The sky tore itself open as white-blue fire split the heavens. Rain fell in punishing sheets, a ceaseless deluge that hammered cliffs into trembling submission. The storm raged like a living deity, deaf and merciless. The cloaked figures gathered at the mountain’s summit were driven to their knees beneath its wrath, their hoods plastered to their skulls, robes snapping like torn standards.
All except one.
At the center of the tempest stood a single figure clad in white—untouched. The storm curved around them, slipping like water around stone. Not a drop clung to their garments, not a gust dared disturb their stillness. And yet none among the condemning circle seemed to notice; their eyes were fixed elsewhere, blinded by purpose—or by the comfort of their chosen truths.
The sinkhole before them yawned like an open maw, its darkness swallowing the flashes of lightning whole. Into this abyss, judgment would be cast.
A voice rose above the storm at last, strained and trembling under the weight of rain and wind.
“Holy Saint Sairael. You stand condemned. The crimes brought forth against you are grave—using your sacred station to oppress, to manipulate, to harm those under your care. You refused repentance when offered.”
Sairael lowered their gaze, calm and silent. The one who spoke wore the mantle of leadership, though his shaking hands betrayed him. Once, his face had been a familiar comfort. Now, it was a stranger’s mask.
He stepped aside, allowing two figures to stand clearly behind him—shadows to his judgment.
A young noblewoman, pale and trembling theatrically beneath the storm’s onslaught, leaned into the arms of the man beside her. Her sobs were lost beneath the rain, though her wide, glistening eyes were lifted often enough to ensure they were seen. Her beauty, fragile and perfectly disheveled by the tempest, was a mirror of another woman long dead—a resemblance whispered about by those familiar with the late first wife of Sairael’s father.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Her companion—the Saint’s former betrothed—held her with practiced steadiness. Rain streamed down his face in shining rivulets, lending him the look of a grieving martyr. His expression was carved from righteous sorrow, though something colder, sharper, lingered beneath the surface like a blade hidden behind prayer.
Together they looked every bit the pair of lovers united by suffering—two souls wronged, seeking justice beneath heaven’s fury.
Yet heaven did not seem to acknowledge them.
Only Sairael remained dry.
“The testimonies have been delivered,” the leader continued, forcing authority into a voice unfit for the storm. “The victims have spoken. Judgment has been given. For your cruelty and unrepentant heart, you are sentenced to exile in the Dark Abyss of Despair.”
Another sob broke from the young noblewoman. Her hand clutched weakly at her champion’s robe, as if recalling some fresh agony. The man’s jaw tightened a moment too long, eyes flickering with something that was not grief. But when he lowered his head toward her, the movement was slow, tender—almost rehearsed.
None questioned it.
Sairael did not look at them. Did not look at the betrothed who had once clung to their name, nor at the girl who had appeared so suddenly in their household, so quickly weaving tales of torment and malice. They simply turned, unshaken by the verdict, unclaimed by emotion.
The wind wailed. The cloaked figures staggered. The storm screamed for blood.
Sairael’s white robes barely stirred.
Without a word, without a backward glance, the Saint stepped forward and let their body fall into the waiting abyss.
The instant their form vanished into the darkness, the storm convulsed. Lightning thrashed like dying serpents, winds roared with feral hunger, and the mountains trembled beneath the weight of celestial fury.
The world itself seemed to recoil—as if heaven mourned the only soul it had chosen to spare, and in its grief wished to erase all memory of the act from the fabric of time.
