Chapter 79:
Chapter 78 : The Devil Once an Angel
The Sovereign Ascendant
The streets glowed softly under the drifting lanterns, the air filled with the faint scent of roasted nuts and wildflowers left behind from the festivities. The three of us walked side by side, our shadows stretching long against the cobblestones. The night was calm, but the echoes of the play still lingered in Sylvie’s voice as she spoke, half in awe, half in confusion.
“So Marcus went to Millbrook for just a few days, and when he came back… he wasn’t the same,” she said, glancing between us. “He started hurting people he used to help. Even the children.”
Narissa nodded slowly. “They said his eyes were silver when they caught him—that he spoke in a voice that wasn’t his own.” She folded her arms, her tone casual but with a faint edge. “A monster that can twist your mind until you forget who you are… sounds like something out of old priest tales.”
Sylvie’s expression darkened slightly. “But the flowers at the end… they said it meant his soul was freed, right? That he wasn’t evil anymore?”
“Mm,” Narissa hummed. “Or that people just needed to believe he wasn’t. Guilt has a way of rewriting stories.”
I smirked faintly, my gaze fixed on the lanterns drifting above. “A monster that corrupts minds and bends reality… interesting. I’d like to meet it.”
Narissa shot me a sidelong look, one brow arched. “Sure—if you’re eager to end up like Marcus. Possessed, raving, and dead by a fountain.”
I shrugged lightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you with me.”
She blinked once, then let out a short laugh—low and unexpected. Sylvie burst into giggles beside her, clutching her sides.
“Oh no, Lord Aren,” she managed between laughs, “then both of you will end up sprouting silver flowers!”
“Wouldn’t that make a nice garden?” I replied dryly, and that only made them laugh harder.
Their laughter carried softly through the quiet street, echoing faintly against the stone walls. I found myself glancing at them for a moment—Narissa’s calm expression breaking into rare amusement, Sylvie’s bright smile glowing under the lantern light.
For a brief moment, It felt like.....
As we turned the corner, the warm lights of the inn came into view, flickering gently in the distance. The laughter faded, replaced by the soft murmur of the wind and the distant hum of the town settling into sleep.
And as we walked, my mind drifted back—to the story of Marcus Aldwin, and the haunting scenes that had played out on the stage that night…
[ Act ]
The stage lights dimmed to a hush. A single lantern swung above a wooden cart; a child’s lullaby whispered from the flutes. The actors moved forward, simple and real—no grand gestures, only small, human moments that made the tragedy feel unavoidable.
Scene I — A Good Man
(The stage: a modest cottage porch. A table with bread, a pair of small shoes by the door. Marcus enters with a sack of grain, smiling. His wife and two small children run to meet him.)
Marcus (soft, warm): “Look at this—enough for the winter pantry, and a little extra for Old Jory. You’d have seen his face if you’d been there.”
Wife (laughing, wiping flour from her hands): “Always the same. You’ll make the whole town soft with your giving.”
Child 1 (tugging his sleeve): “Tell the one about the mill again, papa!”
(Marcus stoops, ruffles the child’s hair. The actor’s laugh is easy, practiced—an actor’s life made believable by tiny gestures.)
Narrator (off to the side, voice low): “Marcus Aldwin—neighbor, helper, the man who shared harvest and hands for repair. A husband. A father. A face the town trusted.”
(The family embraces. Lantern light warms their faces. The crowd in the square leans in; some eyes mist.)
Scene II — The Journey
(The light shifts colder. A painted backdrop shivers into a road winding toward distant hills—the road to Millbrook.)
Narrator: “He went to Millbrook—five days, they said. Or so the ledger shows.”
(Marcus boards a creaking wagon. Actors play merchants and travelers. Sounds of wheels, a distant dog barking. The music quickens, then stumbles—an off-note, a single drumbeat that stretches longer than it should.)
Messenger (hurried, to the stage): “A letter came. Your brother’s ill—come quick.”
(Marcus nods, resolves. The scene blends into travel: rain, nights by embers, the actor’s face in candlelight. Then—time stretches. The backdrop speeds, then slows. The play accentuates the gap between expected five days and the twelve he became.)
Narrator: “Twelve days in all. He returned altered.”
Scene III — The Change
(The home again. The same table. Marcus enters—but his smile is thin, his laugh delayed. He rubs his temples, fingers pressing at his brow. He watches his children as if seeing them through glass.)
Wife (concerned): “Marcus—what’s wrong? You’ve been quiet for weeks.”
Marcus (voice distant): “The road… it was longer than they said. The nights… my head won’t stop.”
Neighbor (coming by): “We thought it grief—your brother, surely. Rest. Time will ease it.”
(Marcus stares at his hands. The actor plays small tremors. He turns away suddenly, eyes unfocusing for a breath; the stage light sharpens, then blinks.)
Scene IV — The Crimes (Three Days, Three Offenses)
(A rapid montage. The stage becomes a sequence of alleys, a garden, a crowded market. The pacing is quick—each crime is a jagged beat.)
— Night alley. The baker’s apprentice leaves the oven with a tray. Marcus appears as if from the shadows. The knife in his hand is steady. The apprentice falls; bread scatters. A scream. Darkness.
— A quiet dawn in a cottage garden. An elderly woman tends roses. Marcus stands over her, hands grasping at stems and then at life. She collapses among her flowerbeds. A spade clatters.
— Market day. Children dart between stalls. A shout—Marcus lunges. The children flee, cries pierced by overturned baskets. Stalls rock. People shout his name in disbelief.
(Each crime is staged not for shock but for the slow horror of familiarity: the town watching one of their own undoing. Actors move in close, the crowd in the play reacting—first confusion, then fear.)
Townsperson (to another, breathless): “It’s—Marcus. Marcus did this. It can’t be.”
Scene V — The Discovery
(The crucible: a narrow lane, a home with shutters bolted. A family is attacked—scenes of struggle. Neighbors, alerted, rush in. Marcus stands over them, eyes silver in the stage light, voice not quite his.)
Marcus (voice changed, a rasp under the actor’s words): “Go home. Leave this place…”
Villager (grabbing his arm): “Marcus! What has happened to you?”
(Marcus lifts a strength that shocks—a man cannot lift a cart, and yet he throws it with inhuman force. The stage shows rope straining, men thrown back. His speech is layered: his words and an under-voice like wind through glass, an actor’s trick, chilling.)
Crowd (chant rising): “Hold him! Don’t let him—”
(A struggle. A thrown lantern extinguishes all but a pale moon of light. Marcus breaks free and stumbles. The actor’s body convulses; his face twists between the man they know and something else.)
Scene VI — The Fall and the Silver Bloom
(At the town fountain—the old stone circle. The scramble is frantic. Men lunging, ropes, shouts.)
Narrator (soft, like the memory of water): “They tried to bind him. They tried to bring back the neighbor they loved.”
(Marcus, rattled and raw, stumbles. A scuffle, a hand grasping a cloak, the ground slick with spilled ale or rain. He slips—head meeting stone with a sick, final sound.)
(A hush cracks the air. Time seems to slow. A single, narrow beam of light—silver—scoops the actor’s face. The actor collapses. He does not cry out; instead the stage breathes, the music drops to a single note.)
Witness (voice small): “Look—his eyes…”
(An effect: a pale silver glow rises from the actor’s eyes and trails like smoke. Where his blood pools—acted with theatrical red cloth and careful choreography—small, trembling blooms unfurl: silver-white flowers made of paper and silk, catching the lantern light and seeming impossibly alive.)
Crowd (in mixed wonder and grief): “Silver… flowers…”
Wife (kneeling, cradling her husband): “Marcus—no—”
(The actor playing Marcus exhales one last, visible breath. The silver light seems to lift, to unbind. The flowers tremble as if from a gentle wind. The stage is full of a painful, fragile beauty.)
Scene VII — Truth, Priest, and the Name
(The scene shifts to a small bend of road where a cloaked priest arrives, carrying a worn book and a leather satchel. He listens to the shaking townsfolk.)
Priest (voice steady, grave): “You did what you could. You bound. You questioned. You must always investigate before condemning—one life tonight is not a verdict for all.”
Town Elder (frantic): “He killed—”
Priest (raising a hand): “The signs—those who have traveled and returned hollow, the voice not their own, the strength beyond mortal—these are not simple grief. I have seen tales, whispers of a being… a thing that feeds on illusion and bends minds. Its name I have read as Vesperion—a hunger that wears the faces it steals.”
(He places a palm on the fallen man’s brow. The stage sound shifts: distant bells, low and clarifying.)
Priest (soft): “When the light left him and the blossoms rose, it was not the monster that bloomed but something like absolution. The silver bloom marks the spirit freed.”
Townsperson (relieved, yet shaken): “So he wasn’t truly Marcus—”
Priest: “He suffered. That does not erase his life. Nor does it cheapen your duty. Before any life is put to final judgment, a full inquiry must be made. We must learn how Vesperion came here, why it was able to take hold.”
(Heads nod. The crowd divides between grief and the sober business of prevention.)
Scene VIII — The Vigil Born
(Night becomes morning in a slow stage-turn. Townsfolk gather seeds and cloth. Lanterns are crafted. Silver paper is folded and tied into flowers. People share bread and bowls of stew—actors pass out simple loaves to neighbors. The mood is one of communal repair.)
Narrator: “From mourning grew a promise. The Silver Bloom Vigil—lanterns to guide the lost, flowers to remind of the soul’s light, food to share as Marcus once did. A watch against corruption from beyond the roads.”
Villager (tying a silver blossom to a post): “If one day a shadow comes again, these will be our answer—remember him, and remember to seek truth before taking life.”
Wife (quiet, placing a silver flower in her hair): “For Marcus—and for those like him, who are taken and left behind.”
(The actors form a slow circle around the fountain. Lanterns ascend—paper blossoms pinned to each one—and the stage fills with a soft rain of pale petals choreographed by stagehands and hidden ropes. The music swells, not triumphant, but enduring.)
Narrator (final line, voice low and steady): “So the town kept watch. They told the story—so it would not be forgotten. So they would know the difference between a man and the shadow that wears him.”
(The lights fade to the warm glow of the lanterns above the stage. The actors bow. The audience—within the square, within the play—claps, some with tears, some with quiet heads bowed.)
“So Marcus went to Millbrook for just a few days, and when he came back… he wasn’t the same,” she said, glancing between us. “He started hurting people he used to help. Even the children.”
Narissa nodded slowly. “They said his eyes were silver when they caught him—that he spoke in a voice that wasn’t his own.” She folded her arms, her tone casual but with a faint edge. “A monster that can twist your mind until you forget who you are… sounds like something out of old priest tales.”
Sylvie’s expression darkened slightly. “But the flowers at the end… they said it meant his soul was freed, right? That he wasn’t evil anymore?”
“Mm,” Narissa hummed. “Or that people just needed to believe he wasn’t. Guilt has a way of rewriting stories.”
I smirked faintly, my gaze fixed on the lanterns drifting above. “A monster that corrupts minds and bends reality… interesting. I’d like to meet it.”
Narissa shot me a sidelong look, one brow arched. “Sure—if you’re eager to end up like Marcus. Possessed, raving, and dead by a fountain.”
I shrugged lightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you with me.”
She blinked once, then let out a short laugh—low and unexpected. Sylvie burst into giggles beside her, clutching her sides.
“Oh no, Lord Aren,” she managed between laughs, “then both of you will end up sprouting silver flowers!”
“Wouldn’t that make a nice garden?” I replied dryly, and that only made them laugh harder.
Their laughter carried softly through the quiet street, echoing faintly against the stone walls. I found myself glancing at them for a moment—Narissa’s calm expression breaking into rare amusement, Sylvie’s bright smile glowing under the lantern light.
For a brief moment, It felt like.....
As we turned the corner, the warm lights of the inn came into view, flickering gently in the distance. The laughter faded, replaced by the soft murmur of the wind and the distant hum of the town settling into sleep.
And as we walked, my mind drifted back—to the story of Marcus Aldwin, and the haunting scenes that had played out on the stage that night…
[ Act ]
The stage lights dimmed to a hush. A single lantern swung above a wooden cart; a child’s lullaby whispered from the flutes. The actors moved forward, simple and real—no grand gestures, only small, human moments that made the tragedy feel unavoidable.
Scene I — A Good Man
(The stage: a modest cottage porch. A table with bread, a pair of small shoes by the door. Marcus enters with a sack of grain, smiling. His wife and two small children run to meet him.)
Marcus (soft, warm): “Look at this—enough for the winter pantry, and a little extra for Old Jory. You’d have seen his face if you’d been there.”
Wife (laughing, wiping flour from her hands): “Always the same. You’ll make the whole town soft with your giving.”
Child 1 (tugging his sleeve): “Tell the one about the mill again, papa!”
(Marcus stoops, ruffles the child’s hair. The actor’s laugh is easy, practiced—an actor’s life made believable by tiny gestures.)
Narrator (off to the side, voice low): “Marcus Aldwin—neighbor, helper, the man who shared harvest and hands for repair. A husband. A father. A face the town trusted.”
(The family embraces. Lantern light warms their faces. The crowd in the square leans in; some eyes mist.)
Scene II — The Journey
(The light shifts colder. A painted backdrop shivers into a road winding toward distant hills—the road to Millbrook.)
Narrator: “He went to Millbrook—five days, they said. Or so the ledger shows.”
(Marcus boards a creaking wagon. Actors play merchants and travelers. Sounds of wheels, a distant dog barking. The music quickens, then stumbles—an off-note, a single drumbeat that stretches longer than it should.)
Messenger (hurried, to the stage): “A letter came. Your brother’s ill—come quick.”
(Marcus nods, resolves. The scene blends into travel: rain, nights by embers, the actor’s face in candlelight. Then—time stretches. The backdrop speeds, then slows. The play accentuates the gap between expected five days and the twelve he became.)
Narrator: “Twelve days in all. He returned altered.”
Scene III — The Change
(The home again. The same table. Marcus enters—but his smile is thin, his laugh delayed. He rubs his temples, fingers pressing at his brow. He watches his children as if seeing them through glass.)
Wife (concerned): “Marcus—what’s wrong? You’ve been quiet for weeks.”
Marcus (voice distant): “The road… it was longer than they said. The nights… my head won’t stop.”
Neighbor (coming by): “We thought it grief—your brother, surely. Rest. Time will ease it.”
(Marcus stares at his hands. The actor plays small tremors. He turns away suddenly, eyes unfocusing for a breath; the stage light sharpens, then blinks.)
Scene IV — The Crimes (Three Days, Three Offenses)
(A rapid montage. The stage becomes a sequence of alleys, a garden, a crowded market. The pacing is quick—each crime is a jagged beat.)
— Night alley. The baker’s apprentice leaves the oven with a tray. Marcus appears as if from the shadows. The knife in his hand is steady. The apprentice falls; bread scatters. A scream. Darkness.
— A quiet dawn in a cottage garden. An elderly woman tends roses. Marcus stands over her, hands grasping at stems and then at life. She collapses among her flowerbeds. A spade clatters.
— Market day. Children dart between stalls. A shout—Marcus lunges. The children flee, cries pierced by overturned baskets. Stalls rock. People shout his name in disbelief.
(Each crime is staged not for shock but for the slow horror of familiarity: the town watching one of their own undoing. Actors move in close, the crowd in the play reacting—first confusion, then fear.)
Townsperson (to another, breathless): “It’s—Marcus. Marcus did this. It can’t be.”
Scene V — The Discovery
(The crucible: a narrow lane, a home with shutters bolted. A family is attacked—scenes of struggle. Neighbors, alerted, rush in. Marcus stands over them, eyes silver in the stage light, voice not quite his.)
Marcus (voice changed, a rasp under the actor’s words): “Go home. Leave this place…”
Villager (grabbing his arm): “Marcus! What has happened to you?”
(Marcus lifts a strength that shocks—a man cannot lift a cart, and yet he throws it with inhuman force. The stage shows rope straining, men thrown back. His speech is layered: his words and an under-voice like wind through glass, an actor’s trick, chilling.)
Crowd (chant rising): “Hold him! Don’t let him—”
(A struggle. A thrown lantern extinguishes all but a pale moon of light. Marcus breaks free and stumbles. The actor’s body convulses; his face twists between the man they know and something else.)
Scene VI — The Fall and the Silver Bloom
(At the town fountain—the old stone circle. The scramble is frantic. Men lunging, ropes, shouts.)
Narrator (soft, like the memory of water): “They tried to bind him. They tried to bring back the neighbor they loved.”
(Marcus, rattled and raw, stumbles. A scuffle, a hand grasping a cloak, the ground slick with spilled ale or rain. He slips—head meeting stone with a sick, final sound.)
(A hush cracks the air. Time seems to slow. A single, narrow beam of light—silver—scoops the actor’s face. The actor collapses. He does not cry out; instead the stage breathes, the music drops to a single note.)
Witness (voice small): “Look—his eyes…”
(An effect: a pale silver glow rises from the actor’s eyes and trails like smoke. Where his blood pools—acted with theatrical red cloth and careful choreography—small, trembling blooms unfurl: silver-white flowers made of paper and silk, catching the lantern light and seeming impossibly alive.)
Crowd (in mixed wonder and grief): “Silver… flowers…”
Wife (kneeling, cradling her husband): “Marcus—no—”
(The actor playing Marcus exhales one last, visible breath. The silver light seems to lift, to unbind. The flowers tremble as if from a gentle wind. The stage is full of a painful, fragile beauty.)
Scene VII — Truth, Priest, and the Name
(The scene shifts to a small bend of road where a cloaked priest arrives, carrying a worn book and a leather satchel. He listens to the shaking townsfolk.)
Priest (voice steady, grave): “You did what you could. You bound. You questioned. You must always investigate before condemning—one life tonight is not a verdict for all.”
Town Elder (frantic): “He killed—”
Priest (raising a hand): “The signs—those who have traveled and returned hollow, the voice not their own, the strength beyond mortal—these are not simple grief. I have seen tales, whispers of a being… a thing that feeds on illusion and bends minds. Its name I have read as Vesperion—a hunger that wears the faces it steals.”
(He places a palm on the fallen man’s brow. The stage sound shifts: distant bells, low and clarifying.)
Priest (soft): “When the light left him and the blossoms rose, it was not the monster that bloomed but something like absolution. The silver bloom marks the spirit freed.”
Townsperson (relieved, yet shaken): “So he wasn’t truly Marcus—”
Priest: “He suffered. That does not erase his life. Nor does it cheapen your duty. Before any life is put to final judgment, a full inquiry must be made. We must learn how Vesperion came here, why it was able to take hold.”
(Heads nod. The crowd divides between grief and the sober business of prevention.)
Scene VIII — The Vigil Born
(Night becomes morning in a slow stage-turn. Townsfolk gather seeds and cloth. Lanterns are crafted. Silver paper is folded and tied into flowers. People share bread and bowls of stew—actors pass out simple loaves to neighbors. The mood is one of communal repair.)
Narrator: “From mourning grew a promise. The Silver Bloom Vigil—lanterns to guide the lost, flowers to remind of the soul’s light, food to share as Marcus once did. A watch against corruption from beyond the roads.”
Villager (tying a silver blossom to a post): “If one day a shadow comes again, these will be our answer—remember him, and remember to seek truth before taking life.”
Wife (quiet, placing a silver flower in her hair): “For Marcus—and for those like him, who are taken and left behind.”
(The actors form a slow circle around the fountain. Lanterns ascend—paper blossoms pinned to each one—and the stage fills with a soft rain of pale petals choreographed by stagehands and hidden ropes. The music swells, not triumphant, but enduring.)
Narrator (final line, voice low and steady): “So the town kept watch. They told the story—so it would not be forgotten. So they would know the difference between a man and the shadow that wears him.”
(The lights fade to the warm glow of the lanterns above the stage. The actors bow. The audience—within the square, within the play—claps, some with tears, some with quiet heads bowed.)
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