CHAPTER 113: PREACHING TRUTH

The morning light filtered through stained-glass windows of the small chapel where Hitoshi and Kael sat, cloaked in anonymity among the throng of attendees.

The Church of the Holy Flame had seen better days, and the cracks in its foundation weren’t just metaphorical.

Outside, the streets buzzed with whispers of doubt and discontent, and inside, the clergy’s sermons no longer carried the same unshakable authority.

The priest—a man of middling years, his face weathered by long service—stood at the pulpit, his voice wavering as he delivered the day’s scripture.

His words carried fervor, but the unease beneath them betrayed the fragile state of the Church.

It was precisely this vulnerability that Aric sought to exploit.

Hitoshi leaned toward Kael, his voice a low murmur. "He’s not ready for this kind of influence yet, but he’ll come around. They all will."

Kael smirked, his eyes scanning the priest and the congregation. "It’s not about readiness. It’s about necessity. Men like him bend when the weight gets heavy enough."

Hitoshi didn’t reply, but the glint in his eye spoke volumes. Aric’s orders were clear: begin infiltrating the sermons, planting seeds of doubt and reshaping the Church’s narrative from within. This wasn’t a task for the heavy-handed.

It required precision, subtlety, and a deep understanding of human nature.

---

That evening, Kael and Hitoshi met in the low lit back room of a tavern frequented by lower clergy members. The air carried with smoke and the scent of spiced wine, the chatter of patrons providing natural cover for their conversation.

The tavern keeper, his silence purchased with a pouch of gold, brought two mugs before slipping away. Kael took a sip and grimaced at the cheap brew.

"You sure this is the place to start?" he asked, glancing around at the priests and deacons deep in conversation.

Hitoshi’s expression remained steady. "These men are the backbone of the Church. They’re overworked, underpaid, overlooked. If we give them something new to believe in, they’ll carry that message further than we ever could."

Kael leaned back, watching as Hitoshi began his work. It was a game of whispers and nudges—subtle comments dropped into conversations at just the right moment.

A passing mention of Valen and Sylas, their alleged sins hinted at but never named outright. A suggestion that divine favor might rest elsewhere. Nothing overt, nothing that would rouse suspicion. Just enough to plant a question.

By the end of the night, several priests left the tavern with thoughtful expressions, their faith in the Church’s hierarchy ever so slightly shaken.

---

In the days that followed, carefully orchestrated chaos spread. Maxim worked tirelessly to insert Aric’s rhetoric into sermons across key regions, using his network of informants and sympathetic clergy.

Kael spread rumors among the lower ranks, weaving stories of Valen’s lust for war and Sylas’s shadowed dealings.

One such rumor took root in Meridien, a province where the Church’s influence was strongest. There, Father Loris—known for his fiery sermons—began weaving subtle criticisms into his otherwise orthodox teachings.

"War may bring glory," he declared, his voice thundering through the hall, "but does it bring peace? Does it serve the people, or only the ambitions of those who would claim power for themselves?"

The congregation murmured, uncertain yet intrigued. Loris hadn’t named names, but the implication was clear. Valen’s campaigns, praised as noble by the Iron Circle, were being questioned—not by rebels, but by the Church’s own clergy.

Meanwhile, in Theras, a coastal province near the imperial capital, another sermon struck a different chord. Deacon Malric, a man of humble origins, spoke of espionage and treachery, painting a picture of moral decay in the empire’s leadership.

"Spies in the dark, brothers," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Plots not for the good of the people, but for personal gain. Is this the example we wish to follow?"

Malric’s sincerity lent weight to his words. Those who heard him left with troubled hearts, their faith in the empire’s rulers further eroded.

---

From his estate, Aric observed the unfolding drama. Maps and documents covered his desk, annotated with notes and names—priests, deacons, monks—all unknowingly carrying his message.

Serina entered, sharp as ever.

"It’s working," she said, setting a report on his desk. "The sermons are spreading faster than expected. Valen and Sylas’s names are being whispered in ways even their supporters can’t ignore."

Aric glanced at the report but didn’t touch it. "And the Church?"

"Divided," she replied. "The lower clergy are questioning the hierarchy. The higher-ups are scrambling to hold them together. High Inquisitor Levos is rattled."

A faint smile tugged at Aric’s lips. "Good. The more they fight among themselves, the easier it will be to guide them."

Serina hesitated, her eyes narrowing. "There’s risk. If the Iron Circle realizes what we’re doing, they’ll retaliate. And Valen... he won’t sit idle."

Aric’s smile faded into steel. "Let him try. Every move he makes will expose him further. This isn’t about fighting him directly—it’s about letting him destroy himself."

---

As the weeks passed, the Church’s sermons became a battlefield of ideology. Some priests clung to the old ways, extolling the emperor’s elder sons and their supposed divine favor. But dissenting voices grew louder, calling for reform and questioning the empire’s morality.

Among the common people, these sermons sparked quiet revolution. Merchants and farmers, soldiers and laborers, all began to whisper of change—of a prince who sought not war or intrigue, but the realm’s well-being.

They didn’t yet know his name. But his philosophy was spreading like fire.

In the halls of power, the Iron Circle convened in secret, unease thickening with every meeting.

Duke Garamond Rothval, his voice booming with fury, slammed his fist on the table.

"This is no coincidence. Someone is orchestrating this—turning the Church against us. If we don’t act, our position is compromised."

Lord Corvin of House Firael leaned forward, grim. "It’s more than the Church. These rumors of Valen’s warmongering, Sylas’s treachery—they’re spreading too fast. Too precise. Someone is pulling the strings."

Lady Elara Rothval finally spoke. "You think it’s the Fourth Prince? He doesn’t have the resources."

"Doesn’t he?" Corvin countered. "He’s been silent for too long. That kind of quiet usually means planning."

The chamber fell still as the Iron Circle exchanged uneasy glances. The thought of Aric Valerian, the scorned fourth prince, rising to challenge them was unthinkable—yet deeply unsettling.

---

By the time summer waned, Aric’s influence had seeped into every corner of the Church. The sermons kept spreading, reshaping the empire’s narrative bit by bit.

And in the quiet of his chambers, as he studied the ripple effect of his words, Aric allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

He was building something new.

Something that would, in time, shake the foundations of the empire.