Whispers of the Fifth

With Selthar’s defeat, a strange, profound quiet fell over the world. For the first time in fifty years, no continent was ruled by a Demon Lord. The party’s return to Eldoria was met with a tidal wave of ecstatic celebration. They were paraded through streets choked with cheering citizens and showered with flowers. They were the saviors of the age.

The victory felt like a funeral.

That night, a grand feast was held in the palace's Great Hall. The tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, exotic fruits, and wine that flowed like water from silver ewers. Nobles and generals raised their goblets, their voices a thunderous roar, toasting the "Heroes of Eldoria." At the head table, on a slightly raised dais, sat the five of them. They were the center of the universe, and they had never been further apart.

Ronan stared into his ale, the cheering of the crowd a meaningless drone. He tried to raise his cup when a toast was made, but the gesture felt heavy, false. Nira, a mask of cold neutrality perfectly in place, methodically cut a piece of pheasant on her golden plate, taking tiny bites she didn't taste. Cyras watched the powerful figures of the court with a detached, analytical gaze, cataloging their allegiances and whispers. Catherine’s smile was a fragile, brittle thing that never reached her eyes. And Kael sat at the center of it all, a statue of a hero, accepting the praise while feeling the crushing weight of the silence from the four people beside him. The triumph was a bitter lie they were all forced to perform.

As the initial euphoria of their victory began to fade from the public consciousness over the next week, a new, more insidious noise took its place: a whisper. It was a poison, skillfully brewed by Lord Abrexis and his faction, and dripped into the ears of a kingdom desperate for a new story now that the old one was over.

It started in the barracks. "To think, a man with the strength to shatter an entire observatory dome with a single blast," one young knight said in awe during training. His older, more cynical partner parried a blow and leaned in. "It's a power that defies the gods," he grunted. "And where does it come from? No one knows. A power like that... it's not natural. Uncontrollable. A sword without a proper master is a danger to everyone, not just the enemy."

It spread to the high-society salons. "I pray for the dear princess, having to spend so much time with that man," a Baroness whispered behind her fan, her words guided by a well-dressed agent of the Duke. "One can only imagine the influence he exerts. Such a mysterious past, and a power that makes kings tremble. Is it any wonder the prophecy is on everyone's lips?"

Ronan felt the poison most acutely. He was in a tavern near the market, trying to drown his conflicted thoughts in cheap ale, when an old adventuring acquaintance, a Silver-ranker named Garris, clapped him on the shoulder. "Ronan, you magnificent bastard! Let me buy a round for the man who fought beside the Fifth Lord himself!" Garris slurred, grinning. "Tell me, what's he really like? They say he's a monster who eats other monsters to get his power."

Ronan’s hand tightened on his tankard, the metal groaning. "He's not a monster," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"Oh, no offense meant!" Garris said, raising his hands. "Just what the lads are saying! That his sympathy for the Demon Lords was... unnatural. A sign of kinship, they're calling it."

The word—kinship—was a dagger in Ronan's gut. It was too close to his own fears. He stood up so abruptly his stool crashed to the floor. "He's a better man than any of you," he snarled, before storming out, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

Catherine heard it in the fearful prayers of the faithful in the Grand Cathedral. The hymns of thanks were being replaced by hushed, desperate pleas for protection. "Oh great Freyja, who has delivered us from the Four," a woman prayed beside her, her voice trembling, "we beseech you, protect us now from the coming of the Fifth." The poison had seeped even into the heart of faith.

The whispers became a roar. The final confirmation came during a formal council meeting. The room was filled with the highest-ranking nobles and generals, all of whom now looked at Kael with ill-concealed fear. Lord Abrexis, resplendent in his black and gold finery, spoke for them all.

“Your Highness, the realm is saved, and for that, we owe Commander Kael a debt that can never be repaid,” he began. “However, the age of the Four is over. The age of the Fifth is, by all accounts, set to begin. The prophecy states he will be human, wielding a power beyond our understanding. It states he will prove his dominance over the others.” He gestured to the map. "He fits every description."

He then delivered the final, damning blow. “My sources, who have spoken with members of his own party out of deep concern for the realm, say that the Commander showed no triumph at the deaths of the Demon Lords. He showed them pity. Kinship. He mourned these monsters as if they were his fallen brothers!”

The accusation landed like a physical blow. Kael’s gaze snapped to Ronan and Nira. He saw them flinch, their faces paling as they stared at the floor, refusing to meet his eyes. Their private, bitter fears had been weaponized.

Leora’s voice was firm. “The council will not be ruled by fear. Kael is a hero of Eldoria.” But the damage was done.

That night, Kael stood on the balcony of his gilded cage. Below, a crowd still gathered, holding candles. But he could feel the fear beneath their joy. He had killed all the monsters for them, and in doing so, he had shown them a power that terrified them more than any Demon Lord.

Selthar’s words echoed in his mind, no longer a taunt, but a curse. You fight to avert a doom that you, yourself, are destined to become. He had defeated four broken people who had been twisted into monsters by the world’s cruelty. Now, he could feel the weight of that same world's fear beginning to twist him into the very same shape.