Imporium
Stinky Spanish
[Theme]
The shack groaned in the wind, its warped walls shivering as the storm outside raged. Wilhelm knelt in the center of the room, the damp, rotting floorboards digging into his knees. His armor lay discarded in a corner, its sheen dulled by grime and rust, much like the man who had once worn it proudly. A single candle flickered on the makeshift altar before him, its flame swaying with each gust that slipped through the cracks in the wooden planks.
He held his prayer beads in trembling hands, their smooth surface worn by countless pleas to Alder. Tonight, though, the words felt hollow, his voice cracking under the weight of his sin.
“Alder… hear me.” he whispered, his tone raw and broken. His head bowed low, hair damp from the rain that had soaked him on the way here. He tightened his grip on the beads, his knuckles whitening as if the pressure alone could force an answer from the divine.
The memories came unbidden. His father’s face, stern and unyielding, twisted with disappointment as Wilhelm’s betrayal was revealed. The shame burned anew in his chest, hot and suffocating. He had been sent here, to the forsaken edges of Veronia, not as penance but as punishment. The shadow of the Mortius Cult Abbey loomed on the horizon, a constant reminder of the darkness he was expected to confront.
And now, this duel.
Sy’dra, Princess of Luminion, would stand before him again. She was proud, fierce, and unyielding, and Wilhelm had already bested her once. The thought of striking her down again, before her father and her people, twisted his stomach. He clenched his teeth, inhaling sharply as the image of her face flashed before him.
Yet there was his own father. The Kaiser, who would be watching, judging. Wilhelm imagined the unspoken expectation in his father’s gaze, the demand for victory, for redemption. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. His failure before could be forgiven with triumph now, but at what cost?
“What would Salvor do?” he muttered, his voice thick with anguish. His hands fell to his sides, the beads slipping from his grasp and scattering across the floor. The name of the Sentinel of War and Honor felt both a comfort and a curse. Salvor, the unyielding, the just. A figure of strength and principle, a paragon Wilhelm had aspired to emulate. Yet now, as doubt gnawed at him, Salvor felt impossibly distant.
He lifted his gaze to the candle’s flickering flame, its light barely cutting through the gloom. “Am I so far gone?” he asked, his voice rising with desperation. “Have I strayed so far from the path that even you, Salvor, would turn away?”
The wind howled through the shack, rattling the walls. Wilhelm slammed his fist into the floorboards, the sharp crack reverberating in the silence that followed. Pain flared in his hand, grounding him, anchoring him against the storm within.
“Sy’dra.” he muttered, her name a whisper in the dark. “Do I strike her down to save my honor, or let her triumph to spare hers?” His voice broke, echoing in the empty room.
The storm outside began to wane, the rain softening into a steady patter. Wilhelm sat back on his heels, chest heaving, as he stared at the hilt of his sword lying beside the altar. It gleamed faintly in the candlelight, a reminder of the choices ahead.
He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “Alder, I do not seek glory. I do not seek vengeance. I seek only the right path.”
Rising slowly, Wilhelm slipped his sword into its sheath. The weight of it felt heavier than ever, yet his steps were steady as he moved toward the door. The storm clouds were breaking, faint rays of dawn piercing through the gloom. He hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the altar. The candle flickered once more before extinguishing itself, leaving the room in shadow.
Ahead, the Mortius Cult Abbey waited. Beyond that, the duel, the gaze of his father, the eyes of the Elves—judgment from all sides. But for now, Wilhelm stepped into the rain-soaked morning, alone with his thoughts, the silent Sentinel his only guide.