Chapter 52: His executioner

“Focus, Raziel. Your mind is wandering again.”

Lucian’s voice, with that mix of frustration and genuine concern, cut the silence of the library like a knife.

Raziel blinked.

The letters of the theology text in front of him were just a blur without meaning.

He had been trying to read the same page for minutes, looking for refuge in the teachings of Zhalyr, but it was useless.

In his head, there was no room for gods, only for the echo of a shadowy voice sentencing the boy next to him to death.

’Lord Lucian… is the perfect fuel.’

“I’m sorry, Lucian,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes hard, as if he could erase the images engraved on his eyelids. “I don’t feel well today. The nightmares… are getting worse.”

It was a half-truth.

They weren’t nightmares.

They were memories.

He saw Phaedra fall, the streets stained red and the sky black with smoke.

He saw a Father Marius twisted by power, and Zion… always Zion, laughing in the middle of the chaos, enjoying the destruction like it was the climax of her play.

Lucian’s expression softened.

Since the incident in Sister Elena’s office, that playful arrogance that defined him had tempered.

Now there was a seriousness in him, a growing understanding that the piety of St. Celeste was just a coat of paint over something rotten.

“I get you, Raz,” he said, his voice low and complicit while putting a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s a lot to process, but you are not alone in this, okay?”

He paused, looking at the shelves of books surrounding them, those tombs of knowledge that held centuries of ignored warnings.

“Besides,” he added, and a flash of his old self shone in his eyes, “not everything in St. Celeste is theological debates and prayers by candlelight. We have the Bard recital, remember? Brother Keith says we are going to play a new ballad that is about forbidden love, jealousy and… a vengeful ghost!”

He smiled, mischievous.

“I’m sure the audience will love it.”

Raziel forced a smile.

He appreciated the attempt, he really did, but the weight of his knowledge was a slab he couldn’t share.

Every kind word from Lucian was a stab.

’He talks about ballads while they plan to use his blood as ink for their damn script. I have to do something. NOW!’

“I think… I think I need some air,” he said, standing up suddenly. “Maybe a walk through the gardens to clear my head.”

He left Lucian there, with the word in his mouth, while his friend shouted some ideas for his performance.

But Raziel’s mind was already somewhere else, running through a labyrinth of possible futures, looking for an exit, a way to break a cycle that threatened to devour everything.

The library, usually swarming with novices, was strangely silent.

Most were in their afternoon lessons, leaving the huge space almost deserted.

The only sound was the whisper of parchment and the distant echo of his own steps on the stone.

He walked aimlessly between the shelves, running his fingers over the spines of forgotten books.

His eyes drifted to the restricted section, protected by a solid iron grate, he wanted to enter, to look for answers in that forbidden knowledge, but he couldn’t risk it.

Not now, with the Inquisitors following his every step, waiting for the slightest mistake.

He moved away from the grate, frustrated, and then his gaze fell on something he had never seen before: a narrow door, almost invisible, hidden behind a towering bookshelf.

Curiosity, or perhaps something else, an instinctive pull of his Paragon power, pushed him toward it.

CRIIIIICK!

The sound was sharp in the sepulchral silence, revealing a dusty spiral staircase descending into complete darkness.

He hesitated.

The air coming out from down there was different.

Cold, stale, as if it hadn’t moved in centuries.

He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Marius or an Inquisitor, but there was no one.

Only the beating of his own heart, hammering against his ribs.

He took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and went down.

Every step resonated in the oppressive stillness.

The darkness swallowed him, the cold intensified, and the feeling of unease grew until it became nausea.

When he reached the bottom, his hand groped the wall until he found a candle holder.

He took out a flint and struck it. The spark lit the wick, and a flickering light revealed a small stone chamber.

It was full of shelves packed with ancient texts, scrolls piled without care, and strange artifacts in glass cases covered in dust. The air was heavy with forgotten knowledge, with secrets buried for too long.

Raziel’s breath hitched.

It was a secret archive.

A place where the Church hid books too dangerous, history too inconvenient.

He moved through the chamber, he recognized some titles: grimoires with cryptic enchantments, tomes on the Zhalyrian faith detailing events erased from official records, scrolls that spoke of a power much older and profane than the goddess’s grace.

Then, his gaze fixed on a small leather-bound diary. The cover was cracked and faded, and its pages seemed stained with dried blood.

He took it.

His fingers were trembling slightly.

The cover was blank, but when he opened it, his eyes went wide.

He recognized the elegant handwriting, the faded ink, and the faint scent of lavender that still clung to the paper.

It was Seraphina’s diary.

He turned the pages desperately, his heart sinking with every word.

He read her descent into madness.

She was brilliant, yes, but also arrogant.

She had rebelled against the Church’s restrictions, seeking a power that transcended Zhalyr’s grace.

She had found that power in necromancy.

Her entries detailed her experiments, her growing confidence, and her chilling conviction that she could “purify” Phaedra, forging a new order ruled by the strong.

“What an idiot you were,” muttered Raziel, with a tone loaded with sadness and growing dread.

It hurt to see how the most promising student had turned into a monster.

He reached the last entry.

The date was from weeks before the attack on the crypt in his other life.

The writing was frantic, the ink runny as if tears had stained it.

’The moment is near. The ritual is ready. The sacrifice will be performed and then Phaedra will be reborn. A kingdom of the powerful, ruled by those who accept true power, the power that lies beyond the dying light of a dying god.’

’Wait a moment,’ thought Raziel. ’This entry shouldn’t exist. In my timeline, Seraphina disappeared weeks before the attack. Did she… was she hiding? Was the plan different?’

Just as his brain was processing the implication of that last sentence, the air in the secret chamber rotted.

Raziel’s instinct screamed before his mind did.

DANGER!

A shadow detached itself from the darkness behind a bookshelf and moved at a speed that wasn’t human.

Before he could react, a hand gloved in black leather grabbed his face.

Not his mouth.

His whole face.

The force was so brutal he felt the bones of his skull creak under the pressure.

CRACK!

His body was lifted off the floor without effort and slammed against the nearest bookshelf.

The old and rotten wood snapped under the impact.

Centuries-old books and scrolls rained down around him, an avalanche of forgotten knowledge.

The air escaped his lungs in a choked gasp.

Black spots danced in his vision.

He tried to fight, but the grip was immovable.

Then, a voice whispered directly into his ear, a playful and lethal murmur.

“Curiosity killed the cat, right, little priest? Looking for lore drops to change the future?”

The grip loosened enough for his head to fall to the side.

With his vision blurry from pain and lack of air, Raziel focused his gaze.

A hooded figure had him pinned with one hand.

Her face was hidden in shadows, but two points of crimson light shone with a cold and analytical intelligence.

“Z-Zion?”

[ CRITICAL SYSTEM WARNING ]

PARADOX LEVEL THREAT DETECTED!

NULLIFYING PROTOCOLS…

RECOMMENDED ACTION: [ERR0R]… [ERR0R]… IMPOSIBLE TO CALCULATE…

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