The world did not roar when fate claimed Malvane.
It whispered.
The quiet sound of something ancient acknowledging that a decision had been made and could no longer be undone.
Malvane knelt on the ruined cathedral floor, breath breaking in ragged gasps as if his lungs couldn't remember how to function. His robes were torn. His pride shattered. His divine authority stripped away.
Part of him still believed this was temporary.
That surely, surely, the universe would not allow him to fall so far.
"I can repent," he croaked. "I can rebuild. I can still lead—"
"No," Inkaris replied softly. "And you never will again."
He raised a hand.
Not to strike. Not to smite. To declare.
"I grant the wish."
The universe accepted.
---
Malvane screamed.
Not from pain.
From rewriting.
His flesh darkened from the veins outward, diseased shadows branching beneath his skin. His fingers stretched, twisting into blackened claw-shapes. Bones creaked. Skin rippled. Small, jagged horns forced their way beneath his scalp—
—and stopped halfway.
Incomplete.
Denied.
His voice fractured into a warped echo of itself. His pupils flared ember-orange, then dimmed into a dying glow. Black marbled corruption stained his throat and jaw, branding him with permanent blasphemy.
Not mortal.
Not demon.
Something between.
Something unwanted.
The clergy recoiled in horror. The faithful cried—not in pity, but in betrayal. Several whispered the term as if afraid saying it too loud would summon worse things.
"The… Fallen…"
It wasn't a legend anymore.
It was standing in front of them.
Breathing.
Sobbing.
Ruined.
---
Inkaris' voice carried, calm and absolute.
"There are very few punishments both Heaven and Hell agree upon," he stated. "Only crimes against faith itself receive this judgment."
He looked down at Malvane with neither cruelty nor kindness.
"You are now one of The Fallen."
Malvane clutched his chest desperately.
And froze.
He waited for comfort. For warmth. For the faint glow of prayer.
Nothing came.
That was when true terror appeared in his eyes.
Inkaris continued.
"You will never feel faith again."
Gasps.
"You will never feel devotion. Never feel grace. Never feel comfort from belief, nor hope from prayer. The warmth you stole from others is gone. The strength you siphoned from worshipers is gone. The gods will never hear you. Even Hell refuses you power."
Malvane shook violently. He looked like a man drowning with nothing to cling to.
"You are locked out of Heaven's light," Inkaris said softly. "And barred from Hell's embrace. The faithful will recoil. Holy ground will burn you. Churches will never shelter you."
He paused only a heartbeat.
"And your Church will never let you disappear."
The priests flinched.
"You will be a living stain on doctrine. A breathing warning. They will hunt you when convenient. Parade you when useful. Exile you when necessary. And forget you when bored."
Malvane broke.
He collapsed fully, clawed hands scraping the stone uselessly.
"PLEASE! I'M STILL—!"
"A man?" Inkaris asked gently. His eyes hardened.
"No. You chose to stop being that long ago."
---
Power did not rush into Malvane.
Burden did.
He felt every crack he placed in every soul. Every life bent beneath his "miracles." Every whispered doubt he exploited.
He would feel it…
forever.
He would live.
He would age.
Slowly.
He would die old.
Alone.
Unloved.
Unforgiven.
And even then, the universe had one final cruelty saved for later.
---
Liora stood frozen. Her angel blood screamed… then quieted.
It recognized judgment. It recognized correction.
And it approved.
---
Seris did not cry.
Someone needed to see. Someone needed to remember.
Someone needed to make sure this never repeated.
---
Aiden could barely breathe.
He remembered Ardent once saying:
> "Demonic wish granting is not punishment.
It is the universe saying:
'This is your truth now. Live with it.'"
Aiden understood.
He wished he didn't.
---
And above, unseen by almost all, Caelum watched.
Amused?
Yes.
Satisfied?
Perhaps.
This one had clawed desperately toward godhood and found out divinity did not appreciate uninvited guests. The result was poetic in its brutality.
Still… his attention shifted.
To Liora.
Angel-blood. Stained with humanity. Wrapped in compassion and steel. Flawed and luminous all at once.
He tilted his head.
Fascinating.
He would not pry.
Not yet.
But curiosity lodged itself in him like a splinter.
He smiled faintly and murmured to the world and any power that might be listening:
"When he finally dies… the Hells will welcome this sinner as their most favorite victim."
Not mercy.
Not comfort.
Just certainty.
And Hell would be delighted.
---
Back below, Inkaris straightened.
"The city is stabilized," he said. "Faith repaired. Leadership crisis… resolved."
He turned to Aiden. Voice gentler now.
"Lesson."
He gestured toward Malvane:
partially demonic,
powerless,
faithless,
hunted,
condemned to live.
"Wishes are not kindness.
Wishes are not cruelty."
He touched his chest.
"They are truth, made permanent."
And sometimes truth is the cruelest weapon in existence.
---
Malvane did not die.
He would walk the earth.
He would be feared.
Hated.
Used.
And eventually…
He would be dragged screaming into Hell—
where suffering wasn't justice.
It was entertainment.
Exactly what he tried to make faith into.
Now staring back at him.
Forever.
---