Rhen

Veilrend 61: The Broken Command The voice came to Rhen in pieces, like a dream half-remembered, yet sharp enough to carve thought from bone. > “Burn the cradle. Sever the growth before it breathes.” He knew it was Ith’rael. Her words throbbed inside his skull, each syllable leaving trails of light that pulsed beneath his skin. The Nursery waited beyond the ruined archways, a cathedral of flesh and song where Vaeroth’s children whispered to the dark. Rhen moved through the wet corridors, every step sinking into the living ground. Faces stretched across the walls, some familiar, some newly formed, and they watched. The air shimmered, humming with distant laughter, the melody of a god half-born. He tried not to think of the others, of Sareth, whose faith had cracked like glass; Lura, whose eyes had become mirrors; Oren, who still prayed to a dead sun; Mirae, who smiled through the pain because she refused to let go. He envied them all. At least they believed in something. Rhen reached the heart of the Nursery. A colossal sac pulsed there, cradling hundreds of translucent shapes, embryonic horrors, their mouths already mouthing Vaeroth’s name. He felt Ith’rael’s will pour through him, freezing his hesitation. > “Now, my fractured blade. Do what your soul cannot.” He plunged his weapon, a shard of mirrored bone, into the sac. Light exploded. Screams erupted from within, not from throats but from minds. Rhen’s reflection split across every surface, each version of himself burning differently — one laughing, one weeping, one begging for it to stop. The Nursery began to collapse, its children dissolving into a chorus of agony. He turned to leave, but felt something see him through the fire, an immense, unseen gaze pressing into his heart. Vaeroth’s attention. And for the first time, Rhen felt the wrath of a god.