Sylia, the Dark & Light Saint

November of the Sainted Year (Second Civil Month)

Kirsten Draviota hummed softly as he walked down the narrow alley of the North-Western Outer District. That Thursday had certainly begun well. He had succeeded in striking a deal with several Royal members and it had been almost laughably easy. Those fools were far too greedy for their own good. His success was entirely due to the Celestial his fiancée had introduced to him. That higher being had shown him a far better path in life.

For years, Kirsten had groveled before the Saints, particularly before Sylia. All his efforts had been in vain. Even Syl Celia had all but abandoned him, unwilling to change in order to earn the privilege of his company. His fiancée, in contrast, had done everything within her power to accommodate him and to help secure their future.

The alley through which he walked was dark, but so was the place to which he was headed. It was an underground workshop, buried three levels below ground, where no one would dare come looking for them. It lay deep enough to prevent Mana or Magic from leaking, and to ensure the screams of their captives would never reach the few people who still ventured through these parts.

This was, after all, an area reserved for the Province Lord and his closest associates. No one would wander here. Not even the Saints.

The area was reputedly saturated with highly corrupted Mana. The land was so tainted that lower Commoners would perish in the streets from the corruption if they ever lingered too long. Protections and Cleric Wards had been erected to keep the corrupted Mana from spreading beyond its bounds, so that only the rare, unfortunate wanderer might stumble into it. Those who did often ended up as prey to the men working for the Province Lord and his brother, the great Frieze.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Kirsten had learned much about the latter. Frieze was made from a piece of a former Supreme God who had fallen through the machinations of Izranaga and his Flock. The unjustly condemned God had managed to retain a fragment of his former power and had positioned several of his Divisions strategically throughout their world.

Kirsten snorted at the thought. That one of the founders of Nagasmar should be treated so cruelly by his former comrades was both ironic and tragic.

All the former Supreme God had ever done was advocate for the draining of the unworthy in order to prevent a shortage of Mana and Magic within the Nations he had founded.

The other Gods had taken grave offense, though. They did not agree with his ideas.

As he had been demoted on several occasions and had already fallen to a meager, disgraced Minor God rank, this time, he was no longer spared and could not retain his Godhood as he did previously.

Izranavyl was thus swiftly and severely punished, with Izranaga himself leading the charge against him.

The Goddess of Wisdom had suffered greatly as well, merely for declaring that the Fallen God had been in the right.

The injustice was staggering. Izranavyl had not only been renamed God of Despairs by the Lords but had also been stripped of most his powers. What High Magic remained to him was less than that of a Fallen God. Less even than that of a Celestial. The ruling Supreme Gods had condemned him to mortality, burdening him with one punishment after another, all because he still used Mortals and lower Spiritus as sustenance to restore his strength.

The strength they had taken from him.

Still, it had not stopped many from providing him with their loyalty and support. Since his exile to this world, many Fallen Celestials and Spiritus had joined Izranavyl. They now carried out his will, devouring the weak so that the strong might replenish their energy.