NOVEL NEXT Chapter 31: Scales of Faith
Rain hammered against the charred stones of Camelot, each droplet a staccato note in a grand, ruinous symphony. Where golden spires had once reigned, blackened rubble now sprawled across the courtyard, steam curling from scorched remnants of a legacy undone. The storm brought cleansing, or so it often did—washing away ash, splintered timber, and every last vestige of what had stood mere hours before, as though trying to rinse from memory the fury Excalibur had unleashed.
Bishop Fai pressed forward, posture stiff with both pain and pride, weaving a slow path through fallen masonry. She felt the previous night's battle in every step: aches along her calves, a bristle of bruises across her arms, and a persistent sting beneath the battered metal of her gauntlets. Where her armor once gleamed with the Church's emblem, it was now warped by arcane blasts—soot-black and half-melted in places. Even the embroidered crest—the symbol of unwavering faith—was nearly unrecognizable, a battered silhouette mocking the fervor she had poured into the fight.
Raindrops hissed against twisted iron, sending curls of steam spiraling skyward. Each exhalation carried an unspoken question—one she had never dared entertain: Had the Church been wrong? The notion felt bitter as gall. She had dedicated her life to the Pope's edicts, to a sacred mission she once believed infallible. Yet, standing here amid these ashes—destruction wrought by none other than Albion Pendragon—she found herself questioning the very core of holy authority.
Without conscious thought, she reached for the shaft of her Qiang, though she did not raise it. Simply resting her palm upon the polished wood brought a flicker of reassurance—a reminder of who she was and the disciplined path that had shaped her. Once, that small gesture and a murmured prayer would have renewed her resolve. But now, her mind replayed Albion's defiant stance, Excalibur blazing with a radiance not evil but profoundly pure, driven by a fierce desire to protect Winston and Adelaide.
As she reflected, the courtyard around her seemed to shift from a mere battlefield into a stage for existential turmoil. Smoke clung to every collapsed archway, revealing the broken spires of Camelot in jagged silhouette. The air tasted of burnt limestone and the faint tang of iron-laced blood, weaving a tapestry of sorrow in the dim light. Her stomach twisted at the memory of how effortlessly Albion commanded Excalibur—like an ancient vow older than any Church decree, answering a deeply human will.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. With a startled pivot, she grasped her Qiang in earnest but held her ground when she recognized the intruder. At the courtyard's ragged edge stood Taliesin, robes immaculate despite the soot-laden air. Raindrops seemed to part around him, leaving him eerily untouched. His silver hair shone under the roiling sky, each strand in place while the rest of the world lay in ruin.
"You're bleeding," he noted, voice calm, as though the devastation were no more than a mild inconvenience.
"Not enough," Bishop Fai replied, exhaustion roughening her words. She dragged her gauntlet across her cheek, only smearing the ash and blood further.
Something about Taliesin's presence always unsettled her. He was a scholar with allegiances she could never parse, a man whose fascination with power often eclipsed moral lines. "And yet," he said, stepping deftly around a charred beam, "you remain upright, Bishop Fai. I salute your resilience."
She grimaced. "Spare me the compliments. Speak plainly."
He offered a shallow bow, as one might to a weary noble. "Very well. You confronted Albion once more?"
"I did," she answered curtly, the image of Excalibur's devastating brilliance clear in her mind. "He's grown since last we clashed. Stronger. More resolved. Dangerous," she added coldly, "though not for the reasons the Church preaches."
Taliesin's lips curved—a sliver of intrigue, perhaps. "Ah, so the boy-king wields more than a fabled blade. He may wield a righteous purpose."
"He wields something real," Bishop Fai shot back, her tone laced with bitterness. "It sets him apart from the hollow sermons we proclaim in the city. The faithful might not see it yet, but they will soon, if they haven't already."
His features turned thoughtful, gaze drifting across the fallen statues and the shattered remnants of stained glass shining like fallen stars on the flooded stones. "To believe in Albion is to destabilize the established order," he said softly. "A formidable gamble—unless it's necessary."
"Or inevitable," she found herself saying, surprising even her own ears. The mere suggestion that the Church's decrees might be wrong set her pulse racing. "Do you revel in this chaos? Did you feed Queen Morgan selective truths, pushing her to corner Adelaide and Winston in the first place?"
A flicker of exasperation slipped through his composure. "I cautioned Her Majesty against underestimating the Pendragon line. She, however, dreamed of controlling prophecy outright. You, of all people, must know how easily faith mutates into fanaticism."
Bishop Fai's grip on her Qiang tightened, knuckles whitening. "And your role in that? I know you gave Adelaide the chance to reach the Tome of the Rift. I know you see all and reveal nothing. Don't lie."
General Mako's drunken recounting of the Tome incident, passed through Archbishop Sebastian's dry disapproval, had left her with just enough to hate Taliesin properly.
"I don't lie," Taliesin responded, voice low. "Omissions, occasionally. Misjudgments, certainly. But never outright falsehoods. Underestimating Adelaide was the fault of many, including me. We believed we had more time to contain her. We were wrong."
A bitter laugh rattled from Bishop Fai's throat. "Time is an illusion during war. Winston is loose, Adelaide is free, and Albion is no longer the uncertain dreamer he was. He's found cause. The people sense it. They already whisper of Excalibur's resonance with his heartbeat. Faith in him grows daily, while our fortress stands in ruins. All we've done is reveal our cracks."
Taliesin glanced at the sky, blinking away droplets that shimmered like quicksilver in his lashes. "Faith is a double-edged threat. If the masses rally too soon, chaos might engulf Avalon. He's not yet ready for a throne."
She took a step forward. "You fear him."
"I fear the chaos that arises when he's crowned," Taliesin replied, voice barely above the storm's drone. "But I also fear the dogmatic stagnation of the Church, which stifles progress. Albion stands at the crossroads. Those who follow him could rewrite destiny—for salvation or ruin."
"That's enough," Bishop Fai snapped, retreating a pace to retain her composure. A deep weariness weighed on her—weariness of command structures that seemed blind, of zealots labeling all complexity as heresy, and of watching innocents suffer for edicts they barely understood. "I won't be a pawn for your philosophical riddles. I may serve the Church but am no longer blind to its failures."
"Then what will you do?" Taliesin asked, studying her closely. Not far off, twisted metal clanged as city guards continued sifting through rubble, perhaps searching for any remnant of Excalibur's storm.
She swallowed. "I'm going after Albion Pendragon. Not to do the Pope's bidding, nor to champion him blindly. I need to see firsthand whether his cause is truth or calamity."
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Taliesin cocked his head, an air of reluctant admiration in his eyes. "A noble quest, if a perilous one. Truth demands sacrifice, Bishop Fai. You may find its cost greater than you imagine."
She exhaled, ignoring her body's aches. "So be it."
High above, thunder boomed. The storm felt as though it held its breath, caught between one heartbeat and the next. Camelot's splintered stones seemed to groan en masse, lamenting the part each had played in upholding what was once deemed an infallible seat of authority.
Taliesin flicked his gaze to a toppled statue—a robed archbishop, once majestic, now decapitated by the very force that nearly claimed Camelot. "Look around," he said, voice tinged with a strange regret. "This is the realm we built, and the ruin we permitted. The Church alone didn't bring Camelot low—human ambition, fear, and rival faiths all collided."
She wanted to lash out, to blame Morgan, or even to resent the unstoppable power Albion had wielded, but her mind wouldn't settle on a single culprit. Instead, she faced the archbishop's fragmented likeness, pained by the notion that none of them were ever truly in control.
Taliesin turned to leave, boots tapping softly on drenched stone. "If you do find Albion," he called, "remember that one man's savior is another's usurper. Avalon's lore brims with dethroned would-be kings. Excalibur belongs to Avalon alone, not to any single hand."
Her jaw set. "I'll remember."
He vanished into the rain and swirling smoke, leaving Bishop Fai standing amid rubble and rising steam. She lingered, letting the downpour trace paths along her armor and drip beneath her collar. Above, Camelot's ancient bells started to ring—faltering, uncertain, as if they too questioned which realm they served.
She closed her eyes, recalling the awe she once felt upon first beholding Camelot's grandeur. She had been a mere recruit then, giddy with the promise of upholding divine order. But illusions had chipped away with every battle, every hollow sermon that served politics more than righteousness, culminating in tonight's cataclysm.
Now, amid literal fractures in Camelot's foundations and the inescapable sense that her own faith contributed to the realm's downfall, she felt regret pierce deeper than any wound.
Yet regret couldn't guide her forward. She steadied her breath, heart pounding. Albion, Adelaide, Winston—no longer mere names in the Church's hitlist, but living souls defying easy judgment. She had glimpsed Winston's unyielding loyalty, Adelaide's cunning, and the raw benevolence in Albion's unstoppable fury.
A shift in the rubble caught her attention. A young guard—his arm bound in a makeshift sling—stumbled into view, eyes widening as he recognized her. "Bishop Fai, you're alive!" he cried, relief painting his grime-streaked face.
"Barely," she murmured. "Check the eastern spire. It was collapsing last I saw. People may be trapped."
He nodded hesitantly. "But His Holiness gave orders—"
"Forget them," she said, voice sharper than she intended. Then, quieter: "Look for survivors. That's your priority."
Uncertainty flickered in his gaze, but he saluted and hurried off, shouting for others to join him. Bishop Fai watched him disappear, acutely aware that the Church's normal chain of command lay in tatters. Many believed the Pope's words absolute; others began to question, unsettled by the ruin they witnessed.
Scanning the courtyard, she took note of flickering embers and shattered relics half-buried in the mud—chaotic debris representing the Church's once-unchallenged dominion. The ruin might have been total, if not for the people's lingering hope, however fractured.
She forced her steps toward a half-collapsed archway. Each movement stabbed pain through her bruised muscles, yet a flicker of determination kept her upright. Flashes of recollection tore at her thoughts: the Pope's fervent decrees to capture Adelaide, Queen Morgan's chilling gaze when defied, Winston's stern kindness in old rumors, and Excalibur's raw, pulsing aura when clutched by Albion. If that ancient blade recognized him, how could she reconcile the Church's condemnation with destiny's call?
A stiff wind swept through, whipping scraps of parchment across her boots—holy texts rendered illegible by fire and rain. Her eyes fell on one singed fragment, once part of a sermon. Its words were half-lost but read, Duty is the shield… She recalled the vow hammered into every knight, yet she could no longer ignore how easily blind obedience served destructive ends.
At length, she found her way through Camelot's labyrinth of corridors to another courtyard. It was smaller, once used for quiet reflection, now battered by collapsed walls and open to the storm. She paused by an upturned bench carved with the Church's insignia, remembering how many times she had knelt in such places, seeking comfort in doctrine. Tonight, she felt only a final severance from naive trust.
Where had it all gone wrong? If the Church were truly divinely guided, would it sanction such devastation? If it had lost its moral compass, how was she to find hers?
Steeling herself with a long breath, she ventured onward. Rain battered her face, mingling with the ashes clinging to her cheeks. Her gaze lifted to a distant slice of horizon where it seemed dawn might pry open the darkness. Yet the storm above refused to yield, and she wondered if that pale glow promised real daylight or merely another prelude to war.
Spotting a cluster of townsfolk near a collapsed tower, she slowed. They cowered, faces etched with panic and disbelief. One called out, voice wavering, asking if Camelot's rule was finished or if the rumored Pendragon had seized control. She could offer no certain answer, only a quiet urging to help the injured.
She continued past them, feeling guilt gnaw at her conscience. She was meant to be their guardian, but how could she defend them when her own faith lay shattered?
At last, she reentered the principal courtyard where she and Taliesin had spoken. The storm's might had lessened, but lightning occasionally split the clouds, revealing the full scale of devastation. She recalled the quicksilver swirl of Excalibur's power, unleashed by Albion's righteous fury. Strangely, she found no hatred in that memory—only the unsettling sense of encountering something she could no longer brand as evil.
Navigating past a fallen marble column, she spotted another broken crest from the Church's archives, rusted around its edges. An inscription read Aeterna Fides—Eternal Faith. The irony cut deep. Faith may be eternal, but it required constant renewal—blind reverence merely rotted from within.
She exhaled raggedly and pressed on. The bells tolled once more, their notes stumbling in the gloom, uncertain whether to proclaim triumph or tragedy. Their echo reverberated through battered ramparts, each peel a question with no easy answer. Despite her fatigue, her steps found renewed purpose.
She remembered her ordination as Bishop Fai, water poured over her head, the Pope's hands anointing her brow, vowing that devotion was the steadfast rampart against evil. She'd believed wholeheartedly. But after witnessing these horrors, she realized dogma could be a weapon turned inward on truth. True faith, she now suspected, demanded humility: the courage to question your vow.
Finally, she reached the courtyard's center, where molten stone had cooled into harsh ridges—a scar left by Excalibur's monumental blast. Pockets of steam still curled skyward. Here, she paused, gazing upon the wreckage with dark eyes.
Was the Church mistaken? The question repeated, echoing like the bells overhead. She heard the Pope's proclamations in her mind, the clarion calls of knight-brothers chanting war prayers. She had once believed them. Now, she wasn't so sure she ever could again.
"I will find you, Pendragon," she whispered, voice soft yet resolute. "And the truth you carry."
Whatever the cost, she would follow that thread of faith. She wouldn't kneel again until she determined where her convictions lay—whether with the Church that raised her or with a man who seemed holier in heart than any bishop she'd met.
Above, the bells struck another hesitant chime. The storm's wind eased, as if a hush had settled over Camelot. In the gloom, it felt like a funeral for the old ways, with no guarantee of what dawn might bring.
Bishop Fai let out a shaking breath and turned away, cloak sodden and heavy. She left behind not only the smoldering remnants of a fortress but also her illusions about unassailable creeds. In this looming dawn—born of conflict, seared by doubt, illuminated by possibility—she moved with eyes unclouded, determined to let truth be her guide.
At the courtyard's edge, she cast a final glance back at Camelot's jagged skyline, its battered spires still thrumming with the memory of Excalibur's wrath. The bells had quieted, though their echoes lingered in the charged air, as if the city itself were debating its future. She uttered no prayer—only a silent vow that she would return with answers, or not at all. Then she was gone, fading into the rain, another uncertain traveler in a world on the brink.
Behind her, partly submerged in a puddle, lay a torn banner bearing the Church's golden emblem. Its threads, once vibrant, appeared dull and lifeless, left adrift in a time of upheaval. And high above, in the highest echelons of Camelot's splintered crown, crows circled with a cacophony of caws, echoing fate's harsh verdict: nothing was certain except the impermanence of all things.