Even Elaris did not come here anymore. Lux did not like being questioned by its own records.
Torches ignited as he passed, reacting not to movement but to intent. Shelves stretched endlessly, filled with crystalline tablets and scrolls inscribed in forgotten scripts.
Kaelith moved with purpose.
He stopped before a sealed door—black stone carved with warnings erased from common language. He pressed his palm against it.
The door opened.
Inside lay records that should not exist.
Civilizations older than the Light. Empires that thrived without Lux. Societies that balanced contradiction instead of erasing it.
And then—graphs.
Reality degradation models. Causality strain charts. Divine saturation curves.
Kaelith's breath slowed.
The data was undeniable.
Lux was not stabilizing the world.
It was overcorrecting it.
For every impurity erased, pressure built elsewhere. For every shadow removed, the light intensified, burning deeper into the foundations of existence. The world was becoming too ordered.
And when order reached absolute—
Kaelith's fingers tightened.
—Null awakened.
Oblivion.
Total erasure.
The final state the gods never spoke of because it implicated them.
Kaelith sank into a chair, staring at the projections. His reflection stared back from the crystal surface—calm, controlled, breaking silently.
"How long?" he whispered.
The model responded without mercy.
Less than fifty years.
The heroes would win.
The light would prevail.
And the world would end quietly, perfectly, correctly.
Kaelith laughed.
Once.
Softly.
No one heard it.
At dawn, the city awoke to an execution.
A public one.
A man stood bound at the center of the Plaza of Clarity. His crime was listed plainly above him in glowing script:
MORAL DEVIATION – PERSISTENT DOUBT
The crowd watched calmly. Some with pity. Some with relief.
Kaelith stood among them.
The executioner raised the blade of light.
Kaelith stepped forward.
"Stop."
The word was not loud.
It was not shouted.
But it carried.
Every eye turned.
Elaris's face went pale. "Kaelith—"
"He is innocent," Kaelith said.
The Elder's voice boomed from the Spire. "Doubt is corruption."
"Doubt is humanity," Kaelith replied.
The blade hovered.
Time slowed.
Kaelith made his choice.
He reached into the fracture he had been sensing all along—into the pressure, the compression, the sin no one wanted—and took it.
The world shuddered.
The execution platform cracked.
The light flickered.
For the first time in centuries, a shadow fell across the plaza.
The man collapsed, alive.
And somewhere deep beneath reality, something ancient opened its eyes.
Kaelith looked up at the horrified faces around him.
"I will carry it," he said calmly. "Whatever sin you fear. Whatever darkness you refuse to see."
Silence.
Fear.
Condemnation.
Kaelith felt it then—the weight settling into his soul. Heavy. Permanent. Unforgiving.
The first burden.
The first step.
And the world, in its flawless purity, named him evil.