Weaver of Fate

Chapter 5: The Wrath of the Temple

The village was a graveyard of dreams, the once vibrant homes now blackened husks that coughed plumes of acrid smoke into the sullen sky. The villagers, their faces etched with the lines of sudden and profound grief, shuffled towards the imposing temple like mourners in a macabre procession. Anger, a raw and festering wound, simmered beneath the surface of their despair. They clutched their makeshift weapons— a farmer's pitchfork here, a blacksmith's hammer there—grim reminders of their helplessness against the unseen force that had ravaged them.

As they approached the temple, its polished facade seemed to gleam with an almost mocking piety. The heavy oak doors groaned open, revealing Father Malen, his eyes glinting with an unsettling coldness that belied the serene mask of his face. His voice, when he spoke, was a smooth, practiced oil slick.

"Welcome, my children," he intoned, the words dripping with false sympathy. "Though your hearts are heavy with loss, know that the divine hand guides all things."

A weathered woman named Elara, her face streaked with soot and tears, stepped forward, her voice trembling but resolute. "Divine hand, you say? Then why did the divine hand choose to take our loved ones in a fiery maw?"

Malen's smile faltered for a fleeting moment, and in that instant, a memory flickered through his mind—a time when he had been a mere novice, full of ideals and compassion, dreaming of helping the downtrodden. But those days were long gone. He had sacrificed his past beliefs for a greater cause, or so he told himself. The weight of his current actions pressed heavily on him, a stark contrast to the idealistic visions of his youth. He recovered quickly, his voice hardening. "The fire was a test, a trial of your faith. Have you wavered? Have you doubted the divine will?"

A murmur of dissent rippled through the crowd. A young woman named Anya, clutching a locket engraved with a family crest, spoke up, her voice barely a whisper. "But Father, isn't it strange that the fire only ravaged our homes, leaving the temple untouched?"

Anya's question hung heavy in the air. An older villager, Old Man Tomas, leaned on his staff, his voice raspy with suspicion. "Aye, and some villagers claim they saw unnatural lights in the sky the night of the fire."

Malen's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flickering within them. He glanced towards the imposing statue of the deity the temple worshipped, its hand outstretched in a gesture of supposed benevolence. Subtly, he channeled a sliver of magic, causing the statue's eyes to glow an ominous red for a brief moment. The magic was a potent reminder of the temple's dominance, a force that had become his tool for control, though its power often weighed heavily on his conscience.

"Blasphemy!" Malen boomed, his voice echoing off the temple walls. "The fire was a natural disaster, a tragedy sent to test your faith! Do you now question the very power that protects you?"

A burly blacksmith named Gregor, his face contorted with rage, pushed to the front. "Test? Trial? We lost our homes, our families, to flames that reeked of magic, not some divine test!"

Malen took a menacing step forward. "Magic, you say? Blasphemy! The fire was a natural disaster, a tragedy sent to test your faith!"

Gregor took a menacing step forward. "Don't play your word games with us, priest! We know the truth. We saw the unnatural flames, the way they danced and twisted..."

Before Gregor could finish, a blinding flash erupted from Malen's outstretched hand. A surge of raw energy crackled through the air, slamming into Gregor with a sickening thud. The burly blacksmith convulsed, screaming in a voice that was abruptly cut short. He crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

A collective gasp escaped the crowd. Fear, raw and primal, replaced the simmering anger. Elara, tears now streaming down her face, screamed at Malen, her voice laced with newfound terror. "What have you done?"

Malen's voice, though soft, held a chilling edge. "Silence, woman! I have shown what happens to those who question the divine will. Now, go back to your ashes and contemplate your transgressions."

The villagers recoiled, their makeshift weapons clattering to the ground. The anger had been extinguished, replaced by a suffocating terror. They turned, a broken and defeated mob, shuffling back towards their ruined lives. Alexander, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, watched in numb horror as Elara helped carry Gregor's lifeless body away.

**Back in the Temple**

In the quiet of his inner sanctum, Father Malen brooded over the day's events. The decision to burn down the barn had been a grave mistake. It was a desperate attempt to quell the villagers' resistance, but instead, it had only deepened their resolve and brought unwanted scrutiny. He could feel the weight of their suffering, and it gnawed at him, especially now that he was bound by the oppressive hierarchy of the temple.

Malen had hoped to control the situation, but he knew he could not hide this from his mentor. The temple was rife with spies and informants, and the mentor's influence extended beyond mere physical presence.

Malen moved to a secluded alcove within the temple, where a sacred ritual space was dimly illuminated by flickering candles. With a murmured incantation, he activated a divine channel, a mystical communication link to his mentor—a high-ranking and enigmatic figure within the temple. The channel, though mystical, was cold and devoid of warmth.

The air grew colder as Malen waited, the silence stretching taut before a voice resonated through the chamber. It was devoid of any emotion, a mechanical, distant tone that echoed with an unsettling clarity.

"So, you finally contact me when things are out of your hand," the voice intoned, flat and unyielding.

Malen's heart raced as he fell to his knees. "Master, I— I made a mistake. The villagers are more defiant than I anticipated. They are now more determined than ever, and I fear they might incite rebellion."

The voice remained impassive. "You have failed in your task. Your incompetence has put our plans at risk. What do you propose to rectify this?"

Desperation edged Malen's voice. "Please, Master. I am willing to do anything. I'll follow your orders without question. Just give me another chance. I will rectify this mistake."

The voice replied coldly. "Very well. You will brand yourself and become my follower—a servant who cannot defy me. Refuse, and I will execute you personally,hendce Your fate is sealed."

Malen's blood ran cold. He knew the power of his mentor was vast and feared the consequences of refusal. The prospect of losing his autonomy, once so fiercely cherished, was now a bitter reality. With a deep, resigned breath, he replied, "I accept. I will be your servant."

The voice responded with chilling finality. "Two beings will be sent to you. They will assist in your task. I will contact you again once they arrive."

As the divine channel closed, Malen was left alone in the dim light of his inner sanctum. The weight of his submission pressed heavily upon him. His freedom, once a cherished aspect of his life, was now slipping away. He brooded over the mentor's cryptic words about sending "two beings" instead of "two people." A flicker of unease gnawed at him. The term "beings" suggested something more sinister, perhaps monstrous or otherworldly, than mere humans.

Malen sank to his knees, a hollow feeling spreading through his chest. His life was no longer his own, and the path forward was shrouded in uncertainty and fear. The sacrifice of his autonomy was a bitter pill to swallow, but he had no choice but to comply. As he prepared for the arrival of his new enforcers, his thoughts turned to the enigmatic nature of his mentor's instructions, and the looming sense of dread that accompanied them.