Seven stood beneath the cold gaze of their own statues, each carved in gleaming obsidian. The Pillars of Light—symbols of the world's highest virtues—gathered under golden arches, their voices hushed by mourning and memory.

It had been three days since the death of Alion, the Pillar of Valor.

A single pedestal stood in the center of the hall. Upon it, his statue: sword raised, face turned skyward. It was beautiful. Heroic.

It was wrong.

Lestat Sael stepped forward. He smiled—but it wasn’t the comforting smile he always wore. This one was... off. Waxen.

“The statue is wrong,” he said.

The others turned.

“What do you mean?” asked Sira, voice wary. Her hand drifted near her staff.

Lestat’s gaze didn’t leave the statue. “He didn’t die by a sword,” he said softly. “I killed him with his own spear.”

The silence shattered like a dropped plate.

“What?” someone whispered.

Lestat turned.

He looked calm. “He begged,” Lestat said. “Right at the end. He wept like a child.”

Then came the first scream.

It was Joven, Pillar of Judgment, who lunged—more instinct than thought. But he never made it.

Lestat moved like falling silk. No wasted motion. One hand to Joven’s neck, one to his chest. There was no grand display, no magic crackling through the air. Just a slow, deliberate push—until bone caved under pressure like wet parchment.

Joven fell. His eyes didn’t even have time to widen.

The room erupted.

Sira summoned a wall of light. Crato launched flame. There were battle cries, commands, panic.

Lestat was silent.

He moved through them like a wind through candles.

Sira screamed something—maybe a spell, maybe a prayer—before Lestat’s blade split her spine. She crumpled with grace, eyes glassy, lips still forming words.

Blood sprayed across the statue of Alion, pooling at its feet.

It wasn’t a fight. It was a symphony. And Lestat conducted it with elegance.

Crato tried to burn the air itself. Lestat let the fire touch him—let it curl across his hands—before he stepped into the inferno and ended him with a single thrust beneath the ribs.

When the fifth died, it was quiet again.

You stood frozen. Not paralyzed by fear, but by disbelief. Not Lestat. Not him.

And then the final Pillar, Elari—the one who had always called you a friend—looked at you and said the words you'd never forget.

“It was supposed to be you.”

Lestat didn’t flinch.

He slit her throat from behind before she could turn.

She fell at your feet.

Your ears rang with silence—the kind that comes after screaming. The kind that feels permanent.

Lestat’s hand hovered just an inch from your cheek now, not quite touching. Waiting.

“You didn’t vote,” he said again. “You’re the only one who didn’t.”

Your voice cracked. “I—I didn’t know what to believe.”

Lestat smiled wider, soft as sin. “Exactly.”

His fingers brushed your skin. Tender. Reverent. Like a sculptor rediscovering a forgotten masterpiece.

“You’re still pure,” he murmured. “I hate that.” A pause. “Stay that way.”

You flinched, stepped back. But Lestat didn’t follow. He let you retreat, watching with the kind of gaze people usually save for miracles—or ghosts.

“They were going to kill you,” he said, gesturing faintly to the fallen Pillars. “They called it preventative justice. Isn’t that charming? They wanted to erase you for what you might become.”

Your eyes filled with tears—anger, horror, disbelief tangled like thorns.

“You killed them,” you whispered.

“I did.” No regret. No shame. Just truth. “I set the fire before they could light the match.”

Then his voice dipped lower. “I looked at the crowd. And they hated me.” He smiled—wider, sharper. “And for the first time... I kinda loved it.”

You shook your head, stepping farther back now, legs trembling.

“You’re a monster,” you said.

And Lestat’s smile didn’t fade—but his eyes, for a breath, looked saddened.

“No,” he said, quietly. “They were monsters. I’m just honest about it.”

A moment passed between you—silent, suspended, fragile.

Then he said, almost kindly, “You should rest. I’ll take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.”