MORIARTYY

Lucian was the Council’s greatest weapon—until he defied their orders to spare innocent lives. Branded a traitor, betrayed by the woman he loved, and cast into the Abyss, he should’ve died.

But he didn’t.

Down in the dark, Lucian rises—stronger, broken, and burning with vengeance. With powers that bend time and souls, and a looped memory of his lost love haunting him, he’s no longer their Lightbringer.

He’s the storm they’ll never control again.

> A fallen hero. A forged villain. A Sancturm that must burn.

Sancturm Breaker

Lucian sat alone in the old chapel behind the Sancturm's west wing, where light struggled through the cracked stained glass. His hand hovered over the gauntlet, the dried crimson now hardened like old guilt. He hadn't cleaned it. Not yet. Not after Elora.

He had listened. He had understood. And still—he had killed her.

Lira hadn't spoken since the mission.

She cooked. She trained. She stayed.

But she no longer touched his hand as they passed in the corridors. No longer left notes tucked into his sheath. And though she never said the words aloud, Lucian felt her slipping further with every breath.

He didn't know what version of himself he would stay with either.

The High Council convened within the Sancturm Citadel three days after Elora's execution. Lucian was summoned. Again.

He didn't wear the Council's cloak.

Riven waited outside the gates, arms folded.

"You're making them nervous," he said, without a smile.

"I thought they didn't fear anything."

Riven shrugged. "Everyone fears a weapon they can't control."

Inside, Valen Dross stood at the helm.

"Lightbringer," he said, the title laced with disdain. "Your work in Dunvale is done. The target neutralized. But your methods… were unsanctioned."

Another elder—Thorne—leaned forward, fingers steepled. "You entered the sanctified grounds. Heard the heretic's words. Yet carried out your duty."

"She told the truth," Lucian said, finally. His voice was calm, almost too calm.

Thorne raised a brow. "Yet you killed her."

Lucian's jaw tensed. "Because you ordered it."

Valen smiled thinly. "Then you still follow command. Good. Let's keep it that way."

As Lucian left the chamber, the echo of the High Bell sounded in the distance.

That evening, he stood on the edge of the training arena, watching young Sancturm initiates spar. None of them had real power yet. Just ambition.

He remembered what that felt like. Pure, sharp ambition. Not yet poisoned by reality.

She stood beside him but didn't speak for minutes.

Lira turned to face him. Her voice low, pained. "So why didn't you?"

Lucian didn't have an answer. Not a clean one.

"She was right. But I'm still here, Lira. That means they still own me."

Lira's eyes searched his face. "Not forever."

But the blood was still on his glove.

That night, he opened the sealed Archive chamber beneath the Sancturm—an old vault reserved for weapon relics too dangerous to use.

He found a mirror made of obsidian, etched with runes older than the Council's rule. The glass shimmered when he looked into it—not with his reflection, but with a vision of another version of himself, grinning like a shadow let loose.

And he heard it—a whisper, not from within the mirror, but from inside himself.

> "Power unbound. Pain revealed. You're not theirs anymore."

Lucian closed his eyes. Let the voice stay.

Lira woke to find him missing. Again.

The training ground was scorched. Not from fire. But from something colder—black ether that twisted the marble into spirals.

She touched the mark. It burned her fingers.

Lucian was changing. Not in rage. Not in grief.

This time, the target wasn't a rebel.

It was a young acolyte—barely fifteen—caught reading pre-Sancturm texts.

Lucian stood at the chamber doors, scroll unopened.

He handed the mission back to the courier.

"I don't do executions," he said quietly.

Chapter 5: Storms Behind Eyes