Fraying

The sun barely rose anymore without smoke rising with it. From one edge of the kingdom to the next, rifts tore into the world with a fury that lacked randomness. 

They no longer bloomed in isolated chaos—they targeted. Settlements with sparse awakened defenders. Trade routes vital for supplies. Farmlands barely beginning to recover.

Arasha stood before the war table in her command chamber, a map littered with pins and markings before her, her sharp eyes tracing invisible lines only she seemed to notice. Her brow furrowed, jaw tense.

"Too clean," she murmured.

Sir Garran, ever watchful, approached. "Another report. Western marsh outpost, two hours ago. No awakened stationed there. Two knights dead. Civilians evacuated, barely."

Arasha's hand curled into a fist. "It's not random. These rifts… they're calculated."

Sir Garran frowned. "You think someone's directing them?"

"No." She paused. "Something."

Her voice was low. Tired, yes—but driven. Beneath the exhaustion lay sharp suspicion. Something she hadn't dared to voice until now.

"The gods," she muttered. "They're the ones who gifted the awakened their powers. What if they're guiding the rifts too? What if these trials are not meant for salvation, but selection?"

That silence which followed was heavy, until a new voice entered—firm, calm, and edged with light.

"If that's true," said Alvin as he strode into the war room unannounced, "then we're nothing but pawns on a board they tilt as they please."

Sir Garran scowled at the paladin commander's arrival, but he didn't snap at him as sharply as he once did. 

Maybe it was weariness. 

Maybe it was the grudging recognition that Alvin, for all his unshakable faith and golden armor, never failed to answer Arasha's calls.

Arasha turned to him. "You believe it too?"

"I've stopped believing blindly," Alvin admitted. "The gods ask for faith but deliver riddles. I'll wield their light, but I won't be their tool of destruction."

The paladin then placed a newly delivered scroll on the table—another cult hideout dismantled, another clue uncovered. 

It matched Arasha's growing theory. Someone, or something, was using the rifts like a net, to herd and corner the vulnerable.

"Commander Arasha," Alvin said quietly, meeting her gaze. "Even if the gods falter, we don't have to."

She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a breath. When she opened them, they were steady once more. 

"I know," she said. "We must protect this world—whatever twisted trial it's caught in."

Garran grunted in agreement, surprising them both. "Just don't forget to rest, Commander," he muttered. "Even flames burn out if they don't stop feeding the fire."

Arasha gave him a small smile. "I'll rest when the world isn't screaming."

With Alvin at her side, Garran watching her back, and her suspicions sharpening into resolve, Arasha continued to hold the line—her mind now battling more than monsters.

****

The western skies were red with fading light, and the acrid scent of rift remnants still lingered in the wind. 

Arasha stood amid the ruins of what once was a fortified noble estate, now little more than scorched stone and splintered walls. 

The air was thick with tension; even victory tasted bitter.

She had just finished tending to a wounded knight when the child approached—no older than twelve, face smeared with ash, dressed in noble silks now torn and singed. 

Arasha turned, surprised, her guard momentarily lowered.

That mistake nearly cost her everything.

In a flash, a void dagger glinted, aimed straight for her heart—but it never reached. A blur of golden light surged between them.

"No!" Arasha's cry cracked the air as Alvin collapsed to the ground, the blade embedded deep in his side. 

The void dagger siphoning his life force fast. Blood poured from the wound, sacred light dimming in his eyes.

"Alvin... why?" she whispered, cradling him.

The paladin smiled faintly. "Because I believe in you... The ever steadfast Commander Arasha..." 

Then his light faded.

Arasha slowly stood, shadows gathering around her as her expression hardened into something cold and vengeful. 

Her gaze locked onto the trembling noble child, who no longer looked so small.

"You killed him," she said, voice like steel. "Alvin the paladin commander, who has saved thousands, died by your hands, who have known only cruelty and indulgence..."

"It's your fault! If only-only," the child stammered, voice rising in desperation. "You hated us—the awakened ones left us to rot! We just did what we had to—to stay strong!"

Arasha stepped forward, fury blazing behind her eyes. "You squandered what was given to protect your people! You used their lives for comfort! You took what was meant to heal and used it to bleed them dry!"

Her hand snapped out, lifting the boy by his collar, choking on rage. Holy light flickered dangerously around her.

"Commander!" Sir Garran's voice cut through the haze. He grasped her shoulder firmly. "Don't lose yourself. Not like this."

Her chest heaved, and for a moment, it seemed she might strike regardless—but slowly, with immense control, she dropped the child. 

Her hands trembled.

Later, in the base's sacred hall, Arasha stood before the Council of the Holy Order. 

The child's crimes were laid bare—evidence gathered, confessions from surviving staff and abused awakened. 

She broadcast the truth to the kingdom, her voice resolute and cold.

"Ignorance does not excuse evil. Bloodline does not absolve cruelty."

The Holy Order, swayed by truth and the legacy of Alvin, granted Arasha the right to pass judgment.

As the child knelt before her, bound in chains of magic and law, Arasha leaned down, her whisper quiet but piercing.

"You are not innocent. You are not above the law. You murdered a good man, and you will pay dearly for it."

Then, with the authority granted by the realm and divine writ, she delivered the sentence.

That night, she lit a candle at the altar for Alvin. 

Her hands never stopped trembling.

****

The death of Paladin Commander Alvin shook the very foundations of the Holy Order. 

For centuries, the Order had stood as an unshakable pillar of faith and resolve—Alvin, its stalwart shield. 

His death did not just leave a vacancy in command; it left a crater in morale. 

Temples flew their banners at half-mast. 

Pilgrimages paused. 

Holy knights and clerics fell into quiet mourning. The very light that guided their path dimmed.

Among the public, the sorrow was raw. 

In cities and countryside alike, people whispered Alvin's name like a prayer. 

He had fought in their streets, shielded them during rift storms, and stood with Arasha even when it meant defying the noble court. 

Statues were erected hastily, candles left on temple steps, and vigils held under starlit skies. 

The grief united the common folk—but it also stoked their growing fear. 

If even Alvin could fall… what hope remained?

The nobles, however, stirred with dangerous murmurs. 

Some wept for the fallen paladin, but others saw opportunity. 

The Holy Order, now temporarily leaderless, was vulnerable to influence. 

Accusations were tossed behind veils of grief—whispers of incompetence, recklessness, and Arasha's growing power once more creeping through noble halls. 

They saw in Alvin's death a crack to pry open.

Despite it all, Arasha did not falter.

She stood tall in strategy halls, issuing orders to knight divisions and awakened squads. 

She burned through reports late into the night, arranged rapid deployments where rifts surged, and even rallied the lesser holy sects to hold the line where the Order stumbled. 

When monsters clawed through townships, she was there with blade drawn. 

When nobles challenged funding meant for evacuations, she bled them with laws and evidence alike. 

Her composure was seamless. 

Her voice never wavered.

But behind that mask, something within her was fraying.

Arasha grew quieter by the day. 

Not cold—just distant. 

Her gaze lingered longer on empty chairs. 

She stood alone in the chapel after war councils.

 Her meals were barely touched. 

The nights stretched longer, sleep becoming a stranger.

Sir Garran, weathered and vigilant, noticed.

One dusk, as the command hall emptied and the sky turned to iron, he stepped beside her.

"You did well today," he said, tone soft. "But you haven't smiled—not truly—since we buried Alvin."

Arasha turned to him, her amber eyes unreadable. "There's little reason to smile."

"You have us," he reminded her. "Still breathing. Still fighting beside you. You're not alone."

She looked at him for a long moment, then offered a faint, polite smile. "Thank you, Garran. I know."

But as she turned away, walking back to her chambers through candle-lit halls, that smile faded. 

In the quiet of her steps, in the echoing emptiness of her heart, a whisper came again. Low. Coaxing.

"They can all disappear. Like Alvin did. Like everyone else will. Why hold on?"

She paused at her door.

And clenched her fist until her knuckles whitened—until her heart remembered that pain meant she was still here. 

Still fighting.

She entered the room and shut the door behind her.