The Twice-blessed Paladin

The city of Gildan's Reach is at war with itself.

For days, the city guards have arrested nobles, merchants, and priests suspected of cult ties. The Lord-Governor holds emergency trials, sending conspirators to the gallows.

But Aldric knows this isn't over.

The cult has lost its hold on the city, but it has not been destroyed.

And a wounded enemy is always at its most dangerous.

They will strike back soon.

And when they do, Aldric will be waiting.

Lord Adrien Falkencrest is no fool.

He has spent his fortune funding the fight against the cult. He has used his influence to turn the nobility against them.

And now, he knows they will come for him.

Which is why he has summoned Aldric.

Seated in his lavish study, Falkencrest eyes Aldric from across his desk, fingers tapping against polished oak. His usual commanding presence is marred by unease.

"You have fought them before," Falkencrest says.

Aldric nods.

"You've seen their strength," the noble continues. "You understand the kind of threat they pose. That is why I requested your presence."

Aldric does not speak. He waits.

Falkencrest leans forward, voice lowering.

"They will retaliate," he murmurs. "They cannot afford not to. And I am one of their greatest obstacles."

Aldric studies him carefully.

"You believe they will send assassins?"

Falkencrest nods grimly. "Not just any assassins. Their best."

A pause.

Then, Falkencrest exhales, looking Aldric directly in the eye.

"I do not trust my guards to stop them. I want you as my protector, at least for tonight."

Aldric considers this.

If the cult moves against Falkencrest, they will reveal their hand.

That is a chance Aldric cannot pass up.

He nods. "Then I will stand watch."

Falkencrest exhales in relief.

Aldric, however, feels no such thing.

He knows this is not over.

Far beneath the city, a gathering of shadows stirs.

The air is thick with incense, heavy with whispers.

At the center of the chamber, a cult priest speaks.

"The city moves against us," he murmurs. "They believe they have won."

A long silence follows.

Then a voice, colder than the void, speaks.

"But they have not destroyed us."

Another priest steps forward.

"They hunt our kind like beasts. The Lord-Governor sends his soldiers. The nobles fund their war. We must respond."

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

Then, the eldest among them speaks.

"Not with open war," he says. "Not yet."

He raises a single hand.

"We will send the shadows."

Hours pass. The Falkencrest estate is eerily silent.

Aldric stands outside the noble's study, unmoving, senses sharpened.

Then—a shift in the air.

He feels it before he hears it.

A whisper of movement.

Then—a strangled gasp from inside the study.

Aldric bursts through the door.

He sees the assassin first.

A shadow, clad in dark robes, dagger raised.

Then he sees Falkencrest, collapsed over his desk, the black dagger buried in his chest.

Aldric lunges.

The assassin twists away, unnaturally fast.

But Aldric was expecting this.

The assassin strikes from the darkness, faster than any human should be.

Aldric dodges the first attack, twisting his body unnaturally as the blade slices past his ribs.

The assassin hesitates.

A fraction of a second.

And that is a second too long.

Aldric swings his greatsword in a brutal arc.

The assassin **dodges—**but not fast enough. The blade grazes their side, black ichor spilling from the wound.

The assassin staggers, clutching at their side. Their form begins to shift—twisting, pulsing with unnatural corruption.

Aldric's eyes narrow.

The Unseen Father's influence.

The assassin lunges again—one final desperate strike.

Aldric meets it head-on.

His sword pierces their chest, driving them back. They choke, body spasming, before collapsing at his feet.

The study falls silent.

The assassin is dead.

But so is Falkencrest.

Aldric turns to the noble's body.

And that's when he feels it.

The pull.

Aldric kneels beside Falkencrest, pressing a hand over his chest.

Power surges through him—golden light intertwined with black tendrils.

Falkencrest's body shudders violently.

His eyes snap open—alive once more.

He gasps, clutching at his chest. "I… I was dead."

"You were," Aldric says simply. "Not anymore."

Falkencrest shudders. His hand trembles as he touches his chest, finding no wound.

Then, as if compelled by something beyond himself, he drops to one knee.

His voice shakes.

"My life is yours," he breathes. "By your will, I live again. And by your will, I will serve."

Aldric studies him.

The power of his gods is absolute.

Those he returns to life are bound to him—body, mind, and soul.

"You will fund my war against the cult," Aldric commands. "Your wealth, your influence, your power. All of it will serve the will of the Radiant Dawn and the Veiled Reaper."

Falkencrest bows his head. "As you command, my lord."

Aldric turns to the assassin's lifeless body.

Another pull.

Another choice.

He kneels, pressing his hand over the corpse.

This time, something fights back.

Tendrils of corruption writhe and lash out—the Unseen Father's last hold over this soul.

Aldric snarls.

His divine power flares, light and darkness intertwining.

The corruption shrieks, recoiling, breaking apart.

The assassin's body shudders.

Then… they breathe.

Aldric steps back as the assassin slowly sits up.

Their once-twisted form is restored.

A woman.

She gasps, blinking.

"I… I don't remember," she murmurs.

Aldric watches her carefully. "Remember what?"

"Anything."

She hesitates.

"I don't have a name."

Aldric considers.

Then speaks.

"Then from this day forward, you are Zira Noctura."

The reborn assassin lowers her gaze, accepting her new identity.

Then, like Falkencrest before her, she kneels.

Her voice is soft but unwavering.

"I am yours, my lord. Command me."

Aldric watches them both.

The noble, his servant in the light.

The assassin, his blade in the dark.

The cult had sent a killer.

And now, that same blade belonged to Aldric.

The war was not over.

But Aldric was now stronger than ever.