Caelum woke before dawn.
The city was quiet, almost reverent—like something larger than history was moving through its bones. He sat at the edge of his bed, wrists aching from nights spent drafting doctrine that shaped nations. The Whisper Parliament no longer met in secrecy. Their influence stretched into syllabi, protest poetry, legislation. The myth of Caelum Dross had become a language. But the fire behind it stirred.
She arrived through the window.
Not as flame.
As a reflection.
The devil stepped out of the mirror, wearing the face of someone Caelum once loved. The cruel elegance of choice. Her eyes glowed faintly, not with power—but hunger.
"Your ascent is beautiful," she said, voice like ice melting over ink. "But payment is due."
Caelum stood. "I gave you my soul."
She smiled. "I want something else now."
"There is a city. South of here. Built on promise and resilience. They have risen too quickly. Too purely. I want it undone."
Caelum's jaw tightened. "They believe in justice."
"Precisely why they threaten yours."
He paced. Thought. Calculated. His algorithms had warned of the city's influence—how its values countered the Quiet Creed, how its youth resisted the myth. But this was more than strategy.
This was sacrifice.
"Burn them," she said. "In truth. In story. In memory."
Caelum whispered, "They haven't done anything wrong."
"Wrong is irrelevant. They didn't worship you. That makes them dangerous."
She turned toward the mirror again, fading.
"One week."
And she was gone.
Caelum stood alone. The city outside flickered with early light.
Inside, he felt something splinter.
Not his soul.
His certainty.