Interlude Eight - The Saint and the City

The hot wind pulled at Saint Alduin's crimson cloak like desperate fingers. However, he remained perfectly still in the air above the Arena of Aroden, his violet eyes scanning the devastation below with the patient satisfaction of an artist reviewing his masterwork. The afternoon sun blazed overhead, turning the scorched sands to molten copper. In that harsh light, the sundered carcass of the Apostle of Kyuss looked less like a fallen harbinger and more like discarded offal. Which, Alduin reflected, was precisely what such corruption deserved. Black ichor had pooled where the creature's torso had split like a shipwrecked hull, already baking to tar in the heat, and fragments of its chitinous armored hide lay scattered across the arena floor.   He descended slowly, boots touching down on a section of sand and marble that had somehow survived the battle intact. The impact sent a small cloud of ash billowing outward, all that remained of the ghouls who had swarmed these terraces just minutes before. Their destruction had been thorough, absolute. Not even bones remained to mark where they had stood, only this fine gray powder that the wind was already beginning to scatter. The wraiths had left even less behind; when his divine light had touched them, they had simply ceased, unraveling like poorly woven cloth until even their screams had dissolved into nothing.   Good. Clean. Necessary.   Alduin walked the perimeter of the arena, his armored footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness. The stone seats rose in concentric circles around him, most shattered now, great chunks of marble lying where they had fallen during the Apostle's death throes. He counted seventeen breaches in the arena wall where the creature's tentacles had torn through solid stone. Each gap would need to be repaired, of course, but not merely patched. Transformed. He would ensure the reconstruction told the proper story.   "The rot is gone," he murmured, and though he spoke to no one, his voice carried the measured cadence of public address. Even alone, even with only corpses and ruins for an audience, he could not resist the performance. "I have purified this place."   The words tasted sweet on his tongue, each syllable weighted with certainty. Purification was such a perfect word for what he had done. It elevated destruction into virtue, transformed violence into medicine. The citizens of Tymon would understand, once they returned. They always understood, eventually. He would help them understand.   He paused at the center of the arena where the sand was blackest, where the Apostle's putrid blood had soaked deepest. The contamination ran through the very foundations here; he could feel it like a splinter beneath skin, an irritation that demanded extraction. Physical destruction alone would not suffice. The memory of corruption lingered in places like this, seeping into stone and soil until even centuries later, sensitive souls could feel the wrongness. No, this required something more thorough. Something divine.   Something witnessed.   Alduin glanced toward the arena's highest tier, where a handful of figures had begun to gather. Survivors creeping back to survey the damage, perhaps, or simply the curious drawn by the silence that follows catastrophe. Perfect. An audience, however small, would serve his purposes. They would carry the story forward, each retelling slightly grander than the last, until by week's end, all of Tymon would know how Saint Alduin had saved them.   He extended his hand, fingers splayed toward the ruined sand, and summoned the fire from the Red Wyrmstone embedded in his armored breastplate.   It came instantly, eagerly, as if it had been waiting for permission to emerge. Tynathria's celestial fire - not the crude orange flames of mortal pyromancy but something purer, whiter, edged with threads of crimson and violet that hurt to perceive directly. It poured from the wyrmstone into his hands in a controlled torrent, then spread across the arena floor like water finding its level. Where it touched the Apostle's remains, the flesh didn't burn so much as cease, deleted from existence with surgical precision. The black blood evaporated without smoke, without smell, leaving only sterile stone beneath.   The fire spread outward in perfect concentric rings, climbing the terraces, flowing through the breaches in the walls. It looked almost gentle, the way it moved, like morning light creeping across a bedroom floor. But Alduin knew better. He felt its hunger through their connection, felt how it wanted to consume everything, to spread beyond the arena and cleanse the entire city, the entire continent, until nothing remained but ash and his own shining will. He held it back with practiced ease, limiting its reach to precisely what he intended. Control was everything. Power without control was merely chaos, and chaos was just another form of rot.   The spectators on the high tier shielded their eyes, some falling to their knees. Good. Let them kneel. Let them understand what they witnessed. Not just power but power contained, directed, wielded with the precision of a surgeon's blade. Any fool could destroy. Only the divine could destroy with such perfect discrimination.   As the fire completed its circuit and began to fade, Alduin allowed himself to envision what would come next. Already, in his mind's eye, he could see a statue rising from this very spot where he stood. Not just any statue but a colossus, forty feet of pristine marble capturing him in this exact moment: hand extended, celestial fire frozen mid-pour, his face set in an expression of benevolent determination. The inscription at its base would read: "He Purified." No name necessary. Everyone would know.   The statue would stand at the arena's heart, visible from every seat, impossible to ignore. Gladiators competing in future games would fight in its shadow, would understand that their petty victories meant nothing compared to his. Children would be brought here to learn what true heroism looked like. Pilgrims would travel from distant lands just to stand where he had stood, to touch the stone that his fire had blessed.   "This city must have a heart," he declared, his voice carrying easily to the watchers above. He spread his arms wide, encompassing the entire arena in his gesture. "For too long, Tymon has defined itself by blood sport and base entertainment. But today, something greater has been born here. Today, salvation came to this place, and it shall not be forgotten."   One of the spectators, a young woman with soot-streaked cheeks, began to applaud. The sound was thin in the vast space, almost pathetic, but others joined her. Soon, two dozen survivors were clapping, their faces reflecting that mixture of awe and fear that Alduin had come to recognize as the beginning of proper worship.   He let them continue for exactly twelve seconds before raising his hand for silence. Too long, and it would seem he craved their approval. Too short, and they might think their praise unwelcome. Twelve seconds struck the perfect balance between gracious acceptance of their gratitude and clear superiority.   "Return to your homes," he commanded, his tone shifting to paternal warmth. "Tell your families they are safe. Tell your neighbors the threat has passed. And tell your leaders that Saint Alduin requires an audience before sunset. There is much work to be done."   They scattered immediately, eager to carry out his will, to be part of the story they would tell for the rest of their lives. Alduin watched them go with satisfaction sharp as a blade in his chest. This was how it began. How it always began. First, the crisis; then, the salvation; then, the monument to ensure the salvation was never forgotten. He had perfected the formula over years of practice.   But Tymon would be different. Here, he would not stop at a single statue. As he rose into the air again, his cloak catching the wind like wings, he could see it all spreading before him. Not just this city, but all of Lastwall, then Almas with its democratic pretensions, then mighty Absalom itself. Each city would receive its monument, each more grand than the last, until the entire continent bore witness to his glory. They would have no choice but to see him, to acknowledge him, to understand that their small lives gained meaning only in relation to his great work.   The burning gold in his eyes intensified as he imagined a hundred, a thousand, each statue perfectly capturing a moment of his triumph. Future generations would walk among them and wonder how one man could be so perfect, so powerful, so necessary. They would tell their children stories of Saint Alduin, and those children would tell their children, until his name became synonymous with salvation itself.   He had saved them. He would continue to save them. And in return, they would give him the only thing that truly mattered: their endless, absolute, unwavering recognition that he was exactly what he knew himself to be. He was the chosen one, the necessary one, the savior without whom they were nothing but meat awaiting the next monster's jaws.   The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and rust. Alduin turned his face toward it, letting its light catch on his perfect features, knowing that even now, someone below was watching, someone was remembering, someone was already composing the songs they would sing about this day.   The rot was gone. He had purified this place.   And this was only the beginning.