CHAPTER 193: CHAPTER 194: MY WILL.

Amber lingered at the doorway, half-lit by the flicker. Her face was flushed, her breath shallow. The door behind her creaked shut, sealing them inside the soft gloom.

Aiden turned. The folds of his robe hung loose around his waist, the black fabric clinging to the sweat still cooling on his skin. The faint scent of fresh sex mixed with the musk of exertion, and somewhere beneath it, the faintest trace of iron—the tang of faith and sin mingling like blood and wine.

He met her gaze with the detached calm of a man who had already expected her. "You heard everything," he said quietly.

Amber only nodded. Her eyes fell to the stone floor, to the shadows of her trembling hands. "...I did."

Silence pressed in—thick, as though the air itself weighed upon their tongues. Then she spoke again, softly, as if the words themselves were an intrusion. "I came... with a letter."

She stepped forward and held it out. A folded parchment, sealed with the sigil of the Church—the twin spears crossed before the sun. Even unbroken, its authority bled from it. The wax glistened faintly in the candlelight, crimson against the pale of her fingers.

Aiden took it from her, his hand brushing hers only for a breath. The seal broke with a crisp snap. His eyes skimmed the inked lines, and a faint smile curved his lips—half amusement, half inevitability.

"So," he murmured, "they’ve finally decided to notice."

Amber’s brows knit. "It’s from the Bishop himself," she said. "He demands you appear before the capital clergy. There are... accusations. Questions." Her voice faltered. "They call you heretic....A false prophet."

The last words tasted bitter. She had heard them before—from trembling priests, from fearful whispers in the chapel corridors. Each time, they cut her deeper.

Aiden said nothing at first. His gaze trailed over the parchment again, then beyond it—to something only he could see. His lips moved slightly, reading the phrases under his breath. Condemnation. Summons. Judgment.

He chuckled—a sound low and almost tender. "All prophets share one fate," he said. "And it’s never a kind one."

Amber’s heart clenched. "You shouldn’t take this lightly. Defying the Church is—"

"Unlawful?" Aiden interrupted, his smile deepening. "Do you think I measure myself by their laws?"

He tore the letter in half. The sound was loud in the small chamber, a brutal rip that made Amber flinch. Fragments of parchment fluttered to the floor like the wings of dead moths.

Amber stepped back, eyes wide. "That was the decree of the Bishop," she breathed. "You can’t—"

"Can’t?" Aiden’s laughter filled the space, bright and sharp as struck steel. "Amber, the laws of men and gods are made by those too afraid to make their own."

He turned away, walking toward the desk where a quill rested beside a half-burned candle. The flame bent toward him as if drawn by some unseen wind. He dipped the quill in ink, the motion calm, deliberate.

"New laws," he said, "are about to be written."

His hand moved swiftly, the quill scratching across parchment. Words took shape—measured, elegant, dangerous. Amber couldn’t see all of them, but what little she caught made her blood run cold.

When he finished, he folded the letter and sealed it with dark wax from the candle. Then he extended it toward her.

"Deliver this," he said.

Amber hesitated. Her fingers brushed the letter’s edge, but she didn’t take it. "What... what did you write?"

Aiden’s expression didn’t change. "The truth."

Her hand trembled as she finally accepted it. The wax felt warm, almost alive. She glanced down, reading only the first few lines before her eyes widened.

"You... you challenged him," she whispered. "You told the Bishop that he stands blind before a god that doesn’t exist. That only you—"

"—see clearly," Aiden finished for her. "Yes."

Amber’s breath caught in her throat. "You can’t mean this."

He smiled, faintly this time—less defiance, more inevitability. "Every prophet before me begged for mercy," he said. "I will not beg. I will not be martyred. I.will. be.obeyed."

Amber’s voice trembled. "You’ll be.... hunted."

"I already am.. it’s already started amber, it’s alrea started."

The quiet between them swelled again, but this time it wasn’t silence. It was a living thing, breathing between heartbeats, alive with all the things they didn’t say.

Amber stared at him. He looked so calm, so utterly certain. The candlelight caught in his hair, black strands gleaming like silk, and for an instant, she saw not a man but a myth in the making—something vast and burning and terrible.

She whispered, "Do you ever fear what you’re becoming?"

Aiden’s gaze met hers, steady and blue as frozen flame. "you know me, fear is not in my system," he said. " I only walk forward."

Something in her broke at that—not in pain, but in awe. She had known priests who prayed until their voices cracked, who scourged themselves seeking divinity in suffering. But Aiden... Aiden did not seek God. He sought to be what gods feared.

The candle’s flame shivered as though caught in an unseen wind. Shadows lengthened against the stone walls, stretching like wings.

Aiden turned away again, his voice dropping to a murmur. "They built their temples on borrowed faith. They’ve forgotten the first truth."

Amber swallowed. "What.... truth?"

"That faith isn’t worship," he said. "It’s power."

He let the words hang there. They seemed to fill the room, resonating in the marrow of her bones.

A faint memory flickered behind her eyes—her first night in the Church, kneeling before the altar, whispering prayers she half believed. The light had been warm then, gentle. Now it seemed cold, distant, like the last glimmer before eclipse.

Aiden’s quill scratched once more against parchment. This time, he wrote without speaking, his brow furrowed in thought. Each stroke of ink seemed deliberate, ritualistic.

Amber watched him, torn between duty and fascination. She wanted to tell him to stop, to reconsider, to run before it was too late—but the words refused to come.

He was dangerous.

And yet, she thought, perhaps danger was holy in its own way.

After a time, he looked up. "Amber."

The sound of her name startled her. "Yes?"

He studied her, eyes softening just slightly. "You’ll take that letter," he said. "You’ll deliver it as if it were scripture."

She hesitated. "If they read this... they’ll surely condemn you."

"Perhaps," he said. "But first, they’ll listen."

Amber’s hand tightened around the letter. She wanted to ask why he smiled like that—why he looked at ruin as though it were destiny. Instead, she asked, "And if they don’t?"

He looked past her then, toward the narrow window where morning light began to creep in, pale and uncertain. The sky beyond was the color of ash.

"Then," he said softly, "the Church will burn its own god to keep me out—and when they do, they’ll will regret, I will make them regret...."

When Amber left, the corridor outside was cool and quiet. Her footsteps echoed off the marble, carrying her thoughts down with them.

The letter weighed heavy in her hands, heavier than parchment should. She thought of Aiden’s eyes, the calm in them, the madness twined with vision. She thought of how the air had seemed to pulse when he spoke.

Her faith, once solid as stone, felt suddenly fragile—like a statue she’d carried too long, cracks hidden beneath its gold.

In the distance, the church bells tolled the ninth hour. Each note rang through her chest like a slow heartbeat.

Was this what it meant to follow someone the title of prophet? To stand on the edge of damnation and feel the wind of revelation on your face?

She didn’t know.

Inside the room, Aiden remained still for a long while. The torn letter lay at his feet, pale scraps like fallen snow. He bent, gathered them, and fed them into the candle flame. The paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash, and he whispered, "All faiths end the same way—reborn through fire...reborn through sacrifice, and deep deep regreat..."

His reflection in the window watched him. The faint glow of the city below shimmered like embers, the towers rising like altars to unseen gods.

He remembered, briefly, his own world, where the faith and religion had evolved to something even the creator couldn’t comprehend. But instead of praying to the fake god of this world, he prayed to one and only. Jesus.

He smiled faintly. "haaa.....You’re still silent," he said to the sky. "Good. Stay that way."

Outside, thunder rolled.

He picked up another quill. On a fresh sheet, he began to write—not to the Church this time, but to himself. A creed. A testament.

There is no salvation in obedience.

Only in defiance.

Only in will.

The ink gleamed like blood as he wrote the final line: Faith belongs to the one who dares to claim it.

He leaned back, eyes half-closed. The candle guttered, then flared brighter, as if in answer.

He spoke softly, almost to himself. "They’ll call me heretic. Demon. False light." He smiled. "And still—they’ll kneel. They all Will!!!!!"