Hero Of Broken History

Avian's POV

The morning after Dean Valerian's display of power, the Academy felt different. Not quieter—if anything, voices rang louder in hallways and courtyards. Students walked with straighter backs, met Shepherds' masks with direct gazes instead of averted eyes. The fountain where Damien Winters had floated ran clear, but everyone who passed it remembered.

The Academy had teeth. Old teeth, sharp teeth, teeth that could bite back.

Avian sat in the cafeteria's corner booth, watching morning routines play out with forced normalcy. Kai sprawled across from him, dissecting a pastry with surgical precision while pretending to read a textbook. Leontis performed for a gathering crowd near the windows, his morning ballad about "bureaucratic breakfast battles" drawing genuine laughter.

"They're scared but excited," Kai observed, not looking up from his book. "Like children who just watched their grandfather punch a bully."

"Until the bully comes back with friends."

"Pessimist."

"Realist." Avian pushed his untouched breakfast around his plate. "The Church won't let this stand. They can't. Their entire authority depends on being unquestionable."

"Maybe. Or maybe—"

"FRIENDS! ROMANS! BREAKFAST ENTHUSIASTS!"

Leontis had leaped onto a table, arms spread wide, morning sun backlighting him dramatically. His audience groaned good-naturedly—they knew a performance was coming.

"The protagonist has been inspired by recent discussions of historical inaccuracy! A tale of supply lines and contradictions, of battles that happened in two places at once!"

A few nervous laughs. Everyone had heard about yesterday's article, even if they hadn't read it.

"But what is truth?" Leontis continued, pacing the table with theatrical precision. "Is it what we're told? What we read? Or what echoes in the bones of history itself?"

He paused, hand over heart, expression shifting to something more serious than his usual melodrama.

"Consider the Battle of Thornwood Pass—not the glorified version, but the real one. Less than fifty soldiers, not thousands. A careful withdrawal, not a glorious stand. The supply wagons never arrived because..."

He stopped mid-sentence, blinking rapidly like someone waking from a dream. His theatrical confidence cracked, replaced by genuine confusion.

"I... what was I saying?" He looked genuinely disturbed. "Something about... battles?"

"You were telling us about Thornwood Pass," someone called out. "The real battle."

"Was I?" Leontis's usual dramatic flair was completely gone. He looked frightened. "I don't... why would I know about...?"

He jumped down from the table abruptly, grabbed his things, and headed for the door with none of his usual theatrical exits. Just a scared young man fleeing something he didn't understand.

"Follow him," Avian told Kai. "Make sure he's safe."

Kai was already moving, shadow techniques making him forgettable in the morning crowd.

Leontis's POV

The protagonist did not run. The protagonist made a dramatic exit. The protagonist...

Who was he kidding? He ran.

His room in the scholarship dormitory was small but private—one advantage of being too weird for roommates. Leontis slammed the door, locked it, then slumped against it, breathing hard.

Less than fifty soldiers. The supply wagons were late. The men were hungry and—

"Stop it!"

He pressed his palms against his temples, trying to squeeze out thoughts that weren't his. Couldn't be his. The Battle of Thornwood Pass was five hundred years ago. He was eighteen. These weren't memories, they were... were...

The Resonance Codex sat on his desk, innocent-looking in its worn leather binding. He'd found it in those ruins three years ago, thought it was just about sound magic. And it was. Pages and pages of acoustic techniques, resonance patterns, how to turn voice into weapon.

But between the techniques, in the margins, in smaller script, were other things. Notes. Observations. The author had been a bard, traveling with the armies during the Demon War. Recording songs, raising morale, and apparently... remembering everything.

"The Commander gave a speech tonight. Third night without sleep, but he stood before the men and spoke. 'I don't know what tomorrow brings,' he said. 'I don't know if we'll all survive. But we fight because it's what we chose. We're soldiers. Our duty is to stand between the darkness and those who can't fight it themselves. Our honor comes from knowing our cause is just. If we die, we die knowing it meant something.' The men cheered, but I saw his hands shaking. He believes what he says, but the weight of it is crushing him."

Leontis opened the Codex with shaking hands, flipping to that passage. There it was, squeezed between a diagram of harmonic frequencies and instructions for sonic shields. Aldric the Bard's observations of Commander D.

He'd read these passages before, thought they were creative writing exercises. Historical fiction mixed with magical theory. But now...

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Now he could smell the campfire. Feel the frost on that third night. Taste the worry that Marcus had swallowed with his evening ration of stale bread and hope.

These aren't just memories. They're experiences. Preserved in ink and intention, waiting for someone with the right resonance to—

A knock at his door. Soft, careful.

"Leontis? It's Kai."

"The protagonist is indisposed! Return during regular narrative hours!"

"You're scared. I can hear it in your voice. Let me in."

Leontis laughed, high and slightly hysterical. "The comic relief doesn't get scared! The comic relief provides levity and occasional deus ex machina solutions!"

"The comic relief is having a breakdown. Open the door."

He did, because what else could he do? Kai slipped inside, took one look at Leontis's face, and his expression softened.

"The memories aren't yours," Kai said. It wasn't a question.

"How did you—"

"The details you knew. Too specific. Too real." Kai moved to the window, checking sightlines from habit. "That book. The Resonance Codex. It's not just about magic, is it?"

"It's a diary." Leontis slumped on his bed. "Aldric the Bard's diary. He traveled with Commander D.'s army. Wrote down everything. But he was paranoid about the Church even then, so he hid his observations in a magical textbook."

"And now you're remembering his memories."

"I'm LIVING them." Leontis grabbed the Codex, clutching it like a lifeline. "Every time I read a passage, I'm there. I can feel what he felt, see what he saw. Do you understand what this means?"

"You have a firsthand account of the Demon War."

"I have proof that Commander D. wasn't a demon." Leontis's voice dropped to a whisper. "Aldric wrote about him. Constantly. A man who couldn't sleep because he was calculating supply lines. Who shared his rations with wounded enemies. Who cried when his soldiers died and remembered all their names."

"That's not the Demon King from the stories."

"No. It's just... a man. A tired, angry, brilliant man who was trying to save everyone." Leontis looked up at Kai. "What do I do with this? If the Church finds out..."

"They won't. Not from me." Kai sat beside him. "But Leontis, you need to be careful. Those slips in public—"

"I can't control it! The memories just... surface. Like they're waiting for the right moment to be heard."

"Then we need to find you better control. Or better acting skills."

"The protagonist already has magnificent acting skills!"

"There he is." Kai smiled slightly. "Look, Avian needs to know about this. But privately. Safely. Can you hold it together until tonight?"

"Can the protagonist maintain his facade of theatrical excellence? Of course! The show must go on!" But his hands were still shaking.

Avian's POV - Afternoon

The assembly came without warning. The bell rang during afternoon classes, summoning everyone to the Grand Colosseum. This time, only Dean Valerian stood on the platform.

"Students," he began without preamble. "I have reached an understanding with the Church regarding recent events."

Murmurs through the crowd. Understanding could mean anything.

"They acknowledge that Academy grounds are under Academy jurisdiction. In return, we acknowledge their concern about spiritual matters." His tone suggested what he thought of spiritual matters. "A representative will arrive tomorrow to address theological questions some of you may have."

Translation: The Church backed down but needs to save face. They're sending someone to preach at us.

"Additionally," the Dean continued, "I'm implementing new policies for your safety. A curfew from midnight to dawn. Enhanced ward monitoring to prevent... accidents. And all students are reminded that the Academy's protection extends only to our grounds."

Stay here or risk Church justice. He's making the Academy a sanctuary.

"Classes continue normally. Knowledge waits for no crisis." He paused, scanning the crowd. "One more thing. As an academic institution, we welcome all perspectives and encourage scholarly debate. The Academy takes no position on the content of any particular documents or articles. We simply maintain that inquiry itself is sacred."

Translation: Read what you want, but the Academy stays neutral.

"However," he continued, "be wise about where and how you pursue such truths. The Academy can protect your body. Your mind. But not your soul, should you venture where angels fear to tread."

With that cryptic warning, he dismissed them.

As students filed out, Avian felt someone fall into step beside him. Canaline Cloveborn, her expression troubled.

"Walk with me," she said quietly.

They ended up in the garden again, afternoon sun casting long shadows through the roses.

"My father sent a letter," she said without preamble. "The Church demanded access to our archives. He told them to, and I quote, 'fuck off back to their incense-stinking cathedral.'"

Despite everything, Avian almost smiled. "That sounds like Lord Magnus."

"Then he told them if they tried to force the issue, he'd show them why the Border Wars ended when he got involved." She pulled out a folded paper. "But he's worried about me. What the Church might do to get at him through me."

She handed him the paper. Not a receipt or document—a letter in Magnus's bold hand.

Cana, The Church wants our archives. They can want all they like. Five hundred years of documents that prove their version of history isn't quite the whole truth. I'm sending you something. It should arrive within the week. Hidden in your favorite childhood book—you know the one. Documents I saved before telling the Church where they could stuff their demands. Be careful who you trust. But if you find someone worth trusting, someone who values truth over comfort, share what you must. Our family has always known there was more to the story than what the Church teaches. Time someone did something about it. Burn this after reading. -Father

"He sent documents here?" Avian asked.

"They should arrive within the week. In my copy of 'Tales of the Five Heroes.' Hidden in the binding." She took the letter back, produced a flame between her fingers, and watched it burn. "He says they're receipts, supply orders, field reports. All signed by Commander D. All contradicting Church history."

"Why tell me?"

"Because you said 'information' to that Shepherd." She met his eyes. "Because when Damien was murdered, you stood up. Because these articles... they're making me question everything I was taught, and I need to know if I'm going crazy or if the world is."

"Maybe both."

She laughed, short and bitter. "The Demon King was evil. That's fact. That's history. That's... that's what I've believed my whole life."

"What if he wasn't?"

"Then what else is a lie?" She turned away, staring at roses that bloomed despite autumn's approach. "When those documents arrive, when I see them... if you want to look at them together..."

"Not immediately. Too much attention on both of us." Avian considered. "Give it a few days after they arrive. Let things calm. Then we compare what we've found."

"You've found something?"

"Maybe. Someone else with pieces of this puzzle."

She nodded, started to leave, then paused. "Lord Veritas? These articles, this truth that's emerging... people are going to die for it."

"People already have."

"More will. The Church won't stop. They can't. Their entire authority depends on their version of history."

"I know."

"Are you prepared for that? For what's coming?"

I've been preparing for five hundred years.

"As prepared as anyone can be."

She left him in the garden as afternoon gave way to evening. The roses cast long shadows, and Avian thought about truth and lies and the price of both.

Tonight, he'd talk to Leontis. Learn what memories were surfacing. Tomorrow, the Church would send their representative to preach the official version of history.

And somewhere in the capital, Seren was probably writing her next article, unaware that her methodical destruction of lies was awakening memories in unexpected places.