Chapter Three Tir na Súil, Eighth Day of the Twelfth Month, Lilit

  Lilit waited motionless until the sound of the priest’s frantic footsteps faded away into the night. She had decided to conceal herself within the alley's shadows to listen in on the Priest’s inquiries, yet she never imagined that she would stumble upon such information. Only when she was confident that he was gone did she step out, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. Humoring the priest paid off…

  She lingered in the quiet of the alley for a moment, running over the newfound information in her mind. The Baron would undoubtedly be intrigued by such knowledge. He always showed keen interest in the movements of the Church or any oracles they received. Yet, she remained royally pissed and conflicted after their earlier discussion. She was still fuming over the fact that he had sent her off to play babysitter to the new Lords- a task far beneath her skill set. But if she brought him something of value, something only she could uncover… perhaps he would once again be reminded of her worth. Maybe he would even revoke her assignment and allow her to remain in the Bloody Block, where she belonged.

  Her fingers absently traced the cool metal of her signet ring, the weight of it grounding her thoughts. The Baron was not a man to be trifled with or questioned, and she had no desire to test his fragile patience or risk the rapport she had worked so hard to obtain. He was, after all, the closest thing to family she had ever known—the only person who truly saw her and gave a damn about her. He had raised her on her whim even… sympathizing with her as a fellow bastard of nobility. With a quiet sigh, Lilit resigned herself to returning to her hovel for the night. Dawn would come soon enough, and with it, her duties at God’s Eye Keep.

  Her home was tucked deep within a labyrinth of alleyways, not too far from Bath’s tent. It was a modest dwelling, hidden from the prying eyes of outsiders, surrounded by four others- all under the Baron’s protection. To the East lived Omarosa and Sabitum, twin sisters who had fled the South after their father sold Omarosa to one of the Southern War Princes to become his twenty-third concubine. The sisters now worked tirelessly as weavers on gorgeous fabrics to peddle. No matter the hour, their home was always aglow, a beacon of resilience and quiet determination.

  To the west stood an empty dwelling, once occupied by one of the Baron’s finest bodyguards. He had been sent south on a long assignment, aiding refugees in their escape from the war-torn desert region. Next to his vacant home, however, life thrived. A young couple, Namtar and Ida. Ida, a Northern woman, had fallen in love with Namtar, a Southern shaman, and runaway. Their love was a quiet rebellion in a land that scorned and feared Southern refugees. They had found sanctuary in the Bloody Block, where they could love freely and without fear. Now, they were expecting their first child, due in the spring. They often invited Lilit to share meals with them, and though she rarely admitted it, she cherished their company. As someone of mixed heritage, she secretly hoped to see their family flourish—a small defiance against a world that sought to divide them.

  Lilit slipped into her hovel, and the day's weight settled over like a thick, suffocating shroud, trying desperately to push the prophecy from her mind as she lay down on her cot. However, her thoughts raced far too quickly, with so many questions and a nagging curiosity that would not cease.

  Although she had made bold claims that she and her people had a strong relationship with their gods… She had only ever heard the voice of the gods once before. Thousands of attempts at communion, countless offerings, whispered prayers —nothing.

  When she was younger, she dreamed of becoming a Wyrm Witch like Bath or some of the many mythical witches spoken about in old Southern legends and tales. Someone who could seek divine wisdom with ease, someone who could find reassurance in the presence of a higher power. She believed such a gift would make the world feel far less terrifying or lonely. But as she grew older, reality set in. The world was not only horrifying– it was isolating.

  Yet, she was luckier than most, having somehow gained the favor of one of the most powerful men in the central-western province. But even within her community, people kept their distance. A child of mixed heritage was already a risk. A noble bastard? She might as well have been a pariah, especially one that presented mostly southern features.

  People like her and the Baron were rare, very rare, in fact. The Royal House of Hovraek ensured that bastards were scarcely born. They couldn’t risk their divine blood spilling out onto the streets of the common people because it would shake the very foundation in which they built their grand castle of glass. If anyone ever discovered that two commoners bore golden eyes—the so-called right of kings—the royal family would hunt them both down without hesitation. That was why the Baron had amassed so much power and made himself untouchable. And it was why his protection was everything to her.

  Her gaze drifted out the window toward the twins’ home. Lilit could see Sabitum still working on her latest piece. At times, she envied their unwavering resolve. No matter how difficult things became– especially with the King’s new taxes on luxury fibers– they worked themselves to the bone, driven by sheer passion for their craft. No storm, no hardship, could strip them of their passion.

  Frustration gnawed at her as she tossed and turned on her leather cot. She swung her legs over the side with a sharp exhale and began rummaging through her cabinets, pulling out candles, anointing oil, and herbs.

  Her practiced hands worked quickly as she took pinches of dried gis and sage, grounding them up into a fine powder within her mortar. She lit a cheap candle on a small dish, tilting it just enough to let the molten wax pool in the center before pressing a blue candle into place.

  Fetching a cup of water left on her windowsill, she poured a thin layer into the dish. With measured care, she dripped five drops of anointing oil on the candle, smoothing it along its surface until it glistened under the dim light. Then, she carefully dressed the candle with the fine powder, gently spreading it until it covered every inch of the candle before sprinkling the remaining herbs into the water.

  Taking up her kohl stick, Lilit carefully inscribed the names of all the gods in runes onto a bay leaf, steadying her breath as she forced her mind to organize her jumbled-up contemplations.

  The last time she had heard the voice of the gods, it had been entirely unintentional.

  The day she fled from Madame Orlaith’s, battered and broken in a back alley, beaten within an inch of death– she had heard him—a voice, rich and deep, laced with mischief and amusement. Like an eerie melody carried on the wind, enveloping her wounded body with a serene cold that sounded more human than she would have thought and the single most unearthly whisper she had ever heard, speaking with the patience of a being not restricted by the limits of finite existence. A voice that promised she would not die.

  And it had been right.

  The Baron had found her, clothed her, and made her one of his own. A savior that the gods had sent to her. But despite every effort, every ritual, every prayer, she had never been able to summon that voice again. She was no seasoned Wyrm Witch like Bath, but she believed. Deep in her gut, she knew—this time would be different. She hoped this time would be different.

  Lighting the blue candle and watching as its flame flickered to life. Holding the bay leaf above it, she waited until the edges curled, blackened, and finally caught fire, and the ashes descended into the water below.

  As she prayed, she tuned out the gentle whistle of the wind through the floorboards and the low crackle of her fireplace.

  “I request the wisdom of Shargulg, the courage of Heraculg, the power of Rexaine,” She whispered. “Allow Vaerune to bless this body with life and Daerune to take my soul at its last breath.”

  Silence.

  “I- I have heard your voice before… I know you have spoken to me only once, but surely it was for a reason.” Her voice grew firmer. “Bath always said the gods only speak to those they favor or have a purpose for. You told me I would not die, and you were right. I’m still here, but why? I want to speak with you again.”

  Nothing.

  She waited, staring into the candle’s glow. Half its length had already burned away, wax bleeding quickly into the water below.

  “I know I heard a voice,” She murmured, irritation creeping in. “If you are listening, then let me hear you once again. Show me something– anything.” She exhaled sharply. “Whose voice did I hear that day? Shargulg? Heraculg? Dae-”

  She stopped herself from speaking Daerune’s name.

  Daerune was the god of death… he couldn't be responsible for sparing her life? Or he might be the only one who potentially could’ve.

  “Did I hear the voice of Daerune that day?” She called out into the silence. “Daerune, god of death, if you are listening, if anyone is listening… I demand a response.”

  Frustration finally gave way to resignation as the candle neared its end, and her prayers fell upon deaf ears.

  Gods below, I probably look insane.

  With a sigh, she gathered her supplies and returned them to their cabinets. Dipping her hands into a basin, she scrubbed the powdered herbs from her fingers, drying them on her skirt.

  Her gaze drifted back to the candle. The flame still flickered—but the wax had stopped melting.

  It burned without consuming.

  At her wit’s end, Lilit strode over and blew it out—a defiant act, one Bath had always warned her against. She had always taught her that blowing out communion or spell candles would blow away its effects or intentions—a show of disrespect.

  She angrily went to grab the dish. Just as her fingers touched the water of the dish, the tiny wick sputtered and crackled, reigniting itself.

  Lilit froze into place, staring at the candle as she slowly sat back down at the table. The flame danced, but the wax remained untouched, suspended in some unusual and unnatural state.

  She reached out, fingers inching toward the fire. No heat. No warmth.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Enough games.

  Lilit pinched the wick between her fingers to snuff it out. The moment her fingers opened, the entire room was plunged into darkness, and a coldness spread quickly throughout the area. The fire in the hearth was gone—the embers, the ashes—doused in an instant by an unseen force before the room around her began to fall into absolute darkness, swallowing up the space around her.

  Goosebumps prickled up her arms, and her heart pounded fiercely within her chest. Her body tensed, preparing for anything to emerge from the darkness.

  Or perhaps Daerune had decided to smite her, and she was already dead.

  Her eyes darted around, trying to find anything, yet the more she scanned, the more disorienting the void became. She had never experienced such thick and absolute darkness, an endless expanse of the deepest shade of black that felt suffocating and thick. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears as it became harder and harder to breathe, and the beginnings of panic and dread began to bubble in the pit of her stomach.

  Then—both the candle and the fireplace exploded back to life, but their flames were no longer natural. They burned black. Cold. Like living shadows curling and licking at the air.

  And then—

  “Oh, you are fun.”

  A voice. That voice. The same one she had heard as a child.

  Lilit’s head snapped up, her eyes darting in every direction. But all around her was void, a vast nothingness that left only her table and the fireplace visible, as though the rest of the world had simply ceased to exist.

  “Most mortals beg me to leave, they seldom ever summon me,” the voice mused, teasing, echoing from everywhere at once. “They whisper my name in fear or reverence, hoping I won’t listen too closely… but just close enough.” A pause. “But you—” a low chuckle, dark amusement laced in its tone, “you dare to snuff me out like a pesky little ember.”

  A presence settled behind her. Lilit dared not turn her head. She didn’t need to. She felt him.

  Despite his mischief, despite the taunting lilt in his voice, his presence was… calm. Steady. As if he had all the time in the world to indulge her.

  "Well, I suppose you do earn some credit for finally guessing the correct name," he murmured. “Took you long enough.”

  A ghost of a touch—hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

  Lilit sat frozen, staring into the black flames.

  She had his attention now.

  …

  Balthir, Eighth Day of the Twelfth Month, Albion

  There were nine palaces in the Imperial City, but none as grand as the Golden Palace, which loomed over them all. Yet, in Albion’s opinion, the true heart of the city—the best vantage point to witness its vast splendor—was the Tower of Ozarius.

  The tower had a storied past, commissioned by Albion’s great-grandmother, Queen Euphemia Bonum-Hovraek, who spared no expense in hiring the kingdom’s finest stonemasons. She demanded they construct a tower that would dwarf all others, and they succeeded. More than a century later, the Tower of Ozarius remained the tallest structure ever built by man—a monument to ambition and power.

  Carved from fine black marble, the tower’s construction began when Euphemia learned she was carrying her son, Ozarius II. Yet fate is rarely kind. The very year the stonemasons completed their masterpiece, the prince perished on the battlefield during the second war against the South. The tower itself was a cold, unyielding place—impossible to warm, no matter how fiercely the fires were stoked. A spiraling staircase of 686 steps led to its peak, where a massive bronze bell hung in solemn silence.

  Many claimed the tower was built as a tribute to a beloved son, a mother’s devotion carved into the skyline. But Albion had always heard a different tale.

  Princess Emalyn Hovraek Devrys, Ozarius II’s younger sister and the last surviving member of her generation, had spoken of another version of history—one rarely whispered within the court. The last time she visited, for Albion’s coronation as Heir, she shared a chilling revelation: Queen Euphemia had not loved her son at all. She had loathed him.

  According to Emalyn, the Queen built the tower not to honor Ozarius II, but to celebrate his death. She had sent him to war, fully expecting him never to return. And when the stonemasons laid the final stone atop the tower, it was not in triumph but in bitter irony—for it became the very place where his death was announced to the world.

  King Ozarius I, stricken with grief, followed his son into the grave soon after. He had died of heartache, a moment in Albion’s family history that he remembered with nothing but shame.

  How weak must one be to die from grief? How utterly pathetic.

  Now, Albion used the Tower of Ozarius to oversee everything his family had built over the last three centuries. The Imperial City was a masterpiece in its own right, and the capital sprawling beneath it stood as a testament to generations of skilled architects and visionary craftsmanship. And yet, to Albion, it remained imperfect—a beautiful, unfinished canvas.

  He intended to be the one to perfect it. Once the empire was his, it would finally reflect the divine order it was always meant to.

  “Canary Maximilian approaches, Your Highness,” came Lief’s dry voice from behind.

  Albion didn’t turn. “How long do you suppose it’ll take him to climb the tower this time?”

  “It takes the average man five minutes,” Lief muttered, “so I’ll bet on twelve.”

  Albion drew out his pocket watch with a faint smirk. “Five Sols says it’ll take him thirteen.”

  “A drakon if our dear fat Canary makes it in less,” Lief countered.

  Albion raised a brow. “A drakon? How impertinent. Just how much am I paying you again?”

  “Three Sols a day,” Lief replied with a shrug. “Which adds up to a drakon by the end of the month. Give or take.”

  Albion chuckled. “Very well. Agreed.”

  They waited. True to form, at the thirteen-minute mark, the labored wheezing of Maximilian Marciza echoed up the stairs. Red-faced, drenched in sweat, he stumbled onto the landing, adjusting his heavy robes and blotting his forehead with shaking hands. Lief sighed and wordlessly handed over a drakon. Albion pocketed it without comment.

  Canary Maximilian Marciza—one of three Marcizas serving on the Council of Seven—belonged to one of the wealthiest houses in the Rheylanic Empire. Albion loathed everything about him.

  A seventh or eighth son of a fifth or sixth son, Maximilian had no hope of inheritance and less talent for public service. Rather than earn their stations, the Marcizas had secured positions in the Church through obscene donations, stuffing their surplus of unwanted sons into the priesthood. Over two generations, they had effectively taken control of the clergy—and used that control to meddle in every affair of the Imperial Household.

  Maximilian, in Albion’s eyes, was the worst of them: incompetent, insufferable, and as grotesquely bloated as the institution he served. The High Lark had undoubtedly stationed him here to irritate the Prince, and in return, Albion took every opportunity to make the man’s life a quiet misery.

  “I-I greet the Son of the Glorious Empire,” Maximilian gasped. “A truly… ah… magnificent view, Your Highness.”

  Albion didn't bother with pleasantries. “What was so urgent that the High Lark gave me only a day’s notice for your visit? I believe I made it very clear that I require at least a week’s notice before entertaining clergy.”

  “Y-yes, Your Highness,” Maximilian wheezed. “But this matter… could not wait.”

  “Then out with it.”

  “There has been a prophecy,” Maximilian said breathlessly. “At the turn of the new year… the five gods who sleep beneath God’s Eye Lake will awaken. They will rise and choose champions for the wars to come.”

  Albion arched a brow. “And?”

  “We know the Houses from which the champions will be drawn. Well… most of them.”

  Albion’s eyes narrowed. “Speak.”

  “One from the Imperial Household. One from House Marciza. House Devrys. And House Morgaine,” Maximilian stammered. “As for the fifth… we have only speculation.”

  Albion barked a laugh. “The gods your Church has spent centuries condemning as betrayers of the golden bloodline now plan to choose champions from it? Have I heard that right?”

  “We believe the great and holy Rheylore seeks to redeem—”

  “Redemption?” Albion cut in, scoffing. “That’s the tale the High Lark is spinning now?”

  “W-we have reason to believe your son Ozmund or your daughter Euphemia will be chosen, Your Highness,” Maximilian said quickly.

  Albion fell silent, weighing the implications. Then, coolly: “Recite the prophecy. Exactly as it was received.”

  Maximilian nodded, gulping air. “O-of course.” He cleared his throat and began:

  ‘When the blood of he who hath purloined the golden seat is cast back to soil,

  The deep slumber shall break.

  Five shall stir—old as silence, vast as night.

  Their eyes shall fall upon the waking world,

  Unseen and ever-watching.

  Not in faith shall they choose,

  But in strength unbent, in cunning unclouded,

  In hearts ablaze with storm and song.

  From the line gilded by golden flame shall the five arise.

  Not heirs. Not saints. But weapons, and wills, and war-wrought truth.

  Each shall bear the mark.

  Each shall drink of divinity.

  And through them, the gods shall walk again

  And forge the war-torn path to come.’

  Albion’s jaw tensed. When the blood of he who hath purloined the golden seat is cast back to soil… The golden Seat was a common term for the throne, but was it purloined?

  Stolen.

  “When the prophecy is made public,” Albion said sharply, “the first two lines are to be omitted. Understood? And where exactly did you get the information on who will be chosen?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Maximilian bowed, wiping his brow. “And the Oracle… she received many dreams the night she received the prophecy… the house crests flashed within her mind’s eye. A golden dragon for Hovraek, an Eagle for Morgaine, A fox with a snake in its mouth for Marciza, and the seahawk for Devrys…”

  “And the last champion.”

  “Only a location, a girl around seventeen in Tir na Súil.” He added.

  Albion brushed past him without another word, Lief close behind as they descended the tower.

  “Send your men,” Albion said quietly. “Two to each of my children. Inform them they are under house arrest under the pretense of an unspecified threat to their lives. And double my father’s medicine.”

  Lief gave him a sidelong glance, his expression shifting just slightly—but said nothing.

  “You should expect the desired result by the start of the year if we double the dose,” he said after a moment.

  “Excellent,” Albion replied, voice cold as marble. “And Lief… I want you to go to Tir na Súil, gather any information you can from the clergymen in the area about any details regarding the last champion, bring her to me, and I’ll give you three drakons if you are successful.”