A chill, dry wind, smelling faintly of ozone and pulverized stone, swept through the Sun-Spire plaza. The monstrous shadow-beasts, each with its six obsidian limbs braced against the polished masonry, formed an impenetrable ring. Their crimson eyes glowed like embers, reflecting the dawning light and the terror in the faces of the assembled nobility. Vazmir stood before them all, a beacon of controlled fury, his dark-light resonance humming low and menacing. His gaze, however, remained fixed on Nirali, who had stumbled backward, her hand outstretched for the dropped silver relic. It lay ignored, a forgotten trinket beside her boot. The cheers of the coronation were long gone, replaced by a silence so profound it pressed against the eardrums. Every noble, every mage, every guard stood frozen, caught between the terrifying warlord and the sudden, undeniable proof of his power. They were lambs, encircled by shadows. “Beshak,” Tazha called, her voice clear and cutting in the stillness. “The ledger. Show them everything.” Beshak, who had been perched on Tazha’s shoulder, a rumbling engine of irritation at the ongoing spectacle, launched himself into the air with a disgruntled snarl. His six feathered wings beat a rapid, surprisingly loud rhythm against the air. He soared past the flustered royal guards, past the petrified High Mages, straight toward the Spire’s central broadcasting crystal. The massive, multifaceted gemstone, usually used to transmit the Empress’s decrees and daily light-magic forecasts across the capital city of Zir-Anun, began to thrum with a faint, purple-tinged light as Beshak landed deftly on its apex, clutching the thick, leather-bound ledger in his fangs. With a flick of his paw, the caracal splayed open the book, its pages glowing with the dark-light residue of the catacombs. Across the sky, projected from the crystal with startling clarity, appeared the ledger’s first page. It showed intricate diagrams of dark-magic vivariums, followed by meticulous records of funds allocated, procurement lists for forbidden reagents, and – most damning of all – a list of contributing benefactors. At the top of that list, bold and unmistakable, was the House of Vanyra, Nirali’s own ancestral name. Gasps rippled through the plaza. Nobles turned to each other, their faces pale, then looked up at the sky where the damning evidence scrolled. The Emperor, a portly man whose face was usually wreathed in a self-satisfied smile, stood agape, his florid complexion draining to an ashen grey. His empress clutched his arm, staring skyward in unmasked horror. This wasn’t just a scandal; it was an earthquake beneath the foundations of their power. The purity of the Sun-Spire, the very source of their divine right to rule, was built upon the suffering of dark-magic test subjects, financed by the family of their supposed savior. More pages flashed across the sky: signed orders for the capture of ‘undeclared dark-afflicted children,’ expenditure reports for ‘disposal of failed experiments,’ and a final, horrifying entry detailing the creation of a 'resonance amplifier' designed to extract the most potent dark magic from a living subject. The implications were clear. The Empire didn't just tolerate dark magic; it cultivated and abused it for its own prosperity, and Nirali’s family was at the heart of the atrocity. Nirali herself stood motionless for a long moment, her face a mask of disbelief and rage as her family’s crimes were broadcast to every citizen of Zir-Anun. Her eyes, once pools of saccharine innocence, blazed with a raw, desperate fury. She glanced at the Emperor, whose face was now a mask of political panic, then at the frozen crowd, then finally, venomously, at Tazha. There was no escape. No lie she could weave, no charm she could deploy. Her carefully constructed world had imploded. With a guttural scream that was more beast than human, Nirali ripped open the front of her ceremonial robe. Beneath it, strapped to her chest, were several vials of viscous, pulsing black liquid. Without hesitation, she snatched one, biting off the stopper with her teeth. The vile contents sloshed into her mouth, followed by another, and another. Her body began to convulse violently, her limbs twisting into grotesque angles. Dark, pulsating veins erupted across her skin, shining with an unnatural, sickly luminescence. Her elegant features warped, her eyes bulging, her mouth stretching into a rictus of pain and savage glee. Her fingers elongated into sharp, black talons, tearing at the remains of her robe. A monstrous, inhuman growl tore from her throat as her spine cracked and reshaped, her height increasing, her frame thickening. The crowd screamed, a raw, terrified sound. The royal guards finally reacted, raising their shields and spears, but they were too late. Nirali, no longer the delicate princess, but a hulking, mutated nightmare of muscle and raw dark magic, burst forward. Her path was a blur of black and purple, streaking straight toward Tazha. Her intention was clear: obliterate the woman who had ruined everything. Vazmir tensed, a low growl rumbling in his chest, ready to intercept, but Tazha held up a hand. The mutated Nirali-beast launched itself into the air, its talons extended, aiming for Tazha’s throat. Hot, unrefined dark magic rolled across the stones, suffocating Tazha under a sulfurous mire like wet tar. As the beast descended, Tazha saw it. Not with her eyes, but with something deeper, something attuned to the fabric of fate itself. A line of glowing text shimmered into being, in her mind’s eye, pulsating with an almost impatient certainty. [Command the Weapon.]

Exposing the Saint