"Ah..."
At last.
The Archbishop let out a sigh.
He slowly turned around and climbed the steps leading to the Divine Throne again.
When he looked back down at Kairils, the fatherly light in his eyes had vanished completely.
In its place was an absolute compassion that looked down upon all living beings, just like the enormous Divine Statue above him.
"Kairils, my child."
"You were born extraordinarily gifted, but you are still far too young."
The Archbishop's voice grew ethereal and imposing, as though he were explaining the most fundamental truth of this world:
"You must understand one thing..."
"A hero's fate is often to watch ordinary people die."
"This world is a magnificent fortress, and fate has long since assigned ranks to the materials used to build it."
The Archbishop spread his arms slightly, as though embracing all of Winterhold:
"Some people are born to be the foundation stones at the very bottom."
"They are mediocre and weak. The only value their lives possess is to pave the road for the strong with their own flesh and blood."
The Archbishop lowered his head, gazing into Kairils's still-cold eyes:
"And you, Kairils."
"You were born to be the most dazzling snowstorm atop that spire!"
"Viel? And those few Novice Knights?"
The Archbishop gave a scoffing laugh, his tone as casual as if he were discussing a few weeds snapped by the wind:
"Their gifts were too meager. The Deity would grant them no more power."
"To trade their insignificant lives for the survival of Winterhold's genius-was that not the most glorious moment of their lives?"
"Their souls have now returned before the Supreme God's throne, where they bask in eternal warmth and glory!"
"Their deaths were holy martyrdom!"
The Archbishop slowly descended the steps and returned to stand before