Chapter 47: The Divine Proxy
The city of Lys was a paradox, a place of liberation and imprisonment. While the newly freed slaves worked to build a new society in the outer districts under the guidance of Ellyn's Hands, the heart of the city, the opulent palace district, remained a quarantined zone of cosmic horror. The shimmering, translucent dome erected by Krosis-Krif stood as a silent testament to his power, and within it, the caged chaos entity seethed, a formless vortex of anti-creation that silently consumed the very stones of the magisters' manors.
The Grand Army of the Great Work was camped outside the city, their mission stalled, their leaders facing a strategic problem for which no military textbook had an answer. The war council was convened daily, and daily it devolved into the same, fruitless debate.
"We have to do something!" King Viserys insisted, his face etched with worry as he stared at the shimmering dome from the command tent. "That… thing… is still alive in there. It is a blight on the very air we breathe. We cannot simply leave it here."
Prince Jacaerys, his commander, shook his head, his cynicism a hardened shield. "Do what, brother? Shall we throw spears at it? Sing it a lullaby? The cage was made by our god. The creature within is its business, not ours. Our orders were to liberate the city. The city is liberated. Our task is done."
Ellyn the Weaver, her presence now a permanent and powerful fixture in the council, spoke with the calm of absolute faith. "The Prince is right, Your Grace. The Great Order has contained the chaos. It has a purpose, a design we cannot see. We must have faith in its plan."
"I am tired of faith!" Viserys snapped, his gentle nature finally fraying. "I want a solution! We have an army of saints and a treasury of impossible wealth. Are we to be held hostage by a monster in a bottle?"
As if in answer to the king's frustrated cry, the will of their god descended upon the command tent. It was not a public proclamation, but a focused, telepathic message directed at the leaders within.
"THE RIVAL IS AN UNTIDINESS THAT MUST BE ERASED," the voice of Krosis-Krif stated, its tone one of cool, detached assessment. "BUT A GOD DOES NOT DIRTY HIS OWN HANDS WITH SUCH PETTY, CHAOTIC MATTERS. THE ERADICATION OF THIS FLAW WILL NOT BE AN ACT OF PEST CONTROL. IT WILL BE A TESTAMENT. A DEMONSTRATION."
A terrible understanding began to dawn on Jacaerys. This was not about solving a problem. This was about making a statement.
"A MORTAL, INFUSED WITH MY ORDER, WILL BE THE INSTRUMENT OF THIS CORRECTION," the god continued. "I WILL CHOOSE A CHAMPION. I WILL ANOINT A PROXY. THE WORLD WILL WITNESS THAT EVEN THE LEAST OF MY FAITHFUL, WHEN GRANTED A FRACTION OF MY GRACE, CAN UNMAKE A RIVAL GOD. THE POWER OF TRUE ORDER WILL BE MADE MANIFEST."
The leaders in the tent were silent, stunned by the sheer, arrogant brilliance of the plan. Krosis-Krif was not just going to win; he was going to win in a way that magnified his own glory and the faith of his followers a thousandfold.
The god's consciousness swept over the thousands of Blessed soldiers in the camp. Jacaerys felt the mental probe pass over him, dismissing him as too cynical, too embittered. It brushed past Ellyn; she was too valuable as a spiritual leader, a symbol of creation, not destruction. His gaze settled on one man.
In the camp of the faithful, Matthos the soldier was teaching a group of freed slaves how to hold a spear line. His movements were strong and steady, his voice the calm rumble of a veteran. He felt the sudden, immense weight of the god's full attention, and he dropped to one knee instantly, his head bowed.
"MATTHOS," the voice said, a universe in his mind. "YOU WERE A SOLDIER OF THE OLD WORLD. BROKEN BY ITS CHAOS."
You healed me, Great One, Matthos thought, his heart swelling with a devotion so pure it was painful. I am your servant. My life is yours.
"I GAVE YOU A NEW LEG. NOW I WILL GIVE YOU A NEW PURPOSE," the god declared. "THE CHAOS IN THE CAGE IS AN OFFENSE TO MY ORDER. AN IRRITATING BUZZ OF STATIC IN A PERFECT SYMPHONY. YOU WILL BE THE HAND THAT SILENCES IT. YOU WILL BE MY INSTRUMENT."
The voice paused, offering not a command, but a choice, though Matthos knew there was only one answer he could ever give.
"ARE YOU WILLING TO BECOME MORE THAN A MAN, MATTHOS THE SOLDIER? ARE YOU WILLING TO BECOME MY WRATH MADE FLESH?"
My life is yours to command, Matthos projected, his entire being suffused with a holy purpose. I am willing.
Matthos was summoned to the center of the Grand Army's parade ground. The entire host, from the King down to the newest convert, assembled to watch. Ellyn and the other Hands stood at the front, their faces filled with reverent awe.
As Matthos walked into the center of the vast, silent circle of soldiers, a single, concentrated beam of black-and-starlight energy lanced down from the cloudless sky, striking him. It did not burn him. It engulfed him.
The army gasped as one. Matthos's body began to change. His simple leather armor seemed to flow and harden, taking on the texture of black basalt, the same impossible stone as the temples. His skin grew taut, its lines seeming to etch themselves with patterns like cooled lava. His eyes, the simple brown eyes of a Westerosi soldier, began to burn, first with a golden light, then with the swirling, cosmic fire of his god. He grew in stature, his old soldier's frame becoming denser, heavier, radiating a palpable aura of immense power. The transformation was agonizing, but Matthos did not scream. He accepted the pain as a purification, his face a mask of ecstatic torment.
When the light faded, the man who stood there was no longer Matthos. He was an avatar. A demigod clad in living stone, his eyes twin supernovas.
King Viserys stared in horror from the royal dais. "What… what has he become?" he whispered to his brother.
"He's become a weapon," Jacaerys replied, his voice a low murmur of cold, analytical awe.
Ellyn, however, saw it differently. She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. "He has become the vessel of the god's holy wrath," she breathed.
The being that was once Matthos turned its burning gaze towards the command dais. It looked at Jacaerys, the supreme commander. Its voice, when it spoke, was a deep, resonant echo of the man it used to be, a harmony of mortal vocal cords and divine power. "I await my orders, Prince Jacaerys."
Jace swallowed hard. He, a mortal prince, was to give orders to this… thing. He stepped forward, his own voice sounding thin and weak in comparison. "Matthos… we know nothing of the creature inside the dome. Its weaknesses, its nature… how to fight it…"
The avatar's expression did not change. "My old weaknesses are gone, Prince Jacaerys," it said, its voice resonating with a power that vibrated in Jace's bones. "The god's strength is my new nature. The path to order will be made clear to me. I require no strategy but the god's will."
He was no longer a soldier to be commanded. He was a prophet receiving direct, divine guidance. Jace could only nod, his own authority, his own military genius, rendered completely moot.
Ellyn the Weaver walked with the avatar to the edge of the shimmering dome of force. The rest of the army watched from a safe distance, the silence absolute.
"Brother Matthos," Ellyn said softly as they stood before the translucent wall, watching the formless chaos writhe within. "The man I knew… are you still in there?"
The avatar turned its burning, cosmic eyes upon her. For a moment, the inferno within them softened, and she saw a flicker of the old, kind soldier she had traveled with. "I am here, Ellyn," the resonant voice said, a hint of the old warmth in its depths. "But I am also… more. This body is just a vessel now, a tool for the Great Work." He looked at the dome. "Do not grieve for me, or for the man I was. This is not a death. It is my purpose. It is the greatest honor the god could bestow."
"Go with the Order, then," Ellyn whispered, her heart breaking and swelling with pride all at once. "Be its sword."
The avatar gave a single, solemn nod. He turned and walked towards the shimmering wall of the cage. As he approached, the wall of divine energy parted before him like water, creating a perfect, man-shaped opening. He stepped through without hesitation. The wall sealed behind him with a silent, final hum.
The champion stood alone inside the dome, on the blighted, chaos-scarred ground of the palace district. He faced the swirling, formless vortex of the rival god. The avatar of Order faced the embodiment of Chaos. The duel of the proxies was about to begin, a spectacle arranged for the amusement and glorification of the one true power, the silent shepherd on the hill. And the entire world held its breath, waiting to see which form of divinity would prevail.