The Ersatz Messiah Unleashed

The next few days passed in a whirlwind of activity.

Atenzi split his time between the palace and the city, carefully balancing his roles as the king's trusted advisor and the mysterious stranger spreading whispers of hope.

In the mornings, he attended council meetings, offering carefully measured advice that subtly undermined Henry's authority while appearing to support it.

He suggested "security measures" that further isolated the king from his people, proposed festivals and spectacles that drained the treasury while doing nothing to address the realm's real problems.

"Your Majesty," Atenzi said during one such meeting, his voice resonating with just a touch of Lashon Kesef, "the people grow restless.

Perhaps a grand tournament, to commemorate your glorious reign?

It would lift spirits and remind everyone of the strength and vitality of the Sovereign Lands."

Henry's eyes lit up at the idea, even as his advisors exchanged worried glances. "Yes! Brilliant, Atenzi!

We shall have games the likes of which haven't been seen since the fall of the old kingdoms. No expense shall be spared!"

Atenzi bowed low, hiding his smirk.

Another nail in the coffin of Henry's rule, and the king himself was eagerly swinging the hammer.

In the afternoons and evenings, Atenzi roamed the city.

He visited taverns and marketplaces, workshops and temples.

Everywhere he went, he listened for echoes of his manufactured prophecy and, when the moment was right, added fuel to the fire.

In The Crow's Nest, a dockside bar known for its rough clientele, he overheard two sailors arguing about the rumors.

"I'm telling you, Jace, there's something to it," one insisted. "My cousin's wife's brother knows a fella who saw something in the sky.

A sign, he says."

The other sailor scoffed. "A sign?

What, did the moons spell out 'Savior Coming Soon' or something?"

Atenzi sidled up to the bar next to them, signaling the bartender for a drink.

As he waited, he allowed his gaze to unfocus slightly, as if lost in thought.

"You know," he said, seemingly to himself but loud enough for the sailors to hear, "I heard tell of a strange light seen over the Eastern Sea.

Like a star falling to earth, they say.

Happened just last week, if the stories are true."

He accepted his drink and wandered away, smiling inwardly as he heard the sailors' argument reignite with renewed vigor.

In the Temple of the Faded Gods, Atenzi knelt before a dusty altar, pretending to pray.

As an acolyte passed by, he reached out, catching the young man's arm.

"Pardon me," Atenzi said softly, "but I seek guidance.

Have you heard anything of a coming change?

A... restoration, perhaps?"

The acolyte's eyes widened. "You... you've heard the whispers too?

I thought... but no, we're not supposed to speak of it."

Atenzi leaned in, his voice urgent. "Please, I must know.

What have you heard?"

After a moment's hesitation, the acolyte glanced around furtively, then began to speak in hushed tones.

Atenzi listened intently, nodding at appropriate intervals.

When the young man finished, Atenzi clasped his hand warmly.

"Thank you, my friend.

You've given me much to think about.

May the gods smile upon you."

As Atenzi left the temple, he allowed himself a small, triumphant grin.

The acolyte's version of the "prophecy" had been far more elaborate than anything Atenzi had seeded himself.

The story was growing, evolving, taking on a life of its own.

It was on the fifth day that Atenzi began to notice a shift in the city's atmosphere.

Conversations in the streets seemed more animated, tinged with an undercurrent of excitement.

He caught snatches of phrases—"the coming storm," "a new dawn," "the true heir"—that hadn't been part of his original whisper campaign.

In the palace, too, things were changing.

Servants exchanged significant glances when they thought no one was looking.

Courtiers huddled in corners, their discussions ceasing abruptly when others approached.

Atenzi knew it was time to push things further.

That evening, he made his way to The Silver Sextant, an upscale tavern frequented by minor nobles and wealthy merchants.

He took a seat at the bar, ordering a glass of fine wine he had no intention of actually drinking.

Next to him sat a man Atenzi recognized as one of the king's tax collectors, already well into his cups.

Perfect.

Atenzi turned to the man, pitching his voice to carry just far enough for nearby tables to overhear. "Pardon me, friend, but you look troubled.

Might I ask what weighs so heavily on your mind?"

The tax collector peered at Atenzi blearily. "Eh? Oh, it's... it's nothing. Just the usual headaches of serving our... illustrious king." The last words were tinged with bitter sarcasm.

Atenzi nodded sympathetically. "These are trying times, to be sure.

But you know, I've heard tell of better days to come."

The tax collector snorted. "Better days?

Have you seen the state of the treasury?

The king's latest folly will bankrupt us, mark my words."

"Ah," Atenzi said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "but what if the king's reign is nearing its end?

Not through violence or coup, mind you.

But through... let's call it divine intervention."

The tax collector's bloodshot eyes widened. "You mean... the prophecy?

You've heard it too?"

Atenzi allowed a small smile to play across his lips. "More than heard, my friend.

I've seen signs.

The stars align, the ancient texts speak.

Change is coming to the Sovereign Lands, and sooner than many think."

He stood, placing a hand on the tax collector's shoulder.

As he did so, he released a carefully measured dose of Lashon Kesef, just enough to lend his next words an air of incontrovertible truth.

"Remember this," Atenzi said, his voice resonating with subtle power, "When the twin moons align and the sea turns silver, the true heir will reveal himself.

The one who can command with a word, who bears the mark of destiny.

Watch for him, for he will lead us out of darkness."

With that, Atenzi turned and walked away, leaving the tax collector gaping in his wake.

As he exited the tavern, he could already hear the excited murmurs spreading through the room.

The walk back to the palace was a blur.

Atenzi's head throbbed, each step sending a jolt of pain through his skull.

He had pushed Lashon Kesef to its limit tonight, and his body was making him pay for it.

As he stumbled through the palace gates, a wave of dizziness nearly brought him to his knees.

Atenzi managed to make it to his chambers before the full backlash hit.

He collapsed onto his bed, his body wracked with violent tremors.

Blood flowed freely from his nose now, staining the fine silk sheets.

For hours, he drifted in and out of consciousness, haunted by fevered dreams.

Visions of the world he'd left behind mingled with glimpses of potential futures—some glorious, others terrifying.

When Atenzi finally awoke, weak rays of sunlight were streaming through his window.

His throat felt as though he'd swallowed broken glass, and when he tried to speak, only a hoarse whisper emerged.

A knock at the door startled him. "My lord?" came a servant's voice. "The king requests your presence in the council chamber immediately."

Atenzi tried to respond but could produce no sound.

Panic flared in his chest.

Had he finally pushed too far? 

With trembling hands, he scrawled a note: "Indisposed.

Will attend as soon as able." He slipped it under the door, hearing the servant's footsteps retreat moments later.

Atenzi slumped back onto the bed, his mind racing despite his physical exhaustion.

He needed time to recover, but he couldn't afford to lose the momentum he'd built.

And now, with his voice gone, his most powerful tool was temporarily beyond his reach.

For the first time since arriving in this strange world, Atenzi felt a flicker of doubt.

He had set events in motion that he might not be able to control.

If he couldn't regain his voice soon, everything he'd worked for could crumble.

As if in response to his fears, a commotion erupted in the hallway outside his chambers.

Raised voices, the clatter of armored footsteps.

Atenzi forced himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily as he made his way to the door.

He opened it to find chaos.

Servants ran back and forth, their faces pale with fear.

Guards marched past in formation, their expressions grim.

A passing maid noticed Atenzi and skidded to a halt. "My lord! Haven't you heard?

The city is in uproar!

There are riots in the streets, people calling for a new king, for the 'true heir' to reveal himself!"

Atenzi's eyes widened.

He had expected his whispers to spread, but not this quickly, not this intensely.

He gestured for the maid to continue, miming writing to indicate his temporary muteness.

The maid, flustered, continued, "They say the signs have been fulfilled.

The twin moons aligned last night, and fishermen swear the sea turned silver at dawn.

Now everyone's looking for this prophesied leader who can 'command with a word'."

Atenzi felt a chill run down his spine.

He hadn't invented those particular details—they must have been embellishments added by others as the story spread.

Yet they had come true nonetheless.

Was it mere coincidence, or was there more at play here than he understood?

He gestured for paper and ink, which the maid quickly provided.

In a shaky hand, he wrote: "Where is the king?"

"In the great hall, my lord," the maid replied. "He's called an emergency assembly of all nobles and officials.

I believe he means to address the people from the balcony after."

Atenzi nodded his thanks, dismissing the maid. He closed the door and leaned against it, his mind whirling.

This was his moment, the perfect opportunity to seize control.

But without his voice, without Lashon Kesef, how could he hope to take advantage of it?

He glanced at his reflection in a nearby mirror.

His face was pale, dark circles under his eyes testament to his recent ordeal.

Blood had crusted around his nostrils and at the corners of his mouth.

He looked, he realized with grim amusement, like a man who had been through hell and back.

Or, perhaps, like a prophesied savior who had endured great trials to fulfill his destiny.

A plan began to form in Atenzi's mind.

It was risky, relying more on showmanship and the power of belief than on any mystical abilities.

But if he could pull it off...

With renewed determination, Atenzi began to prepare.

He washed the blood from his face but left the pallor and dark circles—signs of his "ordeal."

He donned his finest robes, but left them slightly disheveled, as if he'd rushed to answer some divine summons.

As a final touch, he took a small knife and, gritting his teeth against the pain, carved a small symbol on the back of his hand—a crude representation of the twin moons over a wavy line. The "mark of destiny" the people would be looking for.

Thus prepared, Atenzi left his chambers and made his way towards the great hall.

Nobles and officials rushed past him, too preoccupied with their own fears to pay him much mind.

All the better—let his entrance be a surprise.

As he approached the massive doors of the great hall, Atenzi could hear King Henry's voice, shrill with panic, echoing within.

"...will not tolerate this sedition! I am your rightful king, anointed by—"

Atenzi pushed the doors open, the heavy wood groaning in protest.

All eyes turned to him as he strode into the hall, his steps measured and deliberate despite his physical weakness.

King Henry, red-faced and sweating on his throne, fell silent mid-tirade.

The assembled nobles and officials parted before Atenzi, murmurs of confusion and speculation rippling through the crowd.

Atenzi approached the throne, his eyes locked on Henry.

The king's expression cycled rapidly through shock, relief, and then, as understanding dawned, abject terror.

"You," Henry whispered, his voice barely audible in the hushed hall. "It was you all along, wasn't it?"

Atenzi said nothing—could say nothing, his voice still gone.

But he allowed a small, enigmatic smile to play across his lips as he raised his hand, displaying the crude symbol he'd carved there.

A gasp ran through the assembled crowd. "The mark!" someone cried out. "He bears the mark of destiny!"

As if on cue, the doors to the balcony burst open, letting in a rush of sound from the city beyond.

The roar of a vast crowd, chanting words that sent a shiver down Atenzi's spine:

"True heir! True heir! True heir!"

Atenzi turned to face the balcony, gesturing for silence.

Despite his lack of Lashon Kesef, despite not uttering a single word, the crowd outside fell quiet, as if by magic.

In that moment of perfect silence, King Henry's nerve finally broke. "Take it!" he cried, yanking the crown from his head and thrusting it towards Atenzi. "Take the cursed thing! I never wanted it anyway!"

Atenzi accepted the crown with grave solemnity, holding it aloft for all to see.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he placed it upon his own head.

The roar from the crowd was deafening, a tidal wave of sound that shook the very foundations of the palace.

Nobles fell to their knees, pledging fealty to their new king.

Officials who moments ago had been loyal to Henry now gazed at Atenzi with awe and adoration.

As Atenzi stepped out onto the balcony, bathed in the adulation of the masses below, a single thought cut through the triumph and exhilaration:

What have I unleashed?

For in his quest for power, in his determination to overthrow the cosmic game masters, Atenzi had tapped into something far older and more potent than Lashon Kesef.

He had harnessed the power of belief itself, and now he rode atop a tidal wave of faith that threatened to sweep away everything in its path.

Including, perhaps, Atenzi himself.