Saeravyn

Killing Faith

The Vaelcarin ship did not scream as it fell.

It groaned.

Metal complained under strain it was never meant to endure, a low, aching sound that vibrated through Syl’s bones. Lights flickered. Panels along the curved walls pulsed between life and darkness. Somewhere deep within the vessel, something vital failed—and did not recover from the blasts.

Syl sat on the floor, his back against the hull, knees pulled to his chest.

He was crying.

Not quietly. Not gracefully. The sobs came in violent, helpless waves, each one dragging breath from his lungs and replacing it with memory. His hands were slick with tears he did not bother to wipe away.

Lirael’s eyes. His father’s voice. The way Gralvyn had stood back up when no one should have been able to stand at all.

“Syl.”

Serys’ voice cut through the sound of the failing ship.

“Stop.”

The word was not cruel. It was not raised. It was final.

Syl did not look at her. His shoulders shook harder, as if his body were trying to argue with her authority.

“Syl’Seraxis,” she said, sharper now. “Enough.”

He gasped, breath hitching painfully in his chest. The sobs did not stop immediately—but they slowed, as if dragged under control by force alone.

Serys knelt in front of him.

Her face was streaked with ash and dried blood. One sleeve of her garment had been torn away entirely. Her eyes were red, but dry.

“You are Seraxis,” she said. “You do not unravel in moments like this. You endure them.”

Syl swallowed hard. His jaw trembled.

“I killed him,” he whispered. "I killed him, mom."

Serys’ hand came up and cupped his face, firm enough that he could not look away.

“You survived,” she said. “And survival is not a sin.”

The ship lurched violently. Something overhead tore loose and clattered against the wall. Gravity shifted—wrong, uneven.

Serys reached for Syl’s hand.

“Hold on,” she said.

The ship broke through atmosphere in a blaze of fire and sound. The world outside screamed where the vessel remained silent. Heat bled through the hull. The floor tilted sharply.

Serys conjures a protective barrier around the ship as it heads down.

Syl squeezed her hand as hard as he could.

Neither of them prayed.

They did not fear the end.

Only the fall.



꧁༺༒〖°***°〗༒༻꧂

The crash carved a scar through the land.

Earth split under the ship’s weight, soil and stone thrown aside as the vessel tore through brush and dry grass before finally surrendering to stillness. Smoke rose in slow, uncertain columns. The hot afternoon pressed close, heavy with the smell of burning metal.

For a long moment, nothing moved.

Then the hatch groaned open.

Syl emerged first, coughing, his nightwear scorched and torn, his skin bruised and marked. Serys followed, her hand still locked around his wrist as if letting go might undo reality.

They stood beneath a foreign sky.

No twin suns. No crystal spires. Only heat.

"This is Earth?" Syl asks. "Looks different from what I read in the books. And their gravity..."

Syl feels it. He can barely keep himself on the ground if he moves.

"...It's so weak," he continued.

Voices shouted.

They did not approach quietly.

Boots crunched against dry earth. The red dots of laser sights wavered across the torn hull of the ship, then climbed—slow, careful—until they settled on Syl and Serys.

“¡Manos arriba!” a voice shouted. “¡Ahora!”

Six figures stepped into view. Ranchers by their clothing, but soldiers in the way they held their guns—too steady to be panicked, too tense to be calm.

Serys lifted her hands at once.

She did not understand the words.

But she understood the posture.

Syl did.

“No somos enemigos,” he said quickly.

The men froze.

Syl took a step forward, palms open.

“No queremos problemas,” he continued. “Nuestra nave… cayó. Eso es todo.”

A murmur rippled through them.

One man frowned. “¿Hablas español?”

Syl nodded. “Sí.”

Serys turned to him sharply. “What did you say?”

“I told them we’re not enemies,” Syl whispered back. “That we don’t want a quarrel.”

Her eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but calculation.

“You speak their tongue?”

“I read it,” Syl said. “In the book. One of Earth’s languages.”

The guns did not lower.

Questions came fast now, overlapping, pressing.

Where are you from? What are you? Are you metahuman?

Syl answered what he could. Carefully. Truth braided with omission.

But the word metahuman changed everything.

The men shifted. One tightened his grip on the rifle. Another glanced back toward the darkness, as if expecting more to come.

Earth was not kind to those who were different.

The circle closed in half a step.

That was when Serys’ voice cut through them all.

“Is this how you welcome your savior?”

Then — stillness.

Syl turned to her, stunned. “Mom—what are you doing?”

The men stared, unsure whether to laugh or recoil.

Serys leaned closer to Syl, her lips barely moving.

“Read them,” she whispered. “Their minds.”

His breath caught.

“What? I’ve never—”

“Do it.”

“Why?”

“Because they are afraid,” she said softly. “And fear listens best to truth shaped like destiny.”

"What good would it do?" Syl argued.

"Do not argue! It's either this, or we cause more trouble."

Syl hesitated.

Then he reached.

It was not like hearing.

It was like standing too close to a storm.

Thoughts brushed against him—raw, unguarded. Guilt. Worry. Old prayers worn thin from repetition.

He staggered slightly.

Serys steadied him. “Tell them what you see.”

“I know your names,” he said.

The words came out in fluent Spanish.

The men stiffened.

“José,” Syl continued. “You pray every night for forgiveness you do not believe you deserve.”

A sharp intake of breath.

“María,” he said, turning his gaze. “You ask God why your sister was taken and not you.”

One woman dropped to her knees, her rifle falling from her hands. She crossed herself, shaking.

Syl’s voice did not rise.

“You lost cattle last winter,” he said to another. “You blamed the land. You blamed yourself.”

A phone came up. Recording.

“There’s a man,” Syl said slowly, eyes unfocused. “Your cousin. He’s a metahuman.”

One of them inhaled sharply.

“He’s locked away,” Syl continued, voice trembling now. “In a city he cannot leave. You visit the fence every year on his birthday.”

The man’s rifle slipped from his hands.

Serys raised her voice just enough to carry.

“You know the prophecy,” she said. “The one whispered in churches and hidden in fear. A savior from the stars. Balance restored.”

She looked at them, unflinching.

“They tried to keep us from coming. Look at us. But we are here. He is here.”

Syl swallowed hard. He turns to her, softly.

“Mom, stop—”

“It’s already begun,” she whispered.

One woman dropped to her knees, tears streaking her face.

“At last,” she breathed. “El Portador del Alba.”

The Dawnbringer.

And in that small, unremarkable moment—between fear and faith, truth and survival—the world took its first step toward believing a lie that felt too much like hope.

꧁༺༒〖°***°〗༒༻꧂

The world did not learn his name all at once.

It learned his image first.

A grainy video. A young man standing barefoot in the dirt, eyes glowing faintly, speaking words no one had ever taught him. The clip spread faster than reason.

Then came the rescues.

A collapsing bridge—caught, held, lowered gently. A wildfire redirected, smothered by winds that moved with intention. A flood diverted, waters bending around a man who stood unmoved at its center.

The headlines argued.

A MIRACLE? AN ALIEN? A WEAPON?

Some called him a god. Some called him a threat. Some called him hope and meant it like a warning.

Syl never corrected them.

꧁༺༒〖°***°〗༒༻꧂

The hallway outside the assembly chamber was not silent.

Syl could hear everything.

Chants bled faintly through the stone—voices raised in praise, braided with others sharpened by fear. Protesters. Believers. Skeptics. The sound was uneven, unsteady, like a city arguing with itself.

He stood still, hands clenched at his sides.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he said.

Serys did not look at him.

“Few necessary things ever do.”

Syl exhaled slowly. “They’re outside arguing about me like I’m a storm they saw coming but couldn’t stop.”

“They are afraid,” she replied. “And hope frightens people more than certainty.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what this is.”

She turned then.

Her expression was calm. Controlled. The same composure she wore in war councils and funerals.

“We are lying to them,” Syl said. “Mother—you’re pushing me to weaponize their hope.”

Her eyes did not harden.

They sharpened.

“Hope has always been a weapon,” she said. “You simply dislike being the one holding it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s accurate.”

Syl stepped closer, lowering his voice. “They believe I’m something I’m not.”

“They believe you are capable of saving them.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” Serys said. “Whether you should is a luxury we no longer possess.”

He laughed once, breathless. “So this is what it is now? Necessity excuses everything?”

She moved closer, her voice dropping.

“Lirael is dead.”

The words landed with surgical precision.

“Your father is dead,” she continued. “Their dreams did not die with them.”

Syl’s jaw tightened.

“Do you want them to?” she asked.

Silence stretched between them.

Serys places a hand on his shoulder.

“There is a reason your father did not want you to rule,” she said calmly.

Syl looked at her, stunned.

“This,” she said. “This moment. This burden. He wanted you spared from it.”

“That’s not—”

“This is the only way,” she continued, unyielding. “The only way their dream survives. The only way Caeloryx meant something beyond its ashes.”

She turned to him again.

“Do you want to save humanity?”

Syl hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yes.”

“Good,” she said softly. “Then listen. Keep your ears open. And understand that belief is not clean—but it is powerful.”

The doors to the assembly hall opened.

Light spilled out.

Syl swallowed, nodded once, and stepped forward.

The noise surged.

And the world began to watch him closely.

꧁༺༒〖°***°〗༒༻꧂

Inside, questions flew like arrows.

Who are you? Where's proof you're the one their prophecy speak of? Why should we trust you?

Serys’ voice guided him through the noise, answers precise, careful. He listens with his hearing abilities as she stood at the hallway.

Until one question landed heavier than the rest.

“What gives you the right?”

Syl paused.

Serys whispers an answer.

The room waited.

“You're terrified because you can't control me,” he said.

Serys went still. Syl is going off script.

“And you never will. But, I'm not here for the worship,” Syl continued. “I’m not here to rule you.”

Murmurs rippled through the hall.

“I’m here to help,” he said. “To restore balance where I can. To serve where I’m able. The gifted and the humans can coexist — we all know this.”

He swallowed.

“I swear to do everything in my power to bring balance,” Syl said. “But it will be on my terms. Trust me—because I am trusting you. And if I fail... the blame is on me.”

The room goes silent. Few heads begin to nod.

Permission.

꧁༺༒〖°***°〗༒༻꧂

The helicopter blades cut through the air with surgical precision.

Edgar Kaine stepped onto the tarmac without looking up. Four metahumans escort him — his bodyguards and assistant.

Questions were shouted. Cameras flashed. He's a well known figure — leading watchman of all metahuman activity. He's also responsible for the schools and hospitals all over America.

He just got back from Nigeria, where he helped rebuild and orphanage.

“Some are calling you a hero like Syl'Seraxis,” a voice yelled.

Edgar paused right before he opens the door to his car.

“No,” he said. "Not like him."

“Are you saying you’re not his equal?” another asked. “Or that he isn’t the hero people think?”

Edgar turned slowly.

“Honestly, I don’t know anything about him to make any comment,” he said. “But I know this—if you want heroes, visit the graveyards. The people who ran into the Cairo Catastrophe didn’t glow. They didn’t fall from the sky. Some alien shows up and everyone loses their minds because he supposedly fits a prophecy forged by an anonymous person. Okay...?”

He stepped into the car.

Inside, his assistant, Barlow, exhaled.

“You handled that well.”

Edgar looked out the window.

“I was just being honest. We don't know who this alien is and what his real goals are. Hopefully, their ship would give us some answers. Then, we'll know who this Syl'Seraxis really is.”