On a brisk summer’s morning, Cedric sat alone at his 
study desk writing about whatever came to mind. 
Only his frequent glances through the open window gave 
him reprieve from writing. In the distance, he saw the 
immense pine trees on the edge of the hill swaying 
effortlessly with the wind. The power of the wind is great and 
beyond human comprehension, Cedric thought, feeling the 
chilling breeze sweep gently through his quarters. With his 
mind now at ease, he began to focus even deeper on his 
writings. Dipping his quill into the inkwell, he watched the 
liquid seep into the veins of the metal tip. He then raised it 
to his eyes and dipped it in again a few more times until he 
was satis#ed with the weight.  
Then, he pressed it down on his notebook and continued 
writing. 
My Unconscious Life 
I now have access to all the opportunities a person my age could 
hope for, and yet… I feel empty. I sometimes wonder to myself 
what my life would have been like had I not been awarded this 
prestigious scholarship. I feel like I am in a trance, a cycle of life I 
cannot escape. I feel like I am meant for something greater, but 
for what I cannot discern. Will my life always be so mundane 
and devoid of meaning? I want to do more.  
However, as things currently stand, I cannot imagine how I 
could possibly escape this cycle, this vicious, terrible cycle which 
envelops almost all who reach adulthood. Then again, though I 
know all of this, I am unconscious to my struggles, and thus, I do 
nothing to change it.  
Currently, I worry about how I will perform in my examinations 
and whether I will finally find a place among my peers. I wonder 
too if my yearnings for a perfect, sweet girl will come to pass. 
Finally, I wonder if I will ever become the master of my mind as 
I so desire.  
Though I suppose only you, my future reader, would know. So, I 
ask you, Cedric, how many of the things which you dream of 
now have come to pass? 
Everything? 
Nothing? 
Somewhere in between? 
In any case, I don’t have much more to say. How strange, isn’t it? 
That you and I are almost two different people, strangers who 
have never met and will never meet.  
Quite melancholic, I’d say. 
Farewell, for now. 
Sincerely, 

A noise stirred Cedric from his writings. He had been so 
deeply immersed in thought that it took some time for the 
sound to pierce his awareness. When he #nally registered 
the knock at the door, he closed his notebook, titled, The 
Wanderings of My Mind, with slow, deliberate care, and 
called out. 
‘Wait a moment.’ 
He sat still for a moment, listening. But no response 
ca2me. With a rising breath, he stood, placed his notebook 
gently on the desk, and made his way toward the door. 
Slowly, cautiously, he peered through.  
No one.  
What was that? He wondered. I could have sworn I heard a 
knock. 
He let out a sigh. Perhaps it was nothing, likely just 
another symptom of his frequent late nights staying up, 
scouring through books he borrowed from the great library 
that had little to do with his official studies but everything 
to do with his true interests. History, forgotten kingdoms, 
strange facts about distant lands—things no one else 
seemed to care for, but which gave him a profound sense of 
wonder and belonging. 
Brushing away the matter completely, his gaze drifted to 
the winding clock on the wall. His eyes widened seeing 
that it was so late in the day, almost ten minutes past the 
time he should have been seated in class. He grimaced as he 
turned back into his room and quickly gathered everything 
he needed for the day. His assigned books, a quill, a pencil 
and a few sheets of blank paper. Then, with a hurried 
breath, he stepped out into the hallway, #nding it 
completely empty. His unease deepened as he realised, with 
a tightening in his chest, that everyone else was already in 
class and he alone would have to walk in late. 
As Cedric moved swiftly through the hallway, he shook 
his head, irritated with himself. Then from a side corridor, 
another #gure emerged in frantic disarray, robes half on, 
shirt undone, hair uncombed. Edwin Normany. 
Edwin, a fellow student and a distant third son to some 
cousin of the Normany lord, was a name barely spoken and 
regularly forgotten. Among their cohort, he was o ften 
mocked and dismissed by those who clung to their lineages 
as if they were the only things they had, and oftentimes, 
they were.  
Cedric, of course, had no noble standing to cling to, and 
yet, he disliked being seen beside Edwin. Not out of pride, 
but because the association drew a kind of gaze he hated to 
be under. 
Edwin stumbled forward, clutching an unruly stack of 
books and papers to his chest. As he adjusted his shirt with 
one hand, the other failed him, and the entire pile 
collapsed at once, scattering across the (oor with a clatter 
that echoed through the corridor. 
Cedric sighed, walked over, and knelt beside him. ‘You 
always #nd the most dramatic ways to start the day,’ he 
said, handing a leather–bound book to Edwin. 
‘Thanks,’ Edwin muttered, red-faced. ‘I—I stayed up too 
late… thought I’d wake up with the sun, and then... well...’ 
‘Then you slept through the sun,’ Cedric replied, 
standing up, handing Edwin a few loose pages, ‘happens to 
the best of us.’ 
Edwin offered a crooked smile, freckles shi fting 
awkwardly across his cheeks as he continued fumbling with 
his buttons. ‘Do you think the professor will notice us 
coming in late?’ 
Cedric inhaled. ‘If he doesn’t, someone else will. Might 
as well hurry now and get the shame over and done with.’ 
They looked at each other brie (y before walking 
forward toward the stairwell. Cedric’s pace slowed slightly 
to match Edwin’s. The hallway stretched on ahead, lined 
with tall, paned windows that #ltered in the morning light 
and quiet, empty alcoves which the students normally 
inhabited during their breaks. They walked side by side  
down the corridor, Edwin struggling slightly under the 
disordered weight of his books. Cedric said nothing more. 
He didn’t need to. He walked on, feeling that the day was 
already slipping from his grasp. 
As they reached the long corridor that led toward the 
eastern stairwell, Cedric drifted inward. The echo of their 
footsteps mingled with the distant sound of morning bells, 
but his thoughts were elsewhere. A strange weariness clung 
to him—it was not the fatigue of a sleepless night—no, it 
was something deeper, something which felt unresolved in 
his mind. 
He thought of how swiftly his #nal year at the Royal 
College of Constaria was progressing. The days bled into 
one another, and the #nal examination was already 
looming around the corner, just a few weeks away now. 
There had been a time, not long ago, when everything in 
the capital had thrilled him. Constaria, planned, orderly, 
grand, had seemed to him the heart of civilisation, the 
jewel of the great nation of Albion. But now… now it felt 
small. Grand, yes, but dull. Cold. Constaria had begun to 
shrink around him as if its entire structure was falling into 
a vast pit of sand, pulling him along with it. It lacked the 
energy, the life of a real city, a city like Massilia, where he 
had been raised. 
His earliest memories began at seven, when he was 
#nally given the freedom to wander the streets of Massilia. 
Everything before that was a blur. He could not even 
remember when he had #rst come to Albion. But one thing 
was certain—upon his arrival, he had unconsciously shed 
all remnants of his past life, memories, bonds, friendships, 
even his old name. He had been renamed Cedric to make 
him palatable, to shape him into something that could be 
absorbed by Alban society without disruption. 
Back then, his parents were still hopeful, still close. His 
father had found work in a butchery, and his mother as a 
seamstress in a factory. The capital city of Gaul, Massilia, 
had struck him with its strange sophistication. Its many 
boulevards pulsed with colour and life, and even the chaos 
of its markets moved with rhythm and purpose. It was a 
city that breathed. He had loved it instantly—making fast 
friends among the local children, some of whom he still 
shared a distant bond with despite the years. His education 
at Lauriet, the Gaulic Youth College, had taught him much 
and left even more unanswered. Potential lovers, alternate 
paths, friendships that still lingered in his mind. He often 
felt he had never truly lived them, and then, as suddenly as 
it had all begun, the passage of time had left him behind. 
By the end of that chapter, without fully knowing why, 
he had resolved to become a military officer. And by some 
stroke of luck—or brilliance—he had secured admission 
into the Royal College of Constaria, a school typically 
reserved for the high–born. Cedric held no noble standing 
in Albion. His family belonged to a minor line in another 
nation entirely—Srivania. An ancient, sea–bound realm 
nestled between the mountains and the sea. It was an 
archaic, once completely isolated land, only unveiled to the 
rest of the world by voyaging Sletion ships. 
Srivania had always stood apart in his mind from the 
world he had now grown accustomed to. Its customs were 
older, stranger. Its religion, full of rites, spirits, and 
superstitions, had always repelled him. The natural land 
itself was beautiful, pristine, immense, but its people lived 
without structure, without the order he found so natural 
among the Albans. Cleanliness, hierarchy, precision—
Albion had these in abundance, and Cedric preferred it 
that way. 
He had been eighteen when his parents returned to 
Srivania, leaving him in Constaria so that he could begin 
his three–year study at the Royal College. They wrote 
often, kindly, but, in truth, he did not miss them. He loved 
them, yes, and they had been good to him, but he was glad 
to be alone. Glad to have distance, purpose, and the 
freedom to progress in life.  
Progress towards what?  
Cedric frowned at the thought.  
He did not know.  
As he paced up the stairs with Edwin in tow, his 
thoughts spiralled towards newer, more unpleasant 
memories. 
The #rst year at the Royal College had been unbearable. 
He had struggled to belong. Among the pale sons of 
Albion’s noble houses, his olive skin had set him apart, 
quietly but unmistakably. No one had spoken direct slurs, 
and only a few had made explicit gestures of exclusion. But 
every pause, every second look, every smile not returned 
had told him what he needed to know. He did not belong. 
Not truly.  
And yet, he had endured. No, more than endured. By 
the second year, he had carved a place for himself. He had 
earned a reputation for discipline, for excellence, for a 
seriousness that made even the more arrogant sons take 
pause. He was respected by most, as he had been 
throughout his life. And yet, he had never found a circle, 
never found a place where he truly belonged. 
Worse still, in his #nal year, the one in which he ought 
to be striving the hardest, he was slipping. His discipline 
was faltering. His grades, too. He could not explain why. 
Others had begun to notice, and so the reputation he had 
so meticulously built up was fading. That terri#ed him the 
most. The thought that others would see him now as a 
failure, a loser, an outcast. The #re that had once driven 
him—unconscious and #erce, now burned low. He found 
himself questioning everything. Why should he try? What 
was it for? Was there meaning in this e ffort? Or was it 
being wasted here, in halls that no longer inspired him?  
Never before had he asked himself these questions. The 
thoughts lingered like a shadow in his mind as he and 
Edwin climbed the winding stairs of the eastern tower. 
Their steps echoed softly against the stone, quick and 
irregular, hurried but silent. The air grew colder the higher 
they climbed, #lled with the scent of old dust and the faint 
scent of morning dew. 
As they passed the #rst great arched window, Cedric 
glimpsed the sun just beginning to rise above the horizon 
beyond the distant pine trees. The trees stood tall and 
motionless, their dark shapes outlined by gold. And with 
every level he and Edwin ascended, the sun climbed with 
them, rising slowly but steadily. The #rst rays touched his 
forehead as they reached the third window. By the #fth, the 
sun had fully cleared the trees, casting a warm glow 
through the windows and over the stairwell. He closed his 
eyes for a moment and allowed the sun to grace him.  
The tower they were ascending was one of the two 
(anking the main building, which the College was a part 
of. Its uppermost windows were set with stained glass, each 
a work of reverent, Lucerian art. As they neared the top, 
the light fragmented into intricate colours. Shades of red 
and blue and deep violet refracted from the tall glass and 
painted the walls, the stairs, their robes, and their faces as 
they passed.  
They turned left onto the corridor of the top (oor. The 
ceiling here was vaulted, supported by carved stone. 
Shadows hung below the oil lanterns, not currently lit, 
making the corridor feel more ominous than it should. 
Along the hallway were many rows of doors leading to 
different rooms. Among them stood the door to their 
classroom, which they found was shut.  
‘Ahh! The door’s closed,’ Edwin muttered anxiously. 
‘It is,’ Cedric replied, looking through the high arched 
window, seeing that the sun was already a quarter ways 
through the sky. He exhaled sharply. ‘They’ve de#nitely 
started. No point standing out here. Let’s go,’ he said, 
tugging lightly on Edwin’s robe. ‘Just walk in con#dently.’ 
Cedric reached for the long brass handle and pushed it 
open. The door opened with a long, agonising creak that 
seemed to drag across the spines of every student in the 
room. All at once, their heads turned towards them. Cedric 
held his breath. The silence and the blank looks of 
disapproval stung more than any jeer. 
They slipped in, heads downcast as they tried to move 
silently to the back, but their movement was caught by the 
voice they feared the most. 
‘You two! You’re late!’ Came the voice of their Professor, 
Saserna. 
Cedric halted mid–step, chest tensing. 
‘I was just informing the other students about the 
importance of punctuality,’ Professor Saserna continued, 
his tone sharp and cold, ‘especially as your #nal 
examinations are ever approaching.’ 
The old professor stood at the centre of the room, a 
small book held tightly in one hand. His tiny spectacles 
were perched on the end of his hooked nose, his eyes 
forever narrowed, as though everything in the world was a 
disappointment to him. But today, the disappointment was 
focused. The glare was personal. 
‘Sit down and pay attention!’ he barked. ‘You two have 
already missed much.’ 
Cedric obeyed, his face hot, his blood steaming dully in 
his ears. This wasn’t who he was. This kind of tardiness, this 
lack of preparation—it was beneath him. He was furious, 
but only at himself. He hadn’t even the dignity of an 
excuse. 
After a time, when the moment had settled, came the 
muffled laughter, the indignant snicker. He turned his head 
slightly and saw them. Septimius and Decimus Sletion. 
Septimius, the heir to House Sletion, and Decimus, his 
distant cousin. They were seated near the centre of the 
room, smirking as they turned to look at him, laughing at 
unheard jests. Not openly, but just enough to be heard by 
him. Just enough to humiliate. 
Cedric said nothing. He didn’t glance again. He simply 
looked down at his desk, then up at the board, pretending 
to follow the professor’s monotonous voice and slow–
moving #ngers, which blurred under his vision.  
His eyes drifted sideways, to the window. The glass was 
high and wide, set into the wall like a frame which revealed 
a brighter world. The room they were seated in was the 
highest in the entire college. Only the western tower on the 
opposite side rose above it, and even then, by no more than 
a few (oors. He was glad that Saserna’s class—The Logistics 
of National Supply Chains—was held in such a room, 
surrounded by high windows and open light, for this made 
it all the more bearable. The subject matter was dense, 
important perhaps, but lifeless in its delivery. Cedric could 
never bring himself to care which province grew the most 
barley or how many days it took for a shipment of iron to 
reach the inland foundries by train. Though the subject 
itself was insufferable, the view made it endurable. He 
always aimed for a seat by the window, and he had 
managed to #nd one, even though he had entered late. 
Edwin, thankfully, had been forced into the only remaining 
seat on the other end of the room, giving Cedric the 
quietness he desired. The lessons bored him more and more 
these days, but the windows—the windows never did. 
Through them, the world was always interesting. 
From here, he could see the entire expanse of the Palace 
and College grounds, the wide walkways, the neat gardens, 
the distant shapes of lower towers and dormitories.  The 
Royal College was no ordinary school. It was the pinnacle 
of academia in Albion, a place where the young nobles of 
the great houses were tempered and moulded into the 
instruments of the realm. Military o fficers, diplomats, 
governors, judges—this was where they were made. 
The Royal Palace and the Royal College were housed in 
a singular structure of stone and splendour—built not 
merely to house power, but to shape those who would one 
day wield it. From the front, it appeared seamless. Two 
near–identical towers (anking a long, colonnaded body, 
each stone cut from the same pale stone, each arch and 
balustrade echoing the same design. To any who stood at 
the gates, the College and the Palace were one. It spanned 
the crest of the city’s highest hill, its grand form de#ned by 
bold Constarian architecture. Arched windows, high 
gables, and domed roofs gave it the look of a place both 
sacred and imperial.  
The far eastern section and tower housed the Royal 
College. From the base to the tower’s peak sprang lecture 
halls, dormitories, and libraries. Woven into the corner, 
separate in purpose, yet close enough to remain ever 
immersed in the rule of the realm. Ivy trailed its archways, 
and stone reliefs from the Old Empire peered down from 
the weathered facades. Those in their #nal year, the third 
years, were often brought deeper into the palace itself. 
There, they would sit in on minor councils, observe 
diplomatic receptions, or be made to rehearse audiences 
and staged negotiations. Never anything of real 
consequence, but always serious, always purposeful. For 
many of them would one day replay these same 
interactions in the real world. When Cedric was in his #rst 
year, the thought had thrilled him. He had longed for the 
day he too would walk those halls. But now that he was in 
his #nal year, the excitement had long faded. In truth, he 
sometimes dreaded stepping foot inside the Palace at all. 
The rest of the structure—the western tower, the central 
halls, the royal apartments behind the main façade—
belonged to the Palace itself. Externally, it looked the same, 
but internally, the architecture grew broader, more 
decorative. High inner balconies, ceremonial chambers, 
and long corridors lined with banners and paintings. 
Together, the Palace and the College formed a single, living 
edi#ce.  
What was taught in the east was practised in the west.  
What was rehearsed by the students was lived by the 
statesmen. Yet they all moved within the same body, under 
the same roof. Together, the Palace and the College 
watched over Constaria like twin crowns—one of power, 
the other of learning. 
Yet, from where Cedric sat now, he could not see the 
Palace. The windows here gave him only the view of the 
western grounds. However, from the other side of the 
room, just a few paces away, the side of the Palace could be 
seen clearly. He often chose those seats, if only to look 
upon the Palace and imagine a different life. 
He would gaze at its gleaming domes and high walls 
with a distant longing, as if staring might draw him nearer, 
as if some part of him still believed that through discipline 
and will, he might #nd a way to belong there. But he never 
would. He knew that. Not because it was impossible for 
him, but because a certain part of him refused the idea, a 
part he did not fully understand. If he were to belong 
somewhere, then he would do so completely, not partially. 
The Palace was Albion’s crowning jewel. Its once–
revolutionary design had shaped the course of Lucerian 
architecture for centuries, ever since its construction over 
twelve hundred and twenty-two years ago in the year 600 
LC by the great King Constarius—once a general of the 
Old Empire. The Lucerian Calendar, or LC, marked time 
from the birth of Lucer himself. All years preceding that 
moment were known as BLC. Before Lucerian Calendar. 
Constarius’s reign had marked the split of the province 
of Albion from the Ascanian Empire into its own sovereign 
nation. More than that, his conversion to Lucerianism 
marked the end of the old age and the beginning of the 
new. Within a hundred years of his rule, the Empire of 
Ascania had collapsed entirely. Yet, even now, many 
nations, both great and small, still clung to the memory of 
Ascania. Some claimed to be its true successors, though 
only a few could speak of such lineage with any real 
authority.  
Albion was one such nation, for it claimed to have 
preserved true Ascanian dignity long a fter the capital, 
Ascania, had lost it. To Constarius, the break from the 
empire was no betrayal—it was cleansing. The city of 
Ascania still clung to its ancient rites—old, blasphemous, 
and in de#ance of the Lucerian creed that had begun to 
sweep across the continent. Constarius condemned the 
ancient rites. He declared them rot that had weakened the 
heart of the empire. 
Thus, in time, the old ways vanished. What remained 
were fragments, myths, symbols, vague remnants treated 
with suspicion or outright hostility. Cedric often wondered 
if such erasure was just, and why Lucerianism could not 
coexist with other belief systems which it continually 
sought to destroy. It had tried to encompass the world and 
purge all that stood outside its order, and yet it had failed. 
This was not to mention Muharanism and Falarianism, the 
other two heads in the trinity of belief that spanned half 
the world. The Lucerians and Muharans were ideologically 
opposed for reasons Cedric did not fully grasp, despite 
their worship of the same god. The source of both religions, 
however, stemmed from the Falarians, the relatively 
minuscule clique that had inadvertently founded these 
belief systems. Cedric wondered where and when the 
Lucerians and Muharans had diverged into two opposing 
doctrines born from the same god—the Falarian god. 
Completely apart from this trinity stood Srivania, a 
small nation that had remained Astran, as had many other 
lands—distant, de#ant, and dwindling with each passing 
century. Why had Lucerianism found no foothold in 
Srivania, a realm more ancient than Ascania itself? He 
recalled then the whispered rumours of Gaulic villages that 
still honoured the old gods. Moreover, in distant lands such 
as Alandir, the last western frontier, there were noble 
houses and island sanctuaries that openly claimed Astran 
heritage. They had not bowed to Lucerianism. Not entirely. 
In Albion, once the second heart of Luceranism a fter 
Latinum, the fervour had begun to fade. The blind 
reverence for Lucer, the self–proclaimed son of god, was 
weakening. Across the continent of Aerona, the creed no 
longer held the same unshaken dominion it once did. Some 
nations, notably Hestrisis, had already severed ties between 
religion and state. Others were following as they slowly 
adopted a secular mode of life no longer bound to Lucerian 
churches. 
Despite this, public worship of anything other than the 
state religion was to risk the label of Astran—heretic, devil 
worshipper, enemy of the so–called divine order. The word 
alone was enough to forsake one to condemnation. Cedric 
found the label crude, the judgement behind it even more 
so. He could not reconcile the Lucerian doctrine’s 
absolutism with the beauty it often inspired. The grand 
cathedrals, the illuminated stained–glass windows, the 
artworks that bore the marks of Heaven. This tension lived 
within him always—it was one he could not #nd a 
resolution to. What troubled him most was the thought of 
the many Srivanian settlers who had come to Albion 
seeking work, hoping to toil away their bodies so that they 
could send coin back to their families. They could not 
worship freely. They honoured their Astran gods in silence, 
hidden from sight, their faith forced into the shadows. 
‘Now, we must consider the logistics of transport in old 
Albion,’ their professor said, pointing at a chalk diagram 
he had drawn on the blackboard. ‘Constarius kept much of 
Ascania’s road networks but dismantled many others…’ 
The professor’s words blurred in his mind, and Cedric 
drifted back into his own thoughts. When Constarius 
seceded from the Ascanian Empire, the territory of Albion 
was nominally larger, encompassing the city of Hestrisis 
and its surrounding regions. Back then, Constarius had 
divided the nation into three great houses, each swearing 
allegiance to the throne whose capital he named a fter 
himself, Constaria. One such house no longer existed. It 
had been dismantled by Constarius himself. His sister’s 
house. They were granted dominion over the central 
province of Caesonia. And yet, sometime in the century 
that followed, all mention of it vanished, its name erased, 
its banners forgotten. Her house had opposed him, and in 
response, he had erased it, not just in war, but in history.  
The remaining two houses governed their lands as 
intended, and beneath them a web of minor houses 
struggled and schemed for power and relevance. A third 
great house arose only later: the Normany, once a wild 
people held beyond the empire’s wall, then bound into the 
realm by marriage two hundred years ago. Thus three great 
houses still endured, though they were not the same three 
that had stood at the founding. 
The Sletions, their banner a white phoenix upon a 
sapphire backdrop, held the western coast and its islands. 
Their wealth was rooted in naval power and foreign trade. 
Their opulence was infamous. Theirs was a name spoken 
with both awe and contempt. Cedric despised them. They 
were descended from one of Constarius’s generals, a man 
who had conquered the coast and named it after himself. 
Their arrogance was ancestral. 
The Normany, by contrast, were harder, colder. Their 
crimson red banner was marked by a large black hand 
holding a two–headed axe. Their domain stretched across 
Albion’s greatest span, from the frozen hills of the far 
north to the narrow slip of fertile land just above the old 
walls of Hadrius. For centuries, that wall had stood as the 
empire’s, and later Albion’s, shield—holding back the 
barbarous ancestors of the Normany. Now, the Normany 
walked freely within Albion’s borders, their integration 
sealed through marriage after three centuries of resistance. 
Yet, they had never fully submitted. Rebellions had (ared 
since then, more than once. Their pride still ran deep. It 
was even rumoured that the current Lord of Normany 
sought independence from greater Albion. 
Then there were the Gauls—their banner a white tree 
set against an emerald #eld. They were neither as wealthy 
as the Sletions nor as brutal as the Normany. They lived 
comfortably in their fertile lands. Where the Normany 
lacked in trade, and the Sletions in land, the Gauls lacked 
in nothing. Their land gave them all they needed. From 
that peace, they became craftsmen, scholars and emissaries. 
Their roots, too, ran back to another general of Constarius, 
one who, rather than conquering in glory, had rebuilt a 
fallen province and named it anew. Gaul. In honour of the 
land that had once resisted the empire, and later, yielded to 
it. 
Perhaps it was his close ties to the Gauls, or that 
Massilia was the city of his childhood. Or perhaps it was 
the ideals of their house, which he still honoured. 
Whatever the cause, Cedric had always felt closest to the 
Gauls. Of all the great houses, they seemed the least 
corrupted by their power. 
Finally, there was the throne itself, small in land but 
vast in power. It sat at the heart of the realm, and all 
houses answered to it. Each year, a portion of the #nest 
soldiers from every house was transferred into the Royal 
Army, Albion’s largest and most powerful army. Upon 
swearing allegiance, they relinquished their house and its 
colour for the remainder of their service and took instead 
the white of the Crown. From that moment on, they served 
only the realm. 
Beyond soldiers, taxes too (owed from every province 
into Constaria, feeding the throne’s treasury, strengthening 
the capital’s grip. The system was not without (aws, but in 
Cedric’s eyes, it was a structure of genius. Measured, 
orderly, and born of the will of a single man. 
Constarius…  
Cedric shifted in his seat, his mind turning to the 
thought of that towering #gure. What possessed you, I 
wonder… to dream of something like this? To manifest it into the 
world with nothing but the force of your own vision…? 
A sharp exclamation by the Professor made Cedric shift 
his attention back to class. ‘So now, we must consider why 
Relith was able to maintain a war on all fronts for such an 
extended period of time,’ he said, pointing his ruler to the 
class. ‘Who knows the answer?’ 
Relith… 
The name rang like a bell. Rarely spoken in public, it 
carried the weight of something dangerous. Fifty–six years 
before Cedric was born, a man named Relith had risen 
from Sanctum Deutsch Roma, often referred to as S.D.R, a 
crumbling realm across the western waters, once a 
formidable neighbour to Albion and Hestrisis. The man 
had not come from nobility. He bore no crest, no claim, no 
honoured bloodline. And yet in the span of two decades, 
he had completely reshaped the world. 
Relith claimed he sought power not for himself, but for 
his people, for the nation he loved. His beloved nation that 
he had tried to elevate to the level of Ascania, true Ascania, 
before Lucerianism, a religion he so deeply yet covertly 
despised. Cedric had only come to know these reserved 
views through a collection of private correspondences 
between Relith and his advisors. In those pages, he began 
to see him clearly—far more so than even the professors at 
the Royal College whose interpretations were dulled by 
doctrine, emotion, and the safety of reinforced thought. 
Cedric’s, by contrast, was shaped by reason—and by his 
un(inching will to see things as they were, rather than as 
he wished them to be. 
Immediately upon his rising, Relith had proclaimed his 
vision to the world in full force, gathering to his (ag those 
disillusioned with the hollow order of the present age. For 
a moment, it seemed the #re of the old world had returned. 
His people loved him, foreign rulers respected him, and for 
a time he was revered across borders. Under his rule, S.D.R 
had risen to become the foremost power of the age. Its 
army was unmatched, disciplined, relentless. They struck 
with precision, their cavalry as swift as lightning, their 
cannon #re—thunderous. They swept across Aerona and 
left little standing in their wake. 
But the #re of Sanctum Deutsch Roma under Relith 
burned too hot. His ambition moved too quickly. He 
reached for too much, too fast. His ideas, his rituals, his 
very presence threatened the new consensus of the 
modernising world. After the war broke out, a great 
coalition formed. Albion, Hestrisis, Castille, Aragon, 
Narvagrod, Scaelia and many more, all backed by the 
hidden purse of the Falarians. They descended upon 
Relith’s uprising with overwhelming force, and he was 
utterly defeated. Crushed. Erased from records, from 
monuments, from presence. Only his name endured. Relith. 
To speak it in public was an act of suspicion. To 
venerate it, treason. Yet this did not stop Cedric from 
scouring the archives of the Royal College to read of him, 
secretly, carefully, in banned histories and forgotten 
manuscripts. From all that he had learned, what disturbed 
Cedric the most was not what Relith had said, or even 
what he had done. What disturbed him was how much he 
had understood. 
‘Professor,’ said Gabriel Gaul, heir to the Gaulic house, 
raising his hand. ‘Relith was able to maintain a war on all 
fronts because of the e fficient and extensive 
communication strategy deployed by his loyal troops, 
which was then outdone by our counter—reconnaissance,’ 
Gabriel recited like the studious scholar he was. 
‘That’s wholly incorrect,’ Saserna replied, shaking his 
head. ‘Anyone else care to try?’ 
Gabriel looked unsettled and sank down in his seat. 
Cedric raised an eyebrow, noting how that was a rare 
misstep from Gabriel. There was, of course, nothing wrong 
with the lordling’s answer, but he ought to have known 
that every profession saw the world through their own 
narrow lens. Each believed themselves the sole or at least 
the primary cause of every major event.  
Cedric, understanding this, anticipated what Saserna 
wanted to hear. Two other students offered their answers, 
but the professor quickly, ruthlessly dismissed them. 
Cedric considered raising his hand and looked around the 
class, now #lled with anxious silence. With a quiet sigh, he 
raised his hand, and, at once, Saserna pointed his ruler at 
him, marking him as the next sacri#ce on the block.  
‘Professor, Relith was able to maintain a war on all 
fronts because of the logistics of the national supply chain 
at the time in S.D.R, which was extensive and effective. It 
was only after the collapse of this supply chain that he 
began to lose the war,’ Cedric said quickly. 
For a moment, Saserna said nothing as the whole class 
awaited his response, then the professor gave a small 
approving nod. A collective breath passed through the 
room in relief.  
Edwin smiled cheerfully and looked upon him proudly 
from across the room, but this only made Cedric smirk in 
discontent. How absurd this all was. Not even the professor 
seemed to realise that Cedric had simply restated the 
subject of the class as the answer. He let the thought fade. 
It wasn’t worth the energy. Instead, he glanced around at 
his classmates, each of them cloaked in long, dark robes 
marked with the colours of their houses. The Sletions’ 
robes had blue trimmings, the Gaul’s had green and the 
Normany red. Students from minor houses with no 
affiliation, or those without noble blood like Cedric, wore 
grey trimmings. To his knowledge, no other non–noble 
currently studied at the college, and only one had ever 
graduated. That was Patroclus, a brilliant student of 
Normany origin, born without title or wealth. When 
Cedric began his #rst year, Patroclus was already in his 
third. He remembered watching him from afar, admired by 
all, walking the halls with a natural authority that even the 
nobles did not question. Cedric had tried to mirror that 
presence, but he had never quite managed it. 
Now Patroclus served as a personal guard to the crown 
prince of Albion, Roderic. His rise had been extraordinary, 
and many believed that he would reach even further in the 
future. What is beyond that? A Manus Regis?  Cedric 
wondered if he too would rise to such acclaim by the time 
he graduated. He doubted it. There was no clear path 
ahead. Only two choices stood before him, and neither 
truly called to him. 
One was the path of an academic or diplomat, a life 
spent in closed rooms, among men who spoke often but 
understood little of the world beyond their walls. The 
other was to join the Royal Army as a prefect, the rank 
automatically granted to graduates of the Royal College. 
Many chose that path. It was stable, well–paid, and carried 
the weight of respect. The same could not be said of the 
scholarly #elds, which promised little beyond sheltered 
obscurity. What worried Cedric was not the uniform nor 
the title, but the years. The role required a minimum of #ve 
years in active service. Most served ten. Why? He wasn’t 
even certain. But ten years would make him him thirty–
two. Iskandar had conquered the world by thirty. Cedric 
could not bear the thought of surrendering that time to a 
cause he did not believe in.  
That thought still lingered in his mind when the scrape 
of chairs snapped him back to the present. Class had 
ended. Students were rising, gathering their books, #ling 
out with the usual mix of idle chatter and absent–minded 
routine. 
Edwin approached him. ‘Coming, Cedric?’ his dull–eyed 
friend asked faintly. 
‘No. I’ll stay a little longer,’ Cedric said, his tone quiet. 
‘Are you sure Professor Saserna will be #ne with that?’ 
‘Probably not. But he doesn’t have to know.’ Cedric’s 
gaze drifted to the side. 
Edwin hesitated. ‘Alright then. I’ll see you later.’ 
‘See you,’ Cedric replied, watching Edwin walk out, 
leaving him alone in the tower. 
He appreciated Edwin’s kindness. It was rare at the 
College. But there was always a faint dissatisfaction he 
could never quite dispel. Edwin was simple. Unremarkable. 
Cedric never felt truly seen by him, never challenged. 
There was no sharpness in their conversations, no weight. 
Though he valued Edwin’s loyalty, he o ften left their 
exchanges feeling more alone than before. At times, he 
feared that too much time in Edwin’s company might dull 
him—that his docile nature might begin to seep into his 
own. 
Pushing the thought away, Cedric slumped forward and 
let his gaze settle on the grains of wood on his desk. He 
traced their patterns absent–mindedly, lost in their 
abstract spirals, and wondered how he had come so far, yet 
still felt so far behind. Compared to Srivanians his age, he 
was leagues ahead, but compared to the noble sons of 
Albion, he was always reaching, never quite able to grasp 
the opportunities that were so easily a fforded to them. 
Unlike those born to powerful fathers or great houses, 
Cedric had to continually claw his way toward relevance. 
He had to forge his own path—no one else would lay it for 
him. This emboldened him, but, beneath that, it terri#ed 
him even more. His path was steep, and his ambition—his 
true ambition—was vast. So vast that only extraordinary—
indeed, almost impossible—success could ever bring it 
within reach. 
He stayed like that for some time, motionless. It was 
unlike him. He usually hated sitting still. Restlessness had 
always been a part of him. Yet now, something kept him 
anchored. Then came the sound of footsteps climbing the 
tower stairs. His body tensed. Panic (ickered across his 
face as he looked around, mind racing. If he was caught 
alone in an empty classroom, there would be questions, 
scolding, maybe worse. His other class would not begin for 
another hour, but that was no excuse—the College was 
strict—no students were to be in classrooms alone—that 
was a rule known to all. He considered hiding, but, if that 
failed, the punishment would double. He could pretend to 
have fallen asleep, but could he sell the lie convincingly? 
Before he could decide, the footsteps grew louder, closer, 
until the door creaked open slowly. 
***
Cedric drew a steady breath and sat up straighter in his 
chair. Who could it be?  he wondered, #ngers tightening 
around the edge of his desk. The door had opened halfway, 
then stopped, as if whoever was behind was waiting for 
him to speak. Cedric #xed his gaze on the door, unmoving, 
then, after a moment, he spoke. ‘Y–you may enter.’ Don’t be 
afraid, he told himself, swallowing his fears. 
The door creaked fully open, and a tall, broad #gure 
stepped through—cloaked and imposing. The light of the 
day cast long shadows over the man’s face, revealing 
nothing but a thick beard beneath the hood. Slowly, 
deliberately, the #gure closed the door behind them, then 
began their approach. 
Cedric sat still, tension coiling in his limbs, but he did 
not (inch. Who could it be? The question echoed in his 
mind, but no answer came. His thoughts scrambled. A 
visitor? A professor? A thief? He didn’t know, and because he 
didn’t know, he didn’t move. 
Had this been the streets of Massilia or some alley in 
Srivania, he might have stood, braced himself, prepared for 
the worst. But here, in the Royal College, in this restrictive 
classroom, he was bound by its stillness, by its rules. He 
could not act freely. 
The hooded man said nothing, and for a long while, the 
room remained silent. Seizing the moment, Cedric rose to 
his feet.  
‘Who are you? Why d–do you enter this place?’ he said, 
coldly staring at the man. A strange calmness had 
overcome him, as it often did when he was faced with tense 
situations. It was a trait he prided himself on. 
The hooded man relaxed, scoffed and shook his head. 
‘What nonsense, my boy. Is that how you greet a visitor 
who graces you with their presence?’ 
The deep, resonant voice of the man sounded oddly 
familiar, but Cedric was unable to decipher whom it 
belonged to. The sensation felt like catching a scent long 
forgotten or walking into a room and forgetting why you 
had entered in the #rst place. He couldn’t quite place it.  
Cedric eyed the man’s long, dark cloak. There could be a 
concealed weapon under there,  he thought, fear trembling at 
his lips. He quickly glanced at an ornamental spear on the 
wall and grimaced at how far away it was. The man could 
easily slash him down before he could ever reach it. He 
cycled through grim possibilities in his mind, but his 
thoughts broke off when the man lifted his hands. Cedric 
tensed and stepped back on instinct—until he understood 
the motion. The man was only lowering his hood. 
That simple gesture stretched on as Cedric half expected 
something inhuman to emerge from the shadowed veil, 
some ancient thing summoned from the dark. He braced 
himself, but what greeted him was a smile.  
A familiar one.  
The hood fell away and revealed the face of Lord Cassius 
Gaul, the Headmaster of the Royal College. 
Lord Cassius stepped fully into the light. His smile was 
mild, unreadable. He drew back his cloak, revealing a #ne 
doublet beneath, dark green with silver accents—a mark of 
his house conformed to the colours of the crown, silver and 
white. 
‘I trust I didn’t frighten you too much,’ he said, his voice 
carrying a distinctive noble weight. 
Cedric didn’t answer immediately. ‘No—no, of course 
not,’ he let out quickly. His mind was still unsteady, but 
already, he felt the quiet sting of shame—the kind a man 
feels when caught in a moment of heightened emotion, 
stripped of his composure. 
Lord Cassius looked around the room with a faint, 
amused expression. ‘I was out walking. A morning stroll 
through the city, I didn’t want to be recognised, so I wore 
this cursed thing. I had nowhere else to take it o ff.’ He 
tugged lightly at the cloak, then let his hand fall. ‘I needed 
to fetch a few reports I left behind yesterday. Thought I’d 
come up quietly. And yet, to my surprise, I #nd you here, 
Cedric, alone in this room.’ 
Cedric straightened, sweeping his robe as if to appear 
composed, although blood was rushing to his face. ‘Yes, I… 
I stayed back to think a little.’ 
‘Hmm, I see,’ the Headmaster said, gazing at him with 
an indiscernible expression. ‘And how are you #nding this 
semester?’ 
The question was simple, but Cedric could feel the 
weight behind it. ‘Good,’ he said, a bit too quickly. ‘All is 
well.’ 
The Headmaster nodded slowly. He studied Cedric with 
eyes far sharper than the warmth of his tone su ggested. 
Cedric wondered if the Headmaster had personally seen 
his records—noticed the faltering grades, the lapses in 
effort, the unmistakable pattern of inconsistency. 
But Lord Cassius did not press—instead, he walked over 
to Cedric’s desk and glanced down at the parchments and 
scattered books. ‘You stay behind after class, even when no 
one asks you to. You challenge your professors without 
arrogance. You think more than you speak. A rare 
combination.’ 
Cedric said nothing as relief washed over him. He was 
being praised instead of scolded. How absurd, he thought. 
The Headmaster looked out the window, his voice 
softening. ‘When I questioned you for your scholarship, I 
recall how boldly you spoke, not with entitlement nor fear, 
but with a certainty that even the most seasoned of men 
lack.’  
Cedric searched for a reply, but what was there to say? 
The praise unsettled him. It felt like a prelude to something 
else, something heavier. So, he said nothing. Then, the Lord 
turned back to him. 
‘Tell me, Cedric. What is it you plan to do a fter the 
College?’ 
The question startled him. His answer came before he 
could shape it. ‘I—I’m… considering the Royal Force.’ 
Cassius gave a slight nod. ‘A common path. Many take 
it. Stability, respect, a #ne uniform.’ 
But something in his tone shifted. 
‘Still, I wonder if that is the right path for you.’ 
Cedric blinked. 
‘Gaul always needs good men. We lack emissaries who 
understand both the world as it is, and what it could be. 
Perhaps you should consider that instead. You may #nd the 
cause more suited to your nature.’ 
Cedric fumbled. ‘I—I see,’ he said, not knowing why the 
Headmaster was telling him this. 
Lord Cassius adjusted his cloak again, his movements 
slower now, as if weighed by some unspoken fatigue. ‘This 
is my #nal year here as well, you know. After this semester, 
I return to Gaul, to Massilia.’ 
‘Truly?’ Cedric asked. 
‘Yes,’ the headmaster replied. ‘The Crown Lands are… 
tiring. The politics. The noise. I’m needed elsewhere.’ 
There was something beneath those words, something 
deeper which Lord Cassius did not want to reveal. Cedric 
chose not to linger on the thought. He nodded, quietly. 
Cassius slowly paced towards the front of the classroom 
and stared out of one of the tall windows that afforded a 
view of the Palace. His voice shifted, less performative now, 
more personal. 
‘The realm is not well, Cedric. You see it, don’t you?’ he 
said, his eyes #xed on the distant outline of the Palace 
beyond the glass.  
Drawn by the weight in his tone, Cedric rose from his 
seat and stepped beside him.  
‘The Normany beat their drums louder every year, 
rattling their axes with pride and thirst. War is etched into 
their blood, and yet none among us dares to curb their 
temper. The Sletions sit fat and idle atop their gold, they 
grow rich off trade, they hoard like dragons, refusing to 
share it equitably with the rest of the realm. And my own 
house…’ he paused, a bitter twist at the edge of his mouth, 
‘we do nothing. As ever, we remain neutral, blind to both 
#re and decay.’ 
Cedric listened quietly as the Headmaster’s voice grew 
heavier. 
‘But worse than all that, something darker has been 
taking root. Astran cults. Whispers, symbols, gatherings in 
the far–off #elds. In the very lands of Gaul. The Holy See is 
watching closely now. Not only Albion’s chapter, but 
Latinum as well. They sense what I fear… Something old is 
returning. Something that never truly died.’ He sighed 
then, slowly, as if the weight of it all was too much to bear, 
his eyes did not leave the window. 
‘My eldest brother is to blame. Titus. He was once a 
magni#cent orator, a passionate, active Great Lord. But his 
heart… his heart was never faithful. For decades, he spent 
his energy quietly restoring Astran rites. Festivals. Icons. 
The old Ascanian (ame. Publicly Lucerian, privately 
heretical. He revived traditions best left to ash. And now… 
he lies in Gaulica, barely conscious, with the mess of his 
life unravelling across our province. Aurelius and I are left 
to clean it up.’ 
Cassius turned slightly, his gaze falling back on Cedric. 
‘Albion remains frozen in time. We are a relic. Our 
neighbours—Hestrisis, Castille, even Sanctum Deutsch 
Roma—are shedding their skins, embracing the future. 
Tricolour (ags, factories, capital, all the trappings of 
modernity. And we? We cling to banners and bloodlines as 
if they will save us from the tide.’ 
Cedric was stunned. It had never occurred to him to 
think in such terms. For three years, he had peered at the 
world through the narrow lens of study. He had forgotten 
that beyond the walls of the Royal College, the world still 
turned—restless, changing, conspiring, unfolding—with or 
without his gaze. 
Cassius then turned to face him, his presence less 
looming but his words heavier. 
‘I need someone I can trust. Someone not affiliated with 
any house. I need help, Cedric. Help to root out the rise of 
these cults.’ 
Cedric sat up straighter, intrigued.  
‘Of course,’ he answered quickly, his voice steady but 
formal. Too formal. Even as the words left his mouth, he 
felt disgusted by them. Disgusted by how natural it felt to 
fall into place before Alban nobility, to perform the 
obedience expected of him. He had spoken with the voice 
of a servant rather than a free man, and yet, he said 
nothing more. He couldn’t. 
Cassius watched him closely, the sharpness in his gaze 
momentarily softening. Then, with a faint smile, the 
warmth of the Headmaster returned. 
‘Good,’ he said, grinning with familiar pride. ‘You set a 
#ne example to all Srivanians. I knew it was a wise choice 
to elevate you to this place.’ 
Complying and serving without thought…is that what passes 
for a fine example? Cedric thought brie(y, the faint ember of 
resentment (ickering behind his calm expression.  
The words were dressed in praise, but he heard the 
presumption underneath. A man such as Cedric could 
never have true sovereignty in his life—he would always 
have to comply with the whims and wants of the nobles 
above him. He forced a small nod, keeping his silence. 
Cassius turned slightly, his tone lightening as he shifted 
to another subject. ‘There is to be a great festival in the 
capital soon. You know of it—Floralia.’ He gave Cedric a 
brief glance. ‘Titus revived it during the early years of his 
long reign as Great Lord of Gaul. It’s a yearly tradition, yes
—but this year will be its last.’ 
There was a strange #nality in his tone, enough for 
Cedric to straighten his posture and listen to the 
Headmaster more attentively. 
The lord exhaled, a quiet, weary breath escaping him. 
‘Titus was born #fteen years before Aurelius and eighteen 
before I. Our father remarried in his later years. His #rst 
wife—well, never mind that. Titus is separated from my 
brother and I not only by age. We come from di fferent 
mothers, different worlds. Titus’s mother… she was a 
public heretic, praising Ascanian Gods, praying to them, 
all while shunning Luceranism. Thus Titus… Titus grew up 
differently, completely apart from what my brother and I 
regarded as normal.’ 
Cassius’s gaze wandered across the classroom, not 
focused on anything in particular. ‘He was already a young 
man by the time we were learning to walk. We shared a 
father, but little else. And over time… well, we began to 
quietly shun him. Too different. Too headstrong. Too 
attached to the past.’ Then, with a low chuckle, Cassius 
shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this.’ 
Cedric said nothing. There was nothing to say. He 
watched the man carefully now, trying to understand why 
he had been chosen for this conversation. 
Cassius continued, shifting his tone again, more 
pragmatic now. ‘The festival is in a week. The main 
ceremony is on Solisday eve. You’ll have a role to play in it, 
as the Fire Bearer.’ 
Cedric blinked. Floralia? Fire Bearer? A week? I always 
remembered Floralia taking place later in the year… Gods, time 
has really moved so fast this year. He thought as an unsettling 
feeling overcame him. 
‘There’s not much you’ll need to do. Recite a short 
script, nothing elaborate, then at the right moment, you’ll 
shoot a (aming arrow into the ceremonial wreath above 
that cursed statue in the city square. You’ve seen it done 
before, haven’t you?’ 
‘Yes, I have,’ Cedric replied cautiously, uncertain what 
any of this had to do with the deeper matters they’d just 
spoken of. 
‘Good. Then it should be simple enough.’ The lord 
paused for a moment, then added, more deliberately, ‘Once 
the arrow strikes the wreath, the statue will collapse—
#xed, of course, to fall just at the right moment. A sign. A 
spectacle. Proof to the people that the Lucerian god still 
speaks, still reigns… and that the old ways must fall.’ 
Cedric’s breath caught. So that was it. A false miracle. A 
scripted revelation. And he was to be the one to deliver it. 
He stood aghast. He had always known the noble houses to 
be cunning, calculated, cold. But this was something 
deeper, more insidious. He had not imagined such 
deception from a Gaulic lord. They had always struck him 
as honourable—an image they had carefully, almost 
artfully, preserved.  
He stared at Cassius, struggling to hide his unease. How 
many other moments in history had been choreographed 
like this? How many supposed divine signs had been 
nothing more than tricks played on faithful crowds?  
As if sensing the ripple of doubt, Cassius spoke again. 
‘Someone will come to you before the ceremony. They will 
prepare you and explain your role in more detail. Don’t 
worry.’ 
Cedric nodded slowly. But his mind was no longer with 
the lord. It was already spiralling as questions, discomfort, 
and an unspoken guilt settled into his chest. He didn’t 
want to take part in a lie. Not one this deliberate, this 
orchestrated…this unjust. But he also knew he couldn’t 
refuse. Cassius had wrapped his intent in (attery, veiled it 
behind warmth and authority, and before Cedric had even 
understood what was being asked, he had already accepted
—without question, without caution. He had trusted the 
Alban lord, the Gaulic lord, blindly. 
Cassius gave him one #nal look—the mask of warmth 
returned. ‘You’ll do well, Cedric. I know it.’  
Cedric gazed distantly through the window toward the 
Palace, trying to make sense of what was unfolding. He still 
admired the Gauls, and part of him felt he owed them this 
service. Surely this act was not so grave. Although Srivania 
was Astran by tradition, Cedric had never truly held any 
faith of his own. He believed in no gods—neither the 
Lucerian one nor the many Astran deities his homeland 
revered. That alone would have been heresy if ever spoken 
aloud. But it would never be. 
Still, there was another reason he found himself 
complying. The bearer of #re during Floralia played a 
central, exalted role. They stood at the heart of the 
ceremony, watched by royals, dignitaries, nobles, and 
commoners alike. Cedric remembered how August, the 
former young heir of House Gaul, had once stood upon the 
very stage he was now about to ascend. 
August, son of Lord Titus, had already been exceptional 
by reputation—but after the festival, he became more than 
just a promising heir. He became a symbol. Honourable, 
handsome, capable, just. His part in the rite had made his 
almost mythic image undeniable. 
And then, a month later, he perished in a great #re. 
Along with his mother and his younger sister. A tragedy, 
spoken of in hushed tones ever since. Such sudden, 
unexpected things, Cedric thought, can happen to anyone. Even 
me. 
He pushed the thought aside and tried to focus on what 
would be required of him. Memorising the script, at least, 
posed no challenge. Instead, what worried him was that 
#rst, he had not properly handled a bow in years—always 
favouring a sword during their weekly practices. The 
second—and far more dismaying—was his speech.  
The curse which had plagued him since he was a boy. It 
came and went like a storm, unpredictable and cruel. The 
more he thought of it, the worse it became. He had tried 
everything. Reasoning, resisting, recognising. Nothing 
worked. His condition had no logic, no mercy. Such an 
ailment was said to afflict the anxious, the uncertain. But 
Cedric was not that—he knew. So why then did it affect 
him? He did not know. 
He glanced up at the Lord, whose words had grown 
faint in his ears. But he brought his attention back just in 
time to see Cassius extend a hand. 
‘I knew you would be useful,’ the Lord said, shaking his 
hand with enthusiasm. ‘Now, I’ve given you much to think 
about, so I’ll leave you to it. And.’ He paused, reaching 
inside his cloak. ‘I almost forgot. This is the script. Take it, 
memorise its lines.’ 
‘Of Ch—’ Cedric began. But the phrase stuck in his 
throat. Dread coiled in his chest. Stuttering was tolerable. 
But this—this paralysis—this failure of the voice itself—was 
something else entirely. ‘S–Sure,’ he forced out instead. 
Fuck. 
‘Splendid!’ the Lord replied, handing him the folder. 
Then, a (icker of hesitation passed across Cassius’s face. ‘I… 
I must go now,’ he said abruptly, turning away as he did. 
Cedric remained silent, too mired in his own struggles 
to question the sudden shift in the Lord’s  demeanour. He 
watched the Lord walk to the door, pull his hood over his 
head, and glance back one last time.  
‘I will see you soon, my boy.’ 
Then he was gone. 
Cedric stood alone, unmoving. The silence returned. His 
thoughts churned. What had he just agreed to? What had 
he done? And worse—what was he becoming? 
*** 
The next day passed in a haze. Cedric tried to study, to 
maintain his rhythm, but the words on the page in front of 
him blurred in his mind. His thoughts were elsewhere—
adrift, fevered. He had told no one about his role as the 
Fire Bearer in Floralia and he had not yet looked at the 
script the Headmaster had given him. 
Around him, life at the College moved as it always had. 
Boys drifted in and out of dormitories, clustering by house, 
laughing, discussing, or simply mingling in each other’s 
company. This year’s cohort was unusual in that it included 
two heirs of the three great houses—Gabriel Gaul and 
Septimius Sletion. It was a rare convergence, and many of 
the students tried to take advantage of the proximity they 
had with the future great lords. They circled the two like 
eager servants, hoping to win their favour at any given 
instance.  
Cedric played no part in such games. He often passed by 
their dorms and saw the crowds. Laughter, voices, 
admiration. Doors (ung open, friends spilling into the 
halls. Septimius’s room, especially, was always over(owing 
with admirers, many of whom had nothing but (attery to 
offer. Cedric never stepped inside. He didn’t belong with 
the Sletions, and even with the Gauls—whom he was 
presumably closer to—he often felt a tinge of unease. The 
Gauls had never pushed him away outright. But that subtle 
distance was always there, hanging in the air like an off–
putting smell. 
He had once respected Gabriel for his neutrality. He 
had taken it as wisdom, a sign of level–headedness. But 
after his conversation with the Headmaster, Lord Cassius 
Gaul, Gabriel’s uncle, that illusion was beginning to 
fracture. Cedric had begun to notice a pattern—how often 
the Gauls stood at the centre of disruption, and yet how 
rarely they were held to account. Their missteps were 
softened, reframed, forgiven. The College, whether by 
design or not, seemed to bend itself around them. And 
with the headmaster a Gaul himself, that leniency felt less 
like coincidence and more like design. He recalled the 
Sletions’ frequent complaints. He had once dismissed them 
as petty grievances. He didn’t anymore. 
A memory surfaced. It was late spring, during a midday 
recess. He, Gabriel, and a few others were gathered in the 
north courtyard. Cedric had been speaking passionately 
about the rigid nature of their education. He questioned 
why their lectures had to feel so forced, so mundane in 
structure. Why memorisation was prized above 
understanding. Gabriel had listened, politely, but 
unmoved. He had responded that these methods had 
worked well for nearly #ve centuries—since the founding 
of the College by Constarius’s direct descendants—and saw 
no reason to change what had endured for so long. 
Cedric had pushed back, citing the abolition of slavery 
just a century prior—how wrongs can endure for far too 
long simply because no one dared to reimagine them. That 
made Gabriel pause. For a moment, he had seemed to truly 
consider Cedric’s point. 
Then Septimius and his company arrived, drawn in by 
the noise of their debate. The conversation turned sharp. 
Septimius had cut into Cedric without mercy. He 
questioned his right to speak on Albion’s a ffairs. ‘What 
would a foreigner know about the oldest and most revered 
College in the realm? Nay, the world?’ he had asked, eyes 
glinting with cruelty. 
Hearing this, even some of the Sletions shi fted 
uncomfortably. This was no longer a matter of reason—it 
was, instead, an attack of blood and race. One born from 
inherited prejudice, a festering, ill–informed hate that 
passed from one generation to the next. 
Still, Cedric had stood his ground. He argued with 
clarity, with conviction. But when he turned to Gabriel for 
support, he was met with that same neutral tone. Gabriel, 
who had previously seemed receptive, had completely 
abandoned him in favour of neutrality. The Gaulic lordling 
spoke with the same attempts at balance. He had tried to 
#nd a middle path, even though the path was plainly 
crooked. Septimius had clearly stepped out of line. Cedric 
had been right. But Gabriel would not take sides. 
Cedric clenched his jaw, grimacing at the unfairness of 
it all. He envied them. Their names. Their certainty. Their 
effortless claim to power. How different his life might have 
been, had he too been born into a great house. How swiftly 
he could have silenced Septimius. How easily he might 
have swayed the crowds. How naturally he could rise, step 
by step, and claim the power to reshape a world whose 
(aws he was only just beginning to see. 
But he was a Srivanian—a people with no great name, 
no feared legacy, no honoured past. Neither revered nor 
reviled, they simply were. Before the College, he had never 
questioned his own identity. In Massilia, people were lifted 
by merit—or so he had been taught. Skin, name, origin—
none of it was supposed to matter. But now… now he 
wasn’t so sure. Something inside him shifted. The crack had 
widened. The illusion was beginning to fracture. He saw 
now that even if the Gauls claimed to strive for some noble 
ideal, their culture, their subtle glances laced with 
unexpressed intent, their social order, their inherited 
personalities stood in clear de#ance of it. And there was 
something else—something deeper still. A darker root that 
fed these patterns of thought. He could not name it yet, 
but he felt its presence, pervasive, elusive, lurking just 
beyond reach.  
Within their own households, behind closed doors, the 
nobles viewed themselves as the measure of all things. And 
for those who stood outside that heritage, the path was 
steeper, the ceiling lower. It revealed itself in the smallest 
of ways—details so #nely veiled that only the most 
discerning among those who had lived beneath them could 
ever hope to see. Many endured it blindly, su ffering in 
silence, never quite able to name the force that shaped 
their fate or decided their roles.  
Cedric did not yet fully understand it himself, but he 
was close. On the verge of seeing it whole. Of grasping, at 
last, why he had always felt as though he could never 
become anything of true consequence. In this society, for 
those like him, such things were never truly allowed. 
Under the amber hue of evening light, Cedric rose from 
his desk, rummaged around his room and picked up his 
(ute—an old Srivanian make, bought from a travelling 
vendor in the markets of Massilia. The day’s studies had 
been fruitless. No page would yield its knowledge to him, 
no text could still his mind. Feeling deeply frustrated in 
himself, he resolved then to not waste what remained of 
the day. If nothing else, he would do something he’d been 
meaning to for weeks. 
He slipped the (ute beneath his coat and le ft the 
dormitory, seeking a place to play. His room, though 
private, was not soundproof. The walls were thin, and 
sound carried too easily—it was no place for solitude. The 
internal courtyard was not much better. Its many windows 
made him feel perpetually watched, as though unseen eyes 
lingered on him from the hallways and balconies. 
As such, he made his way outside into the Palace 
grounds. Past the courtyards and cloisters, he wandered 
among the neatly trimmed hedges and pristine lawns, 
searching for a place where he would not be disturbed. At 
last, near the corner of a garden wall where ivy draped 
heavily across the stone, he found peace. 
There, he raised the (ute to his lips and began to play. 
The melody was one of his own making—an old tune, 
stitched together from memory and feeling. He had made 
it years ago, in the company of his dearest friend. A fellow 
Srivanian named Nicholas, three years his elder. They had 
grown up together, walked the same streets of Massilia, 
shared aspirations, hopes, dreams. Cedric had always called 
him Nish. 
As the notes rose into the air, soft and uncertain at #rst, 
Cedric felt a deep melancholy swell in his chest. He missed 
Nish. Missed the brotherhood of his younger years. The 
comfort, the acceptance, the sense of being understood 
without needing to explain himself. Here, in the capital, in 
the marbled halls of privilege and pretentiousness, that 
kind of closeness was hard to come by.  
He had comrades, perhaps. But not brothers. 
Not anymore. 
And yet, beneath that yearning, he felt something 
imperceptible, something painful. 
He missed what he had never truly known.  
He missed belonging to something greater than himself, 
to a cause, a vision, a world where he could be certain of 
his place. A home not made of walls or soil, but of 
meaning. A sense of destiny. He wondered if this sorrow 
was born from a faded memory of another life, from some 
echo that clung to his soul. 
In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as the ruler of a great 
nation. A noble king, clad in gilded armour, standing upon 
the ramparts of a vast city—his city. One hand rested on 
the pommel of a sword that had never known defeat. 
Another around his queen—radiant, wise, beautiful—
though her face remained a blur. Before them rode his 
friends, now his knights, the same loyal shadows from his 
youth, leading the charge across wind–swept #elds, 
carrying his banner into the horizon. 
Then, as the wind softened and the last notes of his (ute 
faded into the hedges, Cedric found himself re (ecting 
more deeply. 
How far he had come. 
He was in a place no Srivanian had ever stood. A 
student at the Royal College of Albion. And now the 
chosen Fire Bearer for Floralia. He asked himself—how? 
Why him? Not so long ago, a life like this would have felt 
like an impossible dream, but now it was real—it was his. 
His thoughts drifted back to his earliest memories of 
childhood in Srivania. He remembered his vast extended 
family, their warm voices, their open arms, the meals 
always shared. There had been a rhythm to life, a purpose 
of belonging that wove through every household. He had 
never felt alone there. Not once. 
Then came Massilia. Its gardens, its busy markets, the 
marble courtyards #lled with distant scents and sounds. A 
city of immigrants, of seekers. He remembered the friends 
he had made—boys and girls from Aragon, Achaea, Nasrid, 
Arabius, even Aryanius, the large nation to the south of 
Srivania. Ordinary people often mistook Srivania as a 
province of Aryanius since they shared the same Astran 
faith. Cedric despised this mislabel as Srivanians were 
vastly different to their Ayranian cousins. Between their 
two nations lay the Rum Caliphate—a proud Muharan 
land that stood like a wall between the Astran Srivania and 
Aryanius. Perhaps one day I will unite these lands—by 
conquering the Rum and Aryanius. 
He was still half–lost in memory when a sound from the 
hedges startled him. 
A soft rustle—then a girl stepped through. Curly brown 
hair, gentle features, a curious smile. She glanced behind 
her and beckoned the others forward. 
Out came Gabriella Gaul, followed by her brother 
Gabriel, another girl he did not recognise, and—
unexpectedly—Decimus Sletion. 
‘What are you doing out here?’ Gabriella asked, tilting 
her head, one hand resting on her hip. 
Before Cedric could answer, the unfamiliar girl pointed 
toward him. ‘Oh, you know him? He’s the one who was 
playing. Look!’ 
Decimus stepped forward, cautious but certain. ‘That’s 
Cedric. Another student here.’ 
Cedric rose, uneasy at #nding himself the centre of 
attention. He tucked the (ute beneath his arm and offered 
a brief, respectful bow toward the girl. 
‘A pleasure. I am Cedric Arivarna.’ 
She blushed, just faintly. ‘Clarissa Clayment. The 
pleasure is mine.’  
Then Decimus added (atly, ‘She’s my cousin.’ He 
narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you play often?’ he asked. 
Cedric shook his head. ‘Not really, this is the #rst time 
in a long while. I’m still practicing.’ 
Decimus raised his lip and nodded. ‘You’re quite good.’ 
Cedric was taken aback by the sudden compliment. 
Before he could respond, Gabriella stepped forward with a 
warm smile. 
‘Hi, Cedric.’ 
Her voice was familiar, her tone gentle. She looked the 
same as ever—wavy brown hair, light freckles, a kind, 
rounded face. He had always liked her. Never romantically 
but always sincerely. 
‘Gabriella,’ he said. ‘How have you been? What brings 
you to the capital?’ 
‘Floralia,’ she said brightly. ‘Gabriel and Decimus are 
showing us around.’ 
The word pierced him—Floralia. He was reminded, all at 
once, of what lay ahead. 
She smiled brightly. ‘Are you prepared?’ 
He blinked. ‘For what?’ 
‘You’re the Fire Bearer, aren’t you?’ she said, slightly 
tilting her head. 
The others looked at him in surprise. 
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘How did you know?’ 
‘My uncle told me,’ she said, shrugging. 
The headmaster. 
Clarissa gasped, stepping closer. ‘Oh my! Fire Bearer?’ 
She covered her mouth, eyes wide. 
Cedric nodded. 
Decimus stepped forward. ‘Wait—how? I thought only 
Gauls were chosen for that.’ 
Cedric stiffened. He recalled the words Cassius had said 
to him, the (attery, the manipulation. ‘I suppose they 
chose me this year… for some reason,’ he said coolly. 
Gabriella smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll do well, Cedric.’ 
Cedric inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’ 
Gabriel checked the time on his pocket watch, then 
gestured to the path behind them. ‘We’re heading to the 
Palace for dinner. Care to join us?’ 
Cedric paused, uncertain. After everything he had come 
to realise, part of him recoiled at the thought of dining 
within those walls. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to 
refuse. The opportunity was too rare. 
‘Alright,’ he said, softly. I’ve never been inside the Palace for 
something like this. I can’t deny it—part of me is excited. 
As they walked, Clarissa fell into step beside him, 
speaking with innocent ease. She told him about her 
family, about how exhausting the journey had been from 
Sletonia, how they had to change trains twice after arriving 
in Cross–Port. Cedric listened politely, but inwardly he 
was restless. He couldn’t stand her, how oblivious she was 
to the world and its real stru ggles, how privileged and 
sheltered she was. She had never known struggle. Not truly. 
He then glanced over at Decimus, wondering what kind 
of life he had lived. Likely one not far removed from hers. 
These nobles lived with ease, and they did not even realise 
it. 
They passed through the main gates of the Palace with 
hardly a pause. Two guards stood at attention on either 
side, clad in immaculate white garments overlaid with 
gleaming silvered chestplates, bracers, and greaves. Their 
helms, open–faced, bore the unmistakable threat of 
authority—the gaze of men trained not just to watch, but 
to act. Cedric instinctively slowed, half–expecting to be 
halted, interrogated, turned back. Yet when the guards 
caught sight of Gabriel leading the party, they offered only 
a subtle nod and stepped aside. Of course, Cedric thought 
bitterly, trailing behind. One look at a highborn Gaul, and the 
gates open as if fate itself had issued the command. 
The entrance opened into a vaulted corridor of cold 
splendour. The (oor beneath his feet was made up of black 
and white stone, polished so pristinely it felt like he was 
walking on ice. Candlelight poured down from chandeliers 
shaped like golden starbursts, their arms branching like the 
points of a crown. On either side, between the towering 
marble pillars, hung the banners of Albion’s great houses—
Gaul’s emerald, Normany’s ruby, the sapphire of Sletion, 
and at the centre, high above all, the white of the royal 
house. 
As they went up the curved stairway, identical on either 
side, leading to the higher plateau of the throne room, 
Cedric felt the air change. A seriousness overtook him. This 
is where power resides, he thought, feeling the energy that 
seemed built into the stone. The room rose like a cathedral, 
impossibly tall, the stained–glass dome above glinting like 
a thousand shattered stars. Every window was anointed in 
light. Evening sun poured through the stained glass, casting 
fractured beams across the marbled (oor and walls. The 
entire chamber was #lled with a striking hue, orange, red 
and gold—like a (ame frozen in time. 
At the far end of the room, high above, loomed the 
throne. It rested at the peak of a sweeping marble staircase, 
(anked on either side by thin pillars and the deep curve of 
an arched space. Above it, #xed upon the wall, towering far 
above any person, was a great crimson cross—deep red, 
rich as blood, like a wound cut into the Palace itself. It did 
not glow. It did not glimmer. It simply was, like a reminder 
that Lucer was above all, even kings. It was more than a 
symbol—it was a claim which signi#ed the divine right of 
kings. 
At the foot of the stairs stood two of the Manus Regis, 
and though Cedric had seen them before, their presence 
always caught his breath. They were armoured not in the 
simple polished steel of the palace guards but in their own 
unique ornate plates of tempered steel lined with gold and 
etched with the runes of old. One bore a massive one–
headed axe, its blade broad enough to cleave a man in two. 
The other rested his hands on a longsword—its pommel 
inlaid with a sapphire that caught the light like a star. They 
stood perfectly still, like silent sentinels, not swayed by any 
force, and yet he could feel that they were watching, ever 
ready to spring into action. 
He dared a glance up, just for a moment. He wanted to 
see if he could identify them. One of the Manus Regis met 
his gaze with the dispassionate weight of someone who had 
judged a thousand souls before him. Cedric’s eyes dropped. 
His throat tightened, and he continued onwards towards 
the dining hall. What presence… Why am I afraid? What could 
they possibly do to me? I suppose they could strike me down if 
they so pleased, and since they are Manus Regis, no one would 
oppose them. After all, I am just a foreign student here. 
As a child, it had been his dream to join the Manus 
Regis. He recalled discussing it with Nish, how they had 
trained every day in the evening when their parents would 
permit. How they had sparred with sticks with laughter 
and joy and returned home, bruised, drenched in sweat, 
with swollen #ngers they tried to conceal.  
To stand in armour like that, below the king. It had 
seemed noble then. The highest form of achievement.  
Not anymore. 
That childish dream had died somewhere between 
Massilia and Constaria. And now, standing in that vast, 
gilded hall beneath the blood–red cross of Lucer, he could 
not even imagine it. Something about this place repulsed 
him. It was grand, yes. Orderly. Immaculate. But too much 
so. The symmetry was unnatural, the stillness suffocating. It 
felt staged—curated to impress, to deceive, to intimidate. 
There was no warmth in its beauty, no soul in its splendour. 
It felt like a lie that had forgotten why it was lying. 
Something was wrong with this place. He felt it in his 
chest. 
Clarissa’s voice broke the spell. She was still speaking 
beside him, her tone animated, unaware of the solemnity 
around them. He half–listened, nodding when it seemed 
polite, but his mind was elsewhere—watching, 
remembering, feeling. 
They passed beyond the throne room into the western 
wing, where light and laughter spilled out in front of them. 
The dining hall was far more alive than the rest of the 
palace. It was brimming with guests, dignitaries, and a 
scattering of highborn students already seated at long, 
linen–covered tables. Silverware clinked, goblets caught 
the light, and (oral arrangements bloomed in polished 
vases between every other seat. The hall hummed with 
anticipation. All for Floralia, Cedric thought. All to see the 
Fire Bearer light the wreath. All to see me…  
He hated it. Hated that he was being used—dressed up 
in ancient robes only to de#le their very meaning. He, a 
boy of Astran blood, made to carry the (ame of Lucerian 
triumph. As if his heritage was something to parade and 
discard as they saw #t. 
Floralia, despite its religious dressings, had once meant 
something real. Life, laughter, the bloom of a new season. It 
was meant to herald spring—to celebrate rebirth a fter 
winter’s long grip. But Titus had revived it as spectacle, not 
spirit. Its timing was broken. Now it came at summer’s 
end, on the cusp of autumn, when the world began to die. 
It no longer welcomed life as it was meant to. In truth, the 
whole festival was a façade. A stage, nothing more. But it 
was still beautiful, pure, even if its resurrection was (awed. 
And now its #nal occurrence marked nothing but erasure. 
To take its place was Lucerian order.  
Cedric inhaled deeply, his eyes found an open place at 
one of the centre tables, already occupied by Gaulic 
students engaged in casual conversation. Gabriel and 
Decimus took their seats, greeting others with the ease of 
nobility, and Clarissa practically (oated in beside them, 
her words continuing unabated. 
Cedric sat down last, his mind still on the throne. Its 
image lingered—etched like a scar. He was on the brink of 
something, some deep realisation, he knew it, he felt it, but 
he could not see it yet. 
Across the table, a (urry of chatter #lled the air. Two 
identical little girls spoke in unison. One of them locked 
eyes with him mid–sentence, froze, then leapt up with a 
shriek. 
‘Cedric!’ 
His name rang out like a bell, drawing half the table’s 
gaze. Her twin pulled her back into her seat, while an older 
girl beside them hushed them both with a single raised 
#nger. Lucy, Ella and Evelyn—the Headmaster’s daughters. 
His heart gave a small, unwelcome (utter at the sight of 
the eldest daughter, Evelyn.  
She was two years younger, though she carried herself 
with an easiness he could never match. Her long brown 
hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder and she met his 
gaze only brie(y, offered a faint smirk, then turned back to 
her conversation with another girl. 
The twins, meanwhile, could not be contained. They 
bounded over to him, interrupting his conversation with 
Clarissa—much to his relief. He had once mentored the 
twins during his later years at Lauriet, and for a time, they 
had felt like sisters to him. Lucy had always been the 
leading twin, sharp–tongued and strong–willed. Ella, by 
contrast, was gentle, soft–spoken and always shy in her 
sweetness. He remembered how remarkably curious and 
intelligent Lucy had been during their lessons. How her 
mind grasped concepts with startling ease and how she 
always pressed him further—never content with shallow 
answers. 
Seeing them now stirred something warm in him. They 
hadn’t changed. Not at all. They still retained that purity of 
youth. 
Lucy stood in front of him, hands on her hips, her dark 
blonde hair tumbling in front of her. Her hazel eyes, wide 
and bright, held a mischievous #re, and her face, youthful 
yet sharp, made her appear to be older than she actually 
was. Her sister, Ella—though near identical—was clearly 
different. There was a softness in her gaze, in her posture. 
She somehow looked younger, and so one could easily tell 
them apart not by their features, but by the way they 
carried themselves. 
‘You never wrote to us, did you?’ Lucy declared with a 
fury typical to her. ‘Not once!’ she added, jabbing her 
#nger at his chest without hesitation, as if daring him to 
justify his absence. 
Ella, half a step behind her sister, gave a meek smile. ‘We 
thought you had forgotten us.’ 
‘Forgotten you two?’ Cedric smiled, rising. ‘I could 
never.’ 
And in truth, he hadn’t—they were special, fragments of 
his youth, reminders that goodness and purity still existed 
in the world. He continued telling them how the college 
had kept him too busy to write.  
Lucy narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. ‘Busy?’ she 
repeated, hands still on her hips. ‘You could’ve written one 
letter. One. We’re not strangers, Cedric.’ 
They were right, he could have. What had stopped him? 
Before he could think further or reply, Clarissa leaned in 
from his side, far too close.  
‘You didn’t say you knew the Headmaster’s daughters,’ 
she said, smugly leaning her head toward the twins with 
apparent curiosity. Then, as if she belonged, she nestled 
into the circle of conversation. Gabriel, Decimus, and 
Gabriella joined in soon after, drawn by the noise and 
familiarity. Their table then gradually grew louder and 
louder in shared conversation. 
Lucy, never one to stay off centre, crossed her arms and 
asked, ‘What are you even going to do once you graduate?’ 
Cedric looked off to the side, caught off guard. ‘I don’t 
know yet.’ 
‘You don’t know?’ she said, half–laughing. ‘Then why 
even come here? Why study at the Royal College at all?’ 
Her question wasn’t cruel, just earnest, but still, it made 
something (ick inside him. He turned to her, bemused. 
‘Because I have no estate, no title, no power. People like me 
have to carve something for themselves—I came here 
because it’s the only way forward.’ 
The words hung for a breath. Decimus’s eyes sharpened, 
sensing the obvious connotation. ‘You think it’s easy for all 
nobles?’ he said (atly. ‘You know nothing of my life.’ 
‘I am not saying that your life is easy, no life truly is, but 
your birth, your name, your title, it gives you privileges 
that others don’t have,’ Cedric rebuked. 
‘That’s not always true,’ he said, #sts clenched. 
‘Sometimes, all those additional things which you named 
only make things more difficult—they make a life harder 
than it should be.’ 
Cedric glanced at him, then nodded slowly. He had 
never considered that. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I 
shouldn’t have assumed. If you ever want to tell me, I’d like 
to listen.’ 
That silenced the table. Decimus stared at him as though 
he'd spoken in another language. The young noble looked 
stunned, as if trying to decipher whether there had been a 
hidden insult in what Cedric had just said. But there was 
none. Cedric had been sincere in his words, and that, in 
this world, was incomprehensible. 
Cedric understood. Decimus was a noble so used to 
conceit and deception laced in practically every dialogue. 
He understood the coldness of their world, the distance 
taught to them from birth. He appreciated then why such a 
gesture from him would seem so foreign. He thought then 
of Srivania—of the unspoken sense of belonging that lived 
in every person, every word, every shared glance. Of the 
warmth he had felt there—not only from the people, but 
from the land itself. As if the hills knew his name. As if the 
mountains, the clouds, the sea cared for him deeply.  
For so long, he had envied nobles, for they had seemed 
to possess everything he had been denied. But now, he was 
beginning to pity them. They could never have what he had 
known. And he—if he kept rising, kept climbing, without 
forgetting where he had begun—then he might yet have 
everything which they valued and more. 
He could still retain his soul, his connection to Aereth, 
whereas they had been severed from it since birth. Never in 
their entire life would most of them understand what came 
so naturally to him. A slow smile curved on his lips as he 
looked at Decimus once more.  
He wanted to show them all a glimpse. Teach them all 
that the world need not be so cold and narrow. That there 
was still light, still hope, just beyond the horizon—waiting. 
So close to their reach. All they needed to do was to reach 
out and grasp it.  
Reach for it.  
A voice spoke through him. 
I am lucky, he thought to himself as his smile grew wider. 
I was a fool to ever think otherwise. 
‘So, you truly don’t know what you want to do after you 
graduate?’ Ella asked, breaking the silence. 
‘I do know,’ he proclaimed, drawing in the close 
attention of the others. 
‘Well, what is it?’ Lucy nipped. 
‘I want to be a king, king of Srivania,’ Cedric declared to 
the world. 
Gabriel laughed, thinking it a jest, but when Cedric 
didn’t break his stare, the lordling’s expression changed. 
‘Truly?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes, tilting his head 
forward. 
‘Yes, truly,’ Cedric affirmed. 
‘Are you a high noble there? A prince, perhaps?’ 
Decimus said, leaning in closer. 
‘A prince?’ Clarissa repeated, her eyes widened. 
‘No,’ Cedric replied, wishing it to be otherwise. ‘I am 
not, but my family does hail from a minor noble house. 
Our not—so—distant ancestors used to be rulers, not kings 
but high nobles, much like the Gauls or Sletions I suppose. 
But that was hundreds of years ago. Now we have no claim 
nor title.’ 
‘Then how do you plan on becoming the king?’ Decimus 
asked, not in a presumptive way—there was more curiosity 
in his tone than anything else. 
‘Through sheer force of will,’ he declared, glancing up at 
the ceiling. 
‘Will that be enough?’ Decimus questioned. 
‘Only time will tell I suppose,’ Cedric said, shrugging. 
‘But if I am to speak plainly, then yes.’ 
‘You are an interesting fellow Cedric,’ Decimus said, 
nodding his head slowly. 
‘Hey!’ Lucy exclaimed as she pulled him closer by his 
collar. ‘I thought you didn’t tell others about your goals 
and that it was a secret between us,’ she whispered. 
‘It was,’ he replied, laughing. ‘I’m not sure what 
overcame me.’ 
Lucy took a step back and watched him closely. ‘You’ve 
changed Cedric. You’re not the same anymore.’ 
‘Perhaps in some ways I’m different. But internally I am 
the same and I always will be.’ 
‘Is that true?’ she asked, her expression faltering. 
‘It is. I promise,’ he said, raising his pinkie #nger. 
She extended her hand, raised her #nger and curled it 
around his. ‘I believe you.’ 
The dinner stretched long into the evening. Three 
courses of #nely arranged delicacies were served. Drizzled 
portions of vegetables, sculpted pieces of pork, and some 
Hestrisi crème dish he did not know the name of.  
Though presented well, Cedric found them hollow, 
somewhat tasteless, and utterly bland. The thought made 
him long for the steaming trays of the college cafeteria, for 
the sharp spices and overcooked rice served by Alia, the old 
Misirian cook whose stern kindness had always reminded 
him of a grandmother. Her food had soul and was perhaps 
the only part of college life that had ever surpassed his 
expectations. 
Conversation at the table drifted into simpler matters—
the happenings in Massilia, college rumours, the antics of 
professors. Usually, he would have loathed such 
conversation, but today, around such company, he 
welcomed it. Still, he did not contribute much—smiled 
when required, responded when addressed. He was at ease. 
Content.  
Frequently, his attention kept dri fting sideways—
towards Evelyn. Though she was just across the table, next 
to the twins, she was in a world of her own. Far from his 
reach. She spoke easily with the girls around her. Her 
gestures were (uid, her voice high and melodious, her 
smile—disarming. The other girls orbited her like celestial 
bodies drawn to her greater existence. She was like him in 
that way—self–contained, drawing others without effort—
this intrigued him and made him want to be closer to her. 
He considered approaching her. But each time the thought 
took form, it withered. What would he say without 
sounding foolish?  
So, he remained silent.  
Watching. Waiting. Wanting.  
Dinner ended before he realised it. Dishes were cleared, 
chairs scraped back, and people left slowly in groups. Lucy 
and Ella approached to bid him goodbye, but something in 
their tone—half–pout, half–lament—carried the sense that 
the evening had slipped from their hands too quickly. That 
their reunion after many years felt much more hollow than 
it should have. And it had, in part, because of Clarissa. She 
had not relented throughout the entire affair, her presence 
constant, her pursuit unmistakable. Under certain angles, 
in a certain light, she could be considered attractive—but 
Cedric had no patience for such shallow criteria. His 
standards were not only in appearance, not even in 
character. He desired perfection, utter perfection. A single 
blemish, a single (aw in personality, and he would be 
utterly indifferent. 
He was holding himself back for a girl who was worthy. 
A girl (awless in every regard, who speaks with care, who 
understands without needing to be told. Sel(ess, yet self–
aware. Whole within herself, yet capable of completing 
him completely. Evelyn, perhaps, could be that. But he did 
not know her well enough. Clarissa—he knew enough. 
She had begun to say something more to him—perhaps 
to arrange another meeting. But he was already turning 
away, pretending not to hear. With a practiced charm, he 
slipped through the crowd, vanishing politely into the 
stream of exiting guests.  
As he passed through the gilded arches of the hall, he 
caught sight of Decimus. Across the room, standing still 
amidst the shifting sea of noble silks and shimmering 
dresses, the young Sletion noble was watching him. His 
piercing blue eyes cut through the crowd and reached him 
directly. Yet, they said nothing, and passed each other by 
without so much as a parting glance. 
That gaze stayed with him. It lingered as he slipped past 
the crowd through the lavish corridors of the Palace into 
the still night. The air was cold, colder than he expected. 
Autumn, it feels like, is coming sooner than it did this time last 
year. He rubbed his hands together and exhaled slowly. The 
Palace behind him glowed with laughter and warmth, but 
he had left it behind. He did not want to walk back with 
his friends, he was seeking something else—solitude. 
He found a narrow alcove tucked beside the College’s 
outer wall, a place half–forgotten, overgrown with hedges 
and moss. There he leaned back against the cold stone and 
looked up. Somewhere far above, the stars were just 
beginning to appear, dim and scattered, (ickering softly in 
their iridescent glow. The moon was nowhere to be seen, 
and the sky felt strangely empty without it. 
He remained there for a long while unmoving, in 
silence, re(ecting on his day, his life. How far he had come, 
and yet how distant the heavens still seemed, so far above 
him. But they were not unreachable. He would bring them 
down. He would make a Heaven on Aereth. It was not 
impossible. It was destiny. His destiny. He was certain of it. 
When he rose at last, he slipped through the back 
entrance of the College silently, #nding the halls 
completely empty. At the door to his room, something 
halted him. It was not a sound nor a voice—only a 
presence. A faint stirring in the darkened shadows of the 
corridor ahead lit up by torchlight, where the hallway bent 
and disappeared into nothingness. The eastern stairway lay 
in that direction—the same one he had ascended in the 
morning. Yet tonight, it called to him, quietly, beckoning 
him closer. 
He had been outside for perhaps half an hour. By now, 
all the other students would be in their rooms, likely asleep 
or drifting close to it. Their chambers were lit only by the 
faint, wavering glow of night lamps. Cedric stood still, his 
college robe drawn tight around him, his heart faintly 
trembling—not from fear, but from anticipation. A strange 
desire had crept upon him, sudden yet undeniable. He had 
been surrounded by people mere minutes before—bathed 
in light, in voices, in the false warmth of belonging. It had 
awakened something joyful within him. But now he longed 
to feel its opposite. His brief sojourn outside had offered 
him a glimpse, but now he wanted it in full. It was the kind 
of loneliness one must seek to truly understand. The sort 
that lives in forgotten spaces, where no eyes watch and no 
soul enters. What would it feel like? To stand in a silent 
room at the top of a tower in the dead of night, completely 
alone. It was an absurd curiosity, and yet, it gripped him. 
And so, without hesitation, he moved.  
His boots pattered on the cold stone (oor as he passed 
through the narrow arch before the stairs. He moved 
forward and stepped up the winding spiral staircase of the 
eastern tower, hand gliding across the cold stone wall. The 
air grew colder with each step. No sunlight graced him 
now—only the faint light of stars bled in through the long 
windows as he reached the door to Professor Saserna’s 
classroom. 
He stepped inside. The door creaked softly, then fell 
shut behind him. The strange coldness of the room struck 
him at once—it was colder than it had been outside. This 
unsettled him. The room felt emptier than it had in the 
morning—hollow, as if something within it had retreated. 
He crossed his arms over his chest, #nding a (eeting 
warmth there before a sudden gust of wind struck his face, 
harrowing his eyes and chilling him to the bone. 
He turned. 
Two tall windows stood open, shutters clattering madly 
against their frames, the latch still miraculously fastened. 
The wind hissed through them and struck him. He shielded 
himself and stepped forward. 
Who the hell left this open? He thought, reaching for the 
windows.  
Just as his #ngers met the cold metal, the wind stilled—
and above, parting through the weight of impossibly vast 
clouds, the moon emerged in full. 
It illuminated the room at once, casting a pale silver 
glow across his face. Then, it slowly pulled his gaze 
downward. Below, by the lower ridge of the palace hill, a 
series of large, covered wagons wound through the narrow 
path that led to the old stone warehouse—the one tucked 
just beneath the Palace’s shadow. The light of lanterns held 
by gloved hands lit up the path, their pale radiance 
(ickering against the dark. 
Voices rose from below, distant and mu ffled. They 
sounded like echoes from another world—faint, 
rhythmical, almost playful in tone. A child might hear such 
noises and have no further speculation of their cause or 
purpose.  
But Cedric was no longer a child.  
There was more here—he knew it. 
The crates being unloaded were heavy. Metal–bound. 
Some large, others small. Not goods. Not food. But arms. 
Weaponry. They had to be. 
He narrowed his gaze and leaned further over the 
windowsill. One of the lanterns passed near an open crate 
and for an instant, the light caught something inside—dark 
iron barrels, narrow and heavy yet marked with strangely 
vivid colours—red, green, orange. Foreign designs, without 
question. Western–made. Likely re#nements of the old 
S.D.R. models, remnants of Relith’s failed conquest. He 
recalled whispers he had heard in the courtrooms, rumours 
of western cannons that could tear through stone gates, 
and hand cannons, light enough to carry, yet powerful 
enough to halt a charging knight #fty paces away. 
And now they were here. In the capital. Hauled in the 
dead of night, unannounced, unmarked. No longer 
whispers, but real, deadly. 
He stared longer, his heart slowing in steady, 
contemplative rhythm. Why now? Why in secret? Floralia 
was mere days away—every noble eye was #xed on 
celebration, on rites, on the illusion of unity. And beneath 
it all, this. Armament. Preparation. But for what? 
The thought chilled him more than the night breeze 
ever could. He stepped back and closed the windows 
slowly, securing the latch and locking it in place. The wind 
howled against the glass for a moment longer—then faded. 
He stood in the cold, unmoving as the severity of the 
scene #nally struck him. How had even he—who lived 
within the same building as the Palace, who walked its 
corridors and dined beneath its vaulted ceilings—failed to 
grasp its full weight until now?  
There was a veil over all things. A haze that dulled the 
senses and obscured the reality of things. It was not unique 
to Albion. This fog of ignorance hung over all nations. The 
masses wandered through it blind. And the nobles, for all 
their learning and rank, fared little better. Only a few—
those who stood nearest to the heart of power—saw what 
truly stirred beneath the surface. Even among them, some 
would shudder and turn away. Others would watch, 
unmoved. Only the rarest would act. And yet, it was never 
they who paid the price. 
No—it was the workers, the farmers, the merchants, the 
young men pulled from their homes, the mothers and 
daughters left behind. The ordinary people were always the 
last to know and always the #rst to suffer. 
Cedric realised that such an unfortunate fact of life was 
inevitable. The few would always dictate the lives of the 
many. Still, the thought unsettled him. For he knew with 
certainty now that the Alban government did not serve its 
people. 
Has any government ever truly done so? 
The Royal Court acted only for itself. Every policy, every 
decision, every secret shipment such as this served the same 
unjust ends. The preservation of their power, their image, 
their hold over the lives of ordinary people. That much was 
clear. The workers below were but cogs in that vast 
machine. They could not be blamed. No—it was those 
behind the curtain who were to blame. But who were they 
really? The King? The nobles of the court? The Sletions, 
with their gold? The Gauls, with their pride? The Normany, 
with their grudges? Or was it someone else entirely—
someone deeper in the shadow, whom no one dared to 
name? Cedric did not know. 
But this much he did know. The crates below had come 
from across the Free Channel—foreign weapons, smuggled 
in under the cover of night. Unmarked, undocumented, 
unseen. No public declaration. No grand decree. No call to 
arms. Only silence. Only deception. And he was to be a 
part of it. 
Cedric shivered. The weapons could only mean one 
thing. Albion was preparing for war. The long peace that 
had followed Relith’s defeat was nearing its end. Yet, as he 
stared longer, uncertainty crept in. Perhaps he was 
mistaken. Perhaps there were justi #cations, spoken in 
council chambers far above his reach—reasons weighed and 
measured by minds older, nearer to power. Surely their 
minds were greater than his—more seasoned in calculation, 
in governance, in securing Albion’s future. Surely he was 
too young, too inexperienced to presume that he could 
arbitrate their decisions. 
He tried to believe it. He told himself he was 
overreaching. He told himself to let it go. But the thought 
lingered. There was truth in what he had realised. And that 
truth unsettled him to the core. 
The wind howled again, stronger than before. It 
slammed #ercely against the windows with a fury that 
made Cedric (inch. The shutters trembled violently in 
their frames, rattling as though they might rip free and (y 
away. Below, a few wagons began to leave. They departed in 
a slow, winding line, their lanterns swinging gently as they 
descended down the slope. To him, they almost looked like 
an immense glowing serpent slithering through the valley, 
its long body rippling beneath the silver gaze of the moon. 
Then, the wind stopped. The sudden stillness that 
followed was unnatural. The chaos outside had vanished, 
replaced by a feeling of deep, unspeakable dread. A 
coldness settled in the room. He stood for a moment in 
that silence, thinking he might still #nd peace in it.  
But then—he felt it. 
All at once, it seized him. A fear raw and primal, drawn 
from the oldest part of his mind. 
He had felt this only once before, long ago, in the forests 
of Srivania while hiking with his cousins late in the 
afternoon. The buzzing of insects had vanished. So too the 
chirping of birds. The woods had gone eerily still. Later, in 
a clearing, his eldest cousin admitted something had been 
following them. He had not spoken of it earlier, afraid that 
panic might scatter them. They had assumed it was a tiger. 
But this was not Srivania. This was Albion. An empty 
room, locked away from the world. There was no logic to it. 
No reason. And yet—he could not ignore it. The tightening 
of his chest. The chill in his blood. The unmistakable 
sensation of being seen. Seen by something on the hunt, by 
something dangerous, by something that was already very 
near. 
The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to pulse, 
to shift, to breathe. The glass of the window, which 
moments ago had held the moon and the world, now held 
nothing but darkness. It felt like a thin barrier. He felt, 
nonsensically yet certainly, that something was watching 
him from the other side.  
Eyes widened and without further thought, he held his 
robe around him tightly and left the room in a rush. He 
didn’t look back. He didn’t dare look back. As he hurried 
down the spiral staircase, his peripheral vision deceived 
him. The (ickering light from a distant corridor lantern 
twisted the shadows behind him. On the wall beside him, 
he thought he saw impossible misshapen limbs grabbing 
the air, reaching after him. 
He nearly fell twice. His breath was shallow, his pulse 
racing. When he reached the bottom, he ran. The social 
part of his mind—ever dutiful, ever ready to account for 
his image—wondered what he would say if a professor or 
another student found him now, half–crazed, panting, 
(eeing from nothing. But no one was present. 
Out of fear, he passed by his room in a blur, then 
quickly turned back and stumbled inside, slamming the 
door behind him. Only then did he look through the slit in 
his wall to the corridor outside. 
Nothing. 
Of course. He exhaled, long and slow. His back slid 
down the door until he sat on the (oor. His logical mind 
took hold. Spirits don’t exist. Ghosts aren’t real. Those are the 
stories of the uneducated, of villages tucked between distant hills 
and haunted forests. Not scholars. Not me. 
Still—it took some time before his hands stopped 
trembling. Eventually, his mind steadied. He rose from the 
(oor and lit the oil lantern on his desk. The soft, amber 
glow #lled the room, chasing the shadows into corners 
where they no longer frightened him. What he had just 
experienced was not real, it couldn’t be. He banished the 
unsettling thoughts from his mind and turned to the script 
Lord Cassius had given him. The pages were on his desk, 
wrapped in parchment and bound with a thin red cord. He 
loosened the knot, unfurled the bundle, and held the script 
in his hands. Then, slowly, he began to read. 
The lines were short, ceremonial, spoken in the old 
Ascanian tongue. He read them aloud once, then again, 
then a third time. He focused on the vowels, on the 
cadence, on the subtle tension in the consonants. His voice, 
though uncertain at #rst, began to settle. He imagined 
August Gaul—perfect, noble August—standing before a 
gathered crowd, his light brown curls tucked neatly behind 
his ears, his bright blue eyes shining against the dark. 
Wrapped in a toga, arms raised to the heavens, reciting the 
rites with (awless grace. Cedric tried to summon that same 
poise. He thought, too, of Lord Aurelius—Gabriel and 
Gabriella’s father—the realm’s most revered orator, whose 
voice moved even foreign courts to silence. 
He mimicked both their mannerisms. The lift of the 
chin, the upturned palm, the command in pauses, the 
deliberate shaping of each phrase. He practiced for what 
felt like hours. Eventually, his voice grew hoarse. He 
reached for the (ask beside his desk and found it nearly 
empty. He crossed the room to re#ll it from the water 
barrel. The sound of pouring calmed him. His heart had 
stopped racing. The fear was long passed. 
He decided that he had done enough for the night, so he 
laid in bed, the coarse blanket wrapped tightly around him. 
His body ached. His mind wandered. Today had been… 
strange. Monumental. How will my life change after Floralia? 
He wondered, welcoming the sense of tiredness that made 
his eyelids grow heavy. 
Then, as sleep came, it was not war or shadows that 
#lled his dreams. It was a girl. A perfect girl he met at a 
grand fair who made him feel as if there was nothing else 
more important in the entire world. 
*** 
When Cedric awoke the next morning, he longed to 
remain beneath the blanket, wrapped in its fading warmth. 
He yawned and rubbed his eyes as they traced the lines of 
the wooden beams above him. The cold air that clung to 
the room made him reluctant to move, and for a while, he 
allowed himself to indulge in that guilt–ridden pleasure of 
remaining in bed when he was supposed to be up. The 
morning chill in Constaria was unlike anything he had 
known before. Even after three years, he still had not 
gotten used to its biting cold. Nestled beneath the 
northern mountains that stretched deep into Normany 
territory, Constaria was far colder than Massilia—the 
coastal city of his childhood, warm and open to the 
southwestern winds. 
It was only when he heard the footsteps of fellow 
students hurrying toward the mess hall that he stirred. 
Hunger, and the insistent pressure of social obligation, 
forced him out of bed at last. I swear, the ability to wake up 
whenever you wish must be one of the main drivers behind the 
pursuit of wealth and power, he thought, sighing. It is certainly 
becoming mine. 
He dressed quickly, not bothering to groom himself. At 
this time of day, only students would see him, not 
professors or, more importantly, girls. Thus, there was no 
need for re#nement. Passing Edwin’s door, he glanced 
brie(y through the half–open frame and found the lad still 
asleep, sprawled carelessly across his bed. Cedric shook his 
head and moved on, slipping into the growing tide of 
young men funnelling toward breakfast. The moment he 
entered the mess hall, the air shifted. Dozens of eyes turned 
to him. 
Some whispered as he passed, others merely watched—
measuring, envious, indifferent. Word of his role in Floralia 
had already spread, it seemed. Cedric lowered his gaze, 
made his way to the canteen and collected his meal quickly 
before settling at the closest empty seat he could #nd.  
He regretted it at once.  
The table became occupied by the most unpopular 
students in the College—sons of minor noble houses with 
little in(uence, boys whose names no one remembered. 
Their standing was even lower than Edwin’s, who, at the 
very least, carried the Normany name. These boys were 
awkward, forgettable and easily overlooked. One of them 
offered a tentative greeting, and though Cedric had no real 
desire to engage, he nodded politely and allowed the 
conversation to stir. 
They were astonished by him. By the title. The Fire 
Bearer. They asked him how he had been chosen, what he 
had to do to secure the role—Cedric had no answer to 
offer. He wasn’t sure himself. Perhaps Lord Cassius had 
named him out of preference. Or perhaps he had merely 
been in the right place at the right time.  
Either way, the role was his now—and only ever his. For 
there would be no one after him.  
He had memorised the lines, and though he had not yet 
practised the bow, he felt prepared—at least outwardly. 
Still, the thought of public failure haunted him. 
He was midway through his meal when a presence 
entered the room that made him pause. He looked up.  
Patroclus. 
The brilliant former student. He wore knight’s armour, 
newly forged, polished to a striking gleam. He moved with 
that same gravitas Cedric remembered so vividly. For a 
moment, Cedric watched him, wondering why he was in 
the college again. Then the young knight glanced his way 
once and headed straight for him. 
Cedric’s breath caught. ‘P–P–Patroclus,’ he stammered. 
Fuck, he thought, inwardly wincing. 
Patroclus stopped before him, his expression 
unreadable. ‘I believe you are Cedric.’ 
‘Y–yes, I am,’ Cedric replied, trying to compose himself, 
conscious of how unkempt he must have looked. 
‘I’ve been informed that you are the Fire Bearer for 
Floralia. Congratulations.’ His voice was steady, almost 
detached. The dark iron of his armour caught the light, the 
red inlays glowing faintly. A short red half–cape hung over 
his left shoulder, straight, pristine. 
Cedric had never seen him so close. His short dark hair 
was neatly cut, every strand in place. His eyes were a calm, 
unreadable grey. His skin—pale, lightly freckled. His face—
clean–shaven and his features—sharp, precise.  
‘Thank you,’ Cedric said, standing up straighter, 
squaring his shoulders. 
Patroclus nodded once. ‘I’m here to deliver a message. 
Lord Aurelius Gaul of Massilia requests your attendance. 
He’s waiting by your room.’ 
Cedric’s mind blanked for a moment. ‘L–Lord 
Aurelius?’ 
‘Yes,’ Patroclus replied, stepping aside. ‘If you are not 
otherwise engaged, follow me.’ 
Cedric looked down at his un#nished meal. The bread 
was stale, and the vegetable soup, once warm enough to 
tolerate, had grown thick and unappetising. 
He stood, picked up the tray, and carried it to the bin 
before discarding its contents without hesitation.  
Then he moved quickly to follow behind the armoured 
#gure of Patroclus. There was something surreal about 
walking so close behind him. Patroclus was the ideal—the 
unspoken standard by which every Royal College student 
measured themselves. Even after his graduation, his name 
was still whispered. He was brilliant in all the ways that 
mattered. A scholar of unmatched depth, (uent across 
disciplines and languages. A warrior of grace and force, 
skilled with bow, blade, and reins. Whatever task he was 
given, he mastered it. Cedric had seen him before, but only 
from a distance—on stages, receiving accolades, or in the 
hallways of the college, existing in another world entirely. 
That he now walked behind him, summoned for an 
audience by Lord Aurelius himself, felt unreal. He wanted 
to speak. To ask something. Anything. But what could he 
say to a man who had already carved his name into the 
future? 
Instead, Cedric’s thoughts turned inward. Why had 
Lord Aurelius come? What could the Lord of Massilia 
possibly want with him? 
Before he could #nd an answer, they were already at the 
dorm. Patroclus stopped just short of the door and turned, 
offering a single nod. The meaning was clear. Go in.  
Cedric opened the door slowly, his #ngers trembling on 
the handle.  
And there he was. A man, seated on the edge of the bed, 
half–turned away and examining a small object in his hand. 
His robe—deep green, adorned with golden thread—bore 
the sigil of Gaul, the great white tree. His long brown curls, 
streaked with grey, fell neatly over his shoulders, and his 
trimmed beard carried the same elegance as his bearing. 
Though Cedric had spoken with him before at Lauriet, 
the awe had never faded. This man was more than a simple 
noble—he was a pillar of Albion, one of the three true 
powers beneath the Crown. Each the heads of the three 
great houses: Lord Gerald Sletion, Lord Maynard Normany 
and, of course, Lord Aurelius Gaul. 
Lord Titus, Aurelius’s older brother, was ailing, and had 
long since withdrawn from active rule. Thus, it was 
Aurelius who held the reins of Gaul, who spoke in councils 
and courts, and who shaped the future of the house. His 
presence #lled the small dormitory utterly, as if the walls 
themselves bowed to admit him. 
The Lord turned slowly as Cedric entered, placing the 
object beside him on the table. ‘Cedric,’ he said, his voice 
warm and rich.  
Cedric lowered his gaze and knelt. His #st clenched to 
his chest, he murmured, ‘My Lord.’ 
‘Rise, Cedric,’ the Lord replied, stepping forward with 
grace. ‘No need for such formalities.’ He placed a #rm, 
reassuring hand on his shoulder and guided him gently 
upright. 
Cedric met his gaze—those sharp, steady eyes so like 
Lord Cassius’s, and yet gentler, older. The brothers shared 
much in bearing, but Aurelius carried an auctoritas shaped 
not just by intellect but by decades of command and 
experience. He looked every inch the statesman he was. 
Without pause, the Lord gestured toward the desk.  
‘Come. Sit.’ 
Cedric obeyed, drawing the chair back and settling 
before the desk, facing the lord. Lord Aurelius sat again on 
the bed, letting out a quiet breath as if shedding some 
unspoken weight. 
‘Are you prepared for the festival?’ he asked, folding his 
hands on his lap. 
Cedric hesitated. There was no easy answer. Nerves still 
twisted in his stomach, but so too did a kind of strange 
assurance. ‘Yes, my Lord. I am… certainly,’ he said, 
murmuring the last word. 
‘Good,’ Aurelius said, his tone measured. ‘You have an 
important role to play.’ 
Cedric’s eyes drifted to the object the Lord had set 
aside. A small golden #gurine—familiar. His. 
‘Do you know what this is?’ Aurelius asked, li fting it 
again and turning it in his #ngers. 
Cedric swallowed. ‘Y–yes. A #gurine of a mythical 
weapon, is it not?’ He could have said it outright. It’s a 
Vajra. But he held the word back, uncertain if the lord 
knew and was simply testing him. 
‘I see,’ the Lord said, examining it with interest. ‘I’ve 
never seen anything quite like it.’ 
The object was no longer than a #nger—tapered like a 
spear at both ends, joined by a rounded centre. Dull gold in 
colour, carved with intricate symbols and strange, ancient 
markings which no one quite understood. 
‘I found it on your shelf,’ Aurelius continued, his gaze 
still #xed upon it. ‘Intriguing design. It’s not from Albion, 
is it?’ 
‘No. I—I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. A 
relative from Srivania gave it to me before I came here.’ 
The Lord raised his brows faintly. ‘Srivania… the little 
mountain nation above Aryanius and the Rum. A strange 
and lovely place. I’ve only visited twice, but I remember it 
well. Tucked between sea and stone, di fficult to reach, 
offering no wealth or strategic use… and yet, there’s 
something about it. A tranquillity. A beauty. It provides 
nothing material to Albion, and yet it gave us you.’ 
His words landed softly, not outright (attery, more an 
observation. Then the Lord’s expression sharpened, just 
slightly. 
‘Do you know,’ he said, voice quieter now, ‘why you were 
granted your scholarship to study at this College, Cedric?’ 
‘N–no, I don’t really,’ he replied hesitantly. 
Lord Aurelius laughed, a deep, resonant sound that 
softened the room. ‘That’s an important thing to know—so 
listen well,’ he said with amusement in his tone. ‘I was a 
young noble then. It had been half a year since the last king 
passed. My eldest brother was still capable, and so he ruled 
Gaul. Whereas Cassius and I were free, #lled with 
wanderlust. Desiring to map all corners of the world. We 
were both restless, full of ambition, eager to see the world 
before the duty of our house fell upon us. I travelled across 
Aerona—but everything felt too familiar, too tame. At a 
port in Alandir, I heard of a distant land—Srivania. Thus, 
my younger brother and I were resolved—one #nal 
curiosity before our long return.’ 
His tone shifted, tinted now with nostalgia. ‘We were 
boys still then, in some ways. Laughing, loud, convinced 
that nothing could touch us. And in Dhwarka—your 
capital—we met you. You were no more than seven. But 
fearless. Unreasonably so.’ 
The Lord’s smile broadened. ‘The #rst time we saw you, 
you marched up to Cassius in the market and asked why 
foreigners had come to your streets. You listened to our 
answer with such thoughtfulness that it struck us 
immediately. Not like a child at all. I had never seen a boy 
that sharp. My own boy, Gabriel, the same age as you, was 
still hiding behind his mother’s skirt! Cassius was amused, 
I was struck. And from then on, you followed us 
everywhere.’ 
He laughed again, more quietly now. ‘Your parents tried 
to rein you in, God bless them. They came to us 
apologising, morti#ed that their son would pester foreign 
nobles. But we didn’t mind. Not at all. You asked better 
questions than half our court. Even now, I rarely meet 
someone who listens and enquires the way you did then.’ 
He leaned back slightly on the bed, his eyes far away. 
‘Cassius jested that you’d follow us to Albion. We 
laughed. Thought nothing of it. But when the time came to 
leave… you cried. Begged us to stay. We had no choice—we 
boarded the ship. Left you behind.’ 
The warmth in his voice faded. He drew in a breath, 
slower now. 
‘The storm came three days into our voyage, a swell in 
the Strait of Percyrus. Fierce winds struck our vessels and 
thrashed them against each other. Our ship was taking in 
water, and we were forced to cast off our cargo or be sunk. 
As we threw over the last of the crates, Cassius heard a 
strange sound and opened one—only to #nd you curled 
inside. Asleep. Clutching a small bag with all your then 
worldly possessions.’ 
Cedric’s breath caught. His throat tightened. 
‘Later we learned that you’d written your parents a 
letter, declaring that you were going to Albion. That you’d 
meet them in Massilia.’ 
The Lord shook his head, his smile now heavy with 
feeling. 
‘I winced so deeply when I thought what might’ve 
happened. We almost threw you overboard. But we didn’t. 
Thank the Lord for that. I held you tight the rest of that 
night. Through the storm. Through the thunder. And I’ve 
never forgotten it. It was my fault—we were warned not to 
sail. I dismissed it as superstition. I wanted to go home. But 
now I wonder… perhaps that storm was a part of it. 
Perhaps it was all meant to be. Our Lord works in 
mysterious ways.’ 
He paused. 
Cedric sat frozen. 
He had never recalled this himself, and yet, something 
within him remembered. And now, at last, the curtain was 
drawn back, and a hidden detail of his life was #nally 
revealed to him. 
‘My Lord… what does this have to do with the 
scholarship?’ he asked, voice low. 
‘Oh yes, I’m getting to that,’ Aurelius said, his tone light 
again. ‘When we #nally reached the next port, you woke. 
Looked at me, confused, and asked, “Why am I wet?”’ 
Aurelius laughed, striking the bed with an open palm. ‘You 
slept through the storm! I had no idea what to do with you, 
so for that month, until your parents arrived, I kept you by 
my side. Like a son.’ 
He looked at Cedric now, a deep smile plastered on his 
face. 
‘Years passed. I saw you again—an older boy at Lauriet, 
serious, hungry for knowledge. So, I placed my nieces, 
Lucilla and Ellanore, under your tutelage. From the 
moment they grew attached to you, I knew at once. The 
spark had not left you. You were still the boy who had once 
crossed vast oceans in pursuit of something greater. I spoke 
to your father. I told him his son must apply to the Royal 
College upon graduation. That we needed boys like you—
for the nation we were building. A new Albion. Not one 
bound by blood and rank, but one shaped by merit and 
guided by faith.’ 
Cedric’s mouth parted slightly, but he said nothing. He 
felt a tightness in his chest. A frustration. He wanted to 
speak—but the words would not come. 
The Lord seemed to sense it, but continued. ‘And now 
you know. Why I chose you. Why I gave my name to the 
application that brought you here. I thought perhaps your 
father would tell you, but it seems he did not. Perhaps he 
feared what you might think of it.’ 
Aurelius’s tone darkened slightly, and the lightness 
slipped away momentarily as he cleared his throat. ‘But I 
did not come here only to reminisce. There’s more to your 
role, Cedric. More than being a symbol.’ He leaned 
forward. ‘You were chosen as Fire Bearer for a reason. You 
have a part to play in something greater. And it is time you 
knew what that is.’ 
Cedric leaned in, unease twisting in his gut. 
‘You see,’ the Lord said, voice quieter now, ‘we Gauls 
have long believed that monarchies are (awed.’ 
Cedric blinked. He speaks of treason so freely. 
‘It is because of monarchy that we have Rickard as king. 
And worse Roderic is to follow. That boy… he is dangerous
—unhinged. I’ve tried to reason with him. God knows I’ve 
tried. But he is deaf to counsel. Drunk on privilege. He will 
bring ruin, as all tyrants do.’ 
The Lord’s eyes (ashed. ‘My elder brother Titus—did 
you know? He once dreamed of being king himself. Few 
know that. But the dream nearly consumed him.’ 
He folded his hands again, more solemn now. ‘We must 
return to the ancient ways, Cedric. To the governance of 
the Achaeans. To democracy. Only the people’s rule can be 
just. No one man should wield total power. Total power 
always corrupts, Cedric. Remember that.’  
Cedric’s mind reeled. 
The Lord continued. ‘Just as Constarius seceded from 
Ascania when he sensed its decadence, we too must secede 
from the Crown. All houses should join together in the 
realisation of this goal. Our neighbours, Hestrisis, Castille, 
S.D.R have already embraced this new form, with many 
others seeking to follow suit.  Albion is falling behind. It 
must not fall behind. We must modernise.’ 
You wish to replace the tyranny of one with the tyranny of 
many. Is that truly better? Cedric had read much of the 
ancient Achaean system of governance—its assemblies, its 
promises of shared rule. But he also knew its (aws. Its 
fragility. How even the wisest Achaeans, in public and in 
private, had turned against it. The Ascanians, too, had once 
embraced their ideals in the form of a republic. But in time 
they abandoned it for empire—and only then did they 
enter their longest and most prosperous age.  
Nonetheless, despite knowing all this, Cedric said 
nothing. 
The Lord paused. His eyes drifted downward, #xed on 
the (oor as if the weight of the coming words made it hard 
to meet Cedric’s gaze. ‘I believe my brother has already 
informed you of this, but I must explain it more. Where 
you come into this, Cedric,’ he said quietly, ‘is that you will 
be the last Fire Bearer. This Floralia will be the #nal one. 
The rite ends with you. Not only will this act signal the end 
of ancient heresy, but it will also herald in the new age of 
man.’ 
Aurelius raised his eyes again with more certainty. ‘This 
tradition of Astran worship,’ he continued, ‘was revived by 
Relith—a man I consider the most destructive and vile 
#gure in history. It was then adopted by foolish people like 
my eldest brother who clung to false gods, idols. The 
Ascanian ways are dead, Cedric. It is time we declared it 
so.’ 
Aurelius stood up and stepped forward, slow and 
composed. ‘After you light the (ame, the statue will 
crumble as if Lucer himself commanded it. My saboteurs 
have seen to this. The marble will shatter before the 
people’s eyes. And in its place, we shall raise the cross. The 
true cross. The one God, Lucerian, shall take His rightful 
place in the public square.’  
He paused again, studying Cedric. ‘And why you? 
Because if my son were to do this, it could be taken as a 
political act. Contested. Interpreted as ambition. If Cassius 
did it, it would be a scandal. But you—Cedric, the distant 
Srivanian, the scholar with no house—your gesture will be 
taken as divine.’ He folded his hands and looked down at 
him. ‘The people will believe it to be a sign from Lucer 
himself.’ 
Cedric clenched his jaw—something churned within 
him. Why does this anger me so? He wondered. Why, when I’m 
being offered a place in something so grand—something so 
transformative? Why does it feel like betrayal? 
It wasn’t just that Cassius had deceived him into 
believing that he had picked him in the spur of the 
moment. Nor was it merely Aurelius revealing the vast 
design at play, one that reached beyond religion into the 
very reshaping of Albion’s governance. It wasn’t even the 
planned destruction of the statue, though that too felt like 
a desecration of something old, something sacred. No… it 
was something deeper. Something he could not yet name. 
‘Listen to me,’ the Lord said, his voice #rm now. ‘You 
have an important part to play, my boy. With your (aming 
arrow, you will help light the #rst #re of revolution.’ 
No, Cedric thought, but he did not speak it aloud. Yet it 
burned inside him, unyielding. 
The Lord grinned. ‘Cassius advised I keep this from you,’ 
he admitted. ‘He said you might hesitate. But I 
remembered the boy in Dhwarka. The one who followed us 
not out of obedience, but curiosity. You were never a 
coward. I trust you will understand what must be done. My 
most loyal man, Malvern Darle of Gaulica’s archer corps, 
will come to you this evening, around #ve, while there is 
still light enough to see clearly. He will instruct you in the 
ways of the bow, though I suspect you know them already. 
Take the day off. It has been arranged.’ 
It was meant as praise. But Cedric heard only the 
shadow of command behind it. There was no trust. Not 
truly. He was being ordered. They had given him this life, 
and now he must give them his unending service. This was 
the will of Gaul, passed through a velvet tongue.  
Cedric realised then that he had never been free. Not 
since that storm. Not since he’d hidden in a crate and slept 
while fate sealed itself around him. 
The Lord said something else—words meant to soothe, 
to reassure, but Cedric did not hear them. 
He felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder. But his 
eyes were elsewhere. They were #xed on the #gurine lying 
beside his hand. 
The Vajra. 
That old, golden weapon—etched with the script of a 
forgotten tongue. A symbol of divine wrath. Of 
unstoppable judgement. A relic from a people who had 
once stood between Gods and men. It blurred in his vision 
and awoke in him a deep dread—a sense of unspeakable 
doom.  
He imagined, for a moment, lifting the Vajra—feeling it 
surge awake in his grasp, growing vast, almighty, heavy 
with the judgement of forgotten Gods. He saw himself 
wielding it without mercy, casting it upon Aurelius, slicing 
through his neck with a blade of golden light. Then, with 
the same divine force, directing it upon the Palace, upon all 
of Constaria, until stone turned to ash and falsehood to 
truth. 
He stood motionless. The Lord was beside him, speaking 
still. But Cedric heard nothing. Their voice had become 
distant now. 
He no longer understood the Lord.  
He only saw the weapon.  
The Vajra was the only thing he understood now. 
*** 
Long after the Lord had departed, Cedric remained seated, 
unmoving. His gaze stayed locked on the ancient weapon 
resting upon his desk. The Vajra gleamed faintly in the 
morning light, its sacred etchings catching the sun’s rays 
and casting them into his eyes. That light entered his eyes 
and #lled his mind, dancing, glimmering gold. He felt 
enlightened, reverent, as if he was receiving a revelation 
from something older than memory. By something that had 
waited in silence for a thousand years. For a time, he was 
motionless. He didn’t speak. He barely blinked. Only when 
the light shifted, and the glow left his eyes, did he #nally 
stir—slowly, as though waking from a dream. 
A slow breath escaped him as the sun's warmth touched 
his skin. His chest felt tight, as though bound by invisible 
strings. He needed air. He needed to escape the vines of 
thought that now entangled him. Until his a fternoon 
duties under Sir Malvern’s command, the day was his. That 
was more than enough. 
Without a second thought, he threw on his cloak, 
adjusted his shirt, and departed. The hallways of the 
College were quiet this late in the morning, the bustle of 
breakfast long passed. Cedric quickly exited the College 
from the side door near the stairs of the eastern tower and 
departed from the grounds via the back entrance, which 
hardly anyone ever used.  
As he approached, he passed a dozing guard slouching 
on a chair, leaning against the tall metal fence. The guard 
didn’t notice him at all, not even when he vaulted over the 
handrails beside the stairs and immediately turned toward 
the treeline—towards the vast, untamed forest that grew 
around the western reaches of the Palace grounds. 
Cedric followed no particular path and walked with no 
clear purpose, only allowing instinct to guide his steps. He 
pressed forward, brushing past ferns and low–hanging 
branches, until the great stone towers of the College and 
Palace were obscured behind the wall of trees. Eventually, 
he stumbled into a clearing and rested, sitting upon a 
fallen log. 
The wind gently rustled the leaves above him, and the 
sun glided slowly between vast clouds, shifting the forest 
from light to shadow and back again. He looked up at the 
ever–changing sky and imagined some colossal, invisible 
hand guiding the clouds in divine patterns. The thought 
humbled him, and once again, he realised how small and 
meaningless his life and his worries were in the grand 
scheme of things. 
He rose again and walked, sipping from the (ask tied at 
his side. The cool water steadied him. It’s as if my life is part 
of some great story, too many things feel as if they were meant to 
be. Is there such a thing as God? Is he responsible? Or is the cause 
of these coincidences something else entirely? 
His musings were cut short, for just ahead—(uttering 
against the shrubbery—was the unmistakable shape of a 
small girl. She stood among the bushes in silence, dressed 
in a strange white garment that shimmered faintly beneath 
the rustling leaves. Her dark brown waves fell loosely past 
her shoulders, and her skin glowed porcelain–pale.  
She turned to face him, and their eyes met. Green. 
Tranquil. Calm. She tucked a purple (ower behind her ear 
with a soft, deliberate grace as she turned away.  
Who is she? And why is she here—alone? he wondered. Not 
wanting to startle her with his presence, Cedric dropped 
his gaze and walked forward without a word. 
He moved on, thoughts spinning, until he came upon an 
overgrown pathway. The stonework astonished him. It was 
unlike anything he had ever seen. The pathway was crafted 
with tiny blocks of colourful stone, depicting plants, 
animals, and other #gures he could not make out. Its 
backdrop was almost entirely white, and its edges were 
marked with delicate golden swirls. The moss had 
overtaken much of it, but beneath the decay, the path still 
shimmered with the elegance of a bygone age. His steps 
slowed, and he knelt down to examine it. Curiosity drew 
him. The path led further up the slope, but where could it 
end? He wondered. 
Then—just as he was about to ascend the path— the 
mysterious girl from before reappeared. This time, gently 
stepping out from behind a tree, smiling. 
‘Hi,’ she said softly, giving a brief wave. 
‘Hello,’ Cedric replied, almost re(exively. 
She studied him, tilting her head slightly. ‘I’ve never 
seen you before. Why are you here?’ 
Cedric blinked. He had no answer, not a proper one. 
What could he say? That he had been (eeing thoughts too 
heavy to carry? ‘I got lost,’ he said, after a pause. 
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. ‘Really? You don’t 
seem like someone who gets lost easily.’ 
He frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’ 
She giggled lightly. Her voice was foreign and carried 
like the wind through leaves. ‘Look at how you stand. Look 
at how you’re dressed. You walk like someone on a quest. 
Like someone ready for anything. People like that don’t 
just get lost.’ She leaned in slightly, her expression 
sharpening. ‘You look like someone who’s here for a reason.’ 
A reason? Cedric felt the words settle into him like a 
pebble into water. ‘And what reason would that be?’ he 
asked, genuinely intrigued. But she only smiled again, and 
her silence told him nothing. He tried again, shifting the 
question. ‘Then tell me—why are you here?’ 
She stepped closer, her hands hidden behind her back. ‘I 
like to come here in the mornings. I live nearby.’ 
‘Where, exactly?’ He enquired, perplexed, only the 
Palace was nearby. 
‘Not too far,’ she said airily, now standing beside him. 
‘This place is peaceful. It helps me relax.’ 
Cedric glanced around. The forest, once mysterious and 
foreboding, seemed different in her presence. Lighter. 
Calmer. ‘Yes… I suppose it is.’ 
‘But there’s something even more beautiful nearby,’ she 
said suddenly. Her eyes lit with excitement. ‘Would you 
like to see it?’ 
His rational mind hesitated, but something else drove 
him forward. ‘O–okay. Sure.’ What am I doing? I just met 
her… what could she possibly want to show me? Is this some sort 
of trap? But who would want to trap me? Who am I to trap? I am 
no one. Could there still be bandits this close to the capital? No, 
certainly not. Bandits like that don’t exist anymore. I’ve been 
reading too many stories. 
‘You think too much. Hurry, follow me!’ she called as 
she began climbing the hill. 
He tilted his head, perplexed but fascinated. The girl 
weaved through the forest with a swi ftness he couldn’t 
match. Her white dress clung tightly to her delicate #gure 
beneath a strange leather bracing, and her feet, clad in 
simple leather sandals, stepped across the ground with ease. 
Cedric struggled to keep up. 
She dashed through the bushes, through narrow 
openings in the trees. Every movement was instinctual—as 
if the forest itself was shaped for her. Cedric, by contrast, 
had to wrestle through thick shrubs and stoop under low–
hanging branches. 
The girl looked back once and smiled again, wordlessly. 
Was she checking to see if I’m still here? 
He pressed on. 
The incline steepened. The bushes thickened. Still, she 
ascended, unbothered. Cedric’s breathing quickened. 
Where is she taking me? 
Just as he thought to call out, the girl ducked beneath a 
branch and vanished from sight. Cedric paused, uncertain. 
The hill had steepened sharply now, and each step forward 
felt precarious. He dropped low, gripping at exposed rock 
to steady himself. One misplaced footfall and he could 
tumble back down. Heaving up a ledge, he pressed on until 
he was halted by another branch. Through its tangle, he 
glimpsed glimmers of light—faint, but ethereal—breaking 
through the foliage like the glow of some distant world. 
Without thinking, he reached forward and li fted the 
branch. 
A sudden burst of white brilliance struck his eyes. 
He recoiled, shielding his face. A rock slipped beneath 
his boot and went clattering down the hill, but he managed 
to keep his footing. With a grunt, he threw his weight 
forward, grasping onto an exposed root and clawing his 
way up. Breathless, heart thudding, he paused to steady 
himself. 
The light was still blinding, but slowly, the world 
beyond began to unveil itself. He climbed over the ledge. 
And there she was—just a few steps ahead, bathed in gold 
and silver light. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, palms 
open to the sky. Her face tilted upward, eyes closed. Cedric 
was #lled with a sense of awe. The girl looked at one with 
the world, with the trees and with the sky. 
Sensing his presence, she turned and smiled, then stood 
waiting. Her voice came soft, delicate. 
‘Aperi oculos tuos…’ she whispered. ‘Open your eyes,’ 
she repeated. 
He opened his eyes and witnessed an utterly 
breathtaking scene.  
Beautiful…  
The landscape before him was unlike anything he had 
ever seen. The great clouds parted, allowing the sun to cast 
its golden rays unbroken across the valley below. A small 
river wound through the heart of it, and above, a (ock of 
white birds (ew in unison, tracing its meandering path. 
But what held his gaze most was the ruins across the valley
—pale, weathered columns rising from the crest of a 
distant hill. They stood like ghosts of an ancient world, 
serene and forgotten. 
What is that? he thought, stepping forward, utterly 
trans#xed. 
The sudden scatter of pebbles beneath his feet startled 
him. He looked down and realised how sheer the ledge 
truly was. 
Shit. 
He lunged backward into the dense foliage, which 
caught him in its embrace. 
I never knew a place like this existed... so close to the Palace.  
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ the girl said beside him, her legs now 
dangling freely over the edge, her tone as light as a song. 
‘Yes… it—it’s truly astonishing,’ he murmured. 
She stood again. ‘Come,’ she said, straightening her 
dress. ‘We’re almost there.’ 
There’s more? He wondered, stepping aside to let her 
pass. He followed. 
They climbed further. 
The girl was agile, bounding lightly up the half–ruined 
path. One side of the trail had long since crumbled away, 
claimed by a landslide, yet she climbed without hesitation, 
light–footed and sure, as though the Aereth knew her and 
would not let her fall.  
Whereas Cedric had to yet again clamber, sidestep, and 
force his way through the brush. Reaching the top of the 
slope, he spotted a rise in the ground, almost unnoticeable, 
overgrown with vines and long grass. In its midst, a 
staircase appeared—faint, worn, made of pale stone that 
matched the path they had found earlier. As Cedric placed 
his foot on the #rst step, a jolt surged through him, rising 
from the soles of his feet to the (ame in his mind. His eyes 
(ashed azure, lit not by thought, but by a memory older 
than his own. 
As he climbed, the trees fell away behind him. The 
staircase opened onto a forgotten plateau. The view from 
here surpassed even what he had seen before. The old 
railing that once guarded the edge had crumbled in places, 
leaving only fractured remnants. Some lengths had 
vanished entirely, now half–buried in the moss–covered 
aereth.  
At the centre stood the broken pedestal of a statue. 
Upon it remained only a single foot, still #rmly planted. 
The rest had fallen. Yet, even in collapse, the statue 
possessed the bearing of a fallen god. A ruined torso lay 
nearby, and the head—split cleanly in two—rested gently 
against a stone. The face was that of a young man, noble 
and composed. His shattered visage held no rage yet 
appeared ever–de#ant. His gaze was still tilted upward, as 
though the sky itself owed him an answer. 
Cedric stepped toward the base and read the 
inscription, faint but still legible. 
ACTA EST FABULA, PLAUDITE  
He couldn’t understand it. But he recognised the text. It 
was the same tongue as the lines he had memorised for 
Floralia. 
‘Do you know what it says?’ the girl asked, now beside 
him, leaning over to read the inscription. 
He glanced over his shoulder and saw her looking up at 
him with a curious, expectant gaze. ‘I—I… no. I don’t,’ he 
said somewhat uneasily. I wish I could read Ascanian, but I 
can’t. 
‘Oh…’ she said, brushing her hair behind her ear as her 
gaze fell to the ground. Her tone shifted, tinged with subtle 
disappointment. ‘I thought you might.’ 
A steady heat rose in his chest. He had skipped the 
optional classes to learn Ascanian in his #rst and second 
year, thinking them unimportant. But now, he felt the 
sharp edge of regret. 
Then suddenly, she shot up and placed her hand on the 
base of the statue, before raising her chin proudly. ‘It says, 
“The performance is over—give your applause.”’ 
Cedric raised his eyebrow. That… sounds familiar. 
The girl smiled knowingly, as if reading his thoughts. ‘It 
was said by the grandfather of the man who came to 
civilise this land. The man was Clavius. And his 
grandfather….’ 
‘Was Aurastus! Oh yes, of course! I remember now! 
That’s where I’ve heard it. The emperors of old,’ he said 
excitedly, feeling like a child who had correctly guessed the 
answer before it was revealed. 
‘That’s right!’ she said brightly. Her joy was radiant, and 
she looked impressed, as if he had passed some hidden test. 
‘Clavius was gentle. A kind man, even as emperor. And his 
grandfather…’ her voice softened, ‘was the greatest man 
who ever lived. Or so I’m told. I never met him, of course.’ 
Cedric chuckled. ‘Of course not. He lived almost two 
thousand years ago.’ 
Her eyes dimmed. ‘Yes…’ 
Without warning, she dashed towards the broken railing 
and leaned out over the ledge. Cedric’s heart lurched. He 
stepped forward instinctively, arm outstretched, to keep 
her from falling. 
Yet she turned to him with a mischievous grin. ‘You 
must have wondered what those words carved into the 
stone meant.’ 
‘Hmm… yes,’ he said, lifting a hand to his chin. ‘The 
performance is over… could it mean that the role of an 
emperor is performative? That Aurastus believed—wait, 
no,’ he sighed. ‘I—I don’t know.’ 
‘No,’ she said, her voice soft but steady. ‘It’s much deeper 
than that. Those were among the last words he spoke 
before his death.’ She placed her hands behind her back 
and faced him directly now. ‘Aurastus had always known 
that his life was shaped by forces greater than his will—
that he was marked by destiny long before he could act 
upon it. To him, the world was a stage, and he an actor 
bound to his role. He ruled as he was meant to rule, 
faltered as he was meant to falter, and when his time came, 
he accepted it all as one accepts the end of a play well 
performed. That was the meaning of his words. Not fury at 
the Gods for playing his life like a story… but reverence, 
understanding. And maybe, a little irony too—for even 
those not chosen by fate o ften feel that same pull, as 
though they too are puppets on a string, acting out the role 
the universe has written for them.’ 
Hearing this, Cedric’s gaze froze on the visage of 
Aurastus. So there was someone else who’s felt what I have. That 
this life is some sort of grand play and that I am but an actor in 
it. Aurastus… what kind of man were you really? Can I ever be 
as great as you? 
‘Anyways, did you see the ruins on the other side of the 
valley before?’ she asked cheerfully.  
He nodded. ‘I did.’ 
‘Come closer, you can see it from here as well.’ 
‘Oh, alright…’ he responded nervously, trying to assess 
the stability of the ground beneath his feet. Thankfully, it 
was all stable, and so he moved to stand beside the girl. 
‘That used to be the great temple of the goddess 
Venaria,’ she said, pointing into the distance at the temple 
now partly shrouded by fog. 
Venaria. The name struck him. ‘I know her,’ he said. ‘The 
goddess of fertility… and love. Is she not?’ 
‘Yes! You’re right! How did you know?!’ 
‘I studied it. There used to be a great library in Massilia 
that I visited often.’ 
‘I’m glad,’ she said, her voice warm with genuine relief. 
‘Most people have forgotten.’ 
He placed a hand upon the ancient stone and closed his 
eyes. In his mind, the ruin came alive, and he imagined 
what it had looked like long ago.  
The temple stood whole once more—radiant, divine, 
bathed in a lustrous amber hue. Worshippers #lled the 
steps, their voices rising in chorus. Flames danced in open 
braziers. Petals drifted across sunlit altars. The goddess was 
honoured with hymns, with offerings, with love. 
Then he saw the very place he now stood, long after the 
rites had faded. A father, clothed in a white fabric streaked 
by red, kneeled with his arm around his young daughter, 
dressed like the mysterious girl, smiling as he pointed to 
the sky. She giggled, awestruck, as the sun dipped beneath 
the valley. His son stood beside, arms folded, eyes gazing 
towards the horizon, purpose burning in his eyes. Their joy, 
their bond. The echo of their presence, whispered across 
time, left a very deep impression on him. One, he knew, he 
would never forget. 
He had never truly considered having children. But now, 
more than ever, he wanted them. Many of them. Sons and 
daughters he would raise with devotion. Guiding, 
protecting, shaping—until they were perfect. Absolutely 
perfect. 
He opened his eyes—the illusion dispelled. The ruins 
were silent. The memory was gone. His heart sank. 
What happened here? Why is this place in ruins? 
He turned to the girl. She was humming so ftly now, 
looking toward the horizon as if listening to a song only 
she could hear. 
‘So… what happened here?’ he asked quietly. ‘Do you 
know?’ 
She turned, and this time her eyes did not glint. They 
held something deeper. Something wounded. Something 
real. 
‘Many things,’ the girl said at last, her voice low and 
distant. Her expression turned solemn, as though 
remembering a deep pain. ‘This place… it decayed slowly, 
over the centuries. Our guardians grew lazy, disillusioned 
and soon the people stopped coming. The songs faded. The 
prayers stopped. But the #nal blow—the #nal betrayal—
came when a terrible group of people looted it. They tore 
down what remained. They smashed what they couldn’t 
steal.’ 
Cedric clenched his jaw. ‘Who?’ he asked, fury rising in 
his chest. ‘Who did this? Where are they now?!’ 
The girl turned slowly. 
Her green eyes, calm, but storm–like, met his. 
‘They are long dead,’ she said plainly. Then, after a 
breath, she lifted a pale hand and pointed back across the 
valley, toward the way he had come. ‘But their descendants 
live in that palace over there.’ 
Cedric’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘The Royal Palace?’ 
She nodded. 
‘The followers of Lucerian came and destroyed this 
place. They called the old gods false. They called Venaria a 
demoness. And Constarius…’ her voice trembled with 
disdain, ‘Constarius ordered it. Even though he had sworn 
to protect this place.’ 
Cedric’s mind reeled. ‘Constarius? No… that can’t be. 
He was a good man. A man of honour. Of devotion. Why 
would he have allowed such a thing?’ 
The girl’s expression darkened. ‘He was a coward. A 
betrayer. He was no better than those who swung the 
hammers. His devotion was not towards the Gods but 
towards a demon who masqueraded as one.’ 
Then, as quickly as it had come, the bitterness left her. 
She smiled faintly, as though the pain had never been there 
at all. ‘Now,’ she said, brushing past him, her tone light 
once more. ‘I have to go. My sisters will be worried,’ she 
said as she began to descend the broken staircase. 
‘Farewell,’ she added gently, glancing over her shoulder 
with that same enigmatic smile. 
‘Wait!’ Cedric called, stepping forward. ‘What’s your 
name?’ 
There was no answer. 
He quickened his pace, turning the corner in time to see
— 
Nothing. 
The girl was gone. 
His heart quickened as he descended swi ftly, eyes 
scanning every direction. There was no sign of her. Rain 
began to fall in a #ne mist. He searched behind the bushes, 
down the path. He even peered down the side of the cliff, 
checking to see if she had slipped off. 
But she was nowhere to be seen. The girl had vanished, 
as if she had never been. 
What the hell… 
He stood there for a moment, breathless, mind whirling. 
The air around him grew colder. The sky, once clear, was 
now grey and overcast. Cedric lingered back to the plateau 
and stayed there a little longer, eyes drawn once again to 
the shattered statue beside him. The performance is over—
give your applause. 
He felt the meaning of that line seep into his soul. It 
spoke to him like nothing had ever before. As the rain 
thickened, his clothes became soaked, and so, he was #nally 
forced to leave the wondrous place. With one last look at 
the ruined sanctuary, he descended the hillside path in 
silence. The forest, which had once seemed so alive, now 
felt hollow, like something beautiful and pure had departed 
from it. 
By the time he reached the lower stairway that led back 
to the palace, the rain had turned even heavier. His boots 
were soaked. His clothes clung to his skin. But he did not 
quicken his pace.  Then, as suddenly as it had come, the 
rain halted.  
Yet his mind still lingered elsewhere. 
How does such a place exist so close to the palace…?  And that 
girl… Who was she? 
How could she speak so innocently, so openly, about things so 
ancient? 
Why have I never seen anyone like her before? 
Where did she go? 
He had no answers. Only questions. 
By the time he returned to the college gates, the vision 
had already begun to feel like a distant memory. Faded, like 
a half–remembered dream. And when he reached the great 
doors of the college, a fear entered his chest. 
Standing there, waiting under the eaves—dry, 
composed, arms folded—was Sir Malvern. Cedric had 
completely forgotten to keep track of the time. He reached 
inside his coat for his pocket watch and saw that he had 
been gone for three hours—though it had scarcely felt like 
one. Nevertheless, the knight had arrived early. An hour 
early. Is this how military men are? Punctual beyond measure? 
Cedric swallowed, straightened his coat, and stepped 
forward. 
*** 
Malvern greeted him with a nod—impassive, measured. 
There was kindness in his eyes, but it was remote, 
tempered. His posture was rigid, his voice low and 
composed, his every gesture shaped by discipline. A knight 
loyal to the bone. Loyal not to Cedric, but to his Lord. 
Beside him stood his squires and attendants—young 
Gaulic boys, no older than #fteen, yet already possessing 
the weathered expressions of men. They look more hardened, 
more assured, than most of the soft–featured sons of high nobles 
that study here in the Royal College. They were clothed in 
simple but #nely–stitched tunics bearing the crest of Gaul. 
The knight commander of the archer corps, Malvern, 
noticed Cedric’s soaked attire and told him that they 
would wait for him to change. Cedric despised being 
unready, despised making others wait. A pang of 
ineptitude struck him. Bowing in apology, he hurried to his 
quarters. 
Moments later, when he emerged again, they did not 
linger. Together they moved swiftly along the rear of the 
Palace, following the winding stone paths that led toward 
the barracks of the Vigilarii. 
Cedric knew them well, always spoken about with a 
certain fear, though rarely explained in detail. They were 
the personal guard of the Crown—#ve divisions, #fty men 
each, placed under the direct command of the #ve Manus 
Regius. In total, two hundred and #fty men made up their 
ranks. 
He had seen many soldiers in his time. The idle guards 
at city gates, the sti ff enforcers that patrolled the 
checkpoints, the ornamental knights that marched in 
parades for show more than strength. But these men—these 
Vigilarii—were something else entirely. They carried 
themselves differently. Their movements were sparse, 
purposeful, even idle—they felt ready for war. 
Their armour echoed the form of the Manus Regis, 
though plainer, stripped of excess. Each bore a polished 
chestplate and reinforced greaves, but beneath the steel 
shimmered chainmail woven tight. Below that, cloth 
garments layered with subtle purple linings. 
Their barracks stood just beyond the western (ank of 
the Palace, set into the curve of the hill. It was a stark, 
square building built from dark limestone. Its front face 
was marked only by a single tall tower with arched 
windows and narrow stone balconies on either side that 
overlooked the Palace grounds. The place looked less like a 
residence and more like a small bastion, as if it were built 
to endure a last–stand siege if the Palace and the city were 
ever to fall. 
On the left balcony, two off–duty Vigilarii sat hunched 
over dice, their coarse hands clutched around iron–cast 
cups. Cedric paused, squinting at their faces—weathered, 
grim but utterly foreign.  
They didn’t look Alban. Were they from Almany? 
Ordaine? Perhaps even S.D.R. He wondered at it brie(y, 
#nding it strange. Then let the thought pass. 
Malvern turned to him and, without a word, held out a 
bow. 
It was beautiful. Ornate yet functional. Light in hand 
but balanced perfectly. It was carved from light, pale wood, 
and its length was reinforced by silver braces that traced its 
limbs. Upon that silver, veins of gold were inlaid—winding, 
ancient patterns that shimmered faintly with every shift of 
light.  
Cedric turned it in his hands, marvelling at its beauty. 
This bow had been made precisely for the Fire Bearer—for 
him. 
‘Begin,’ Malvern said, raising his hand and waving it 
forward. 
The knight #rst had him #re at the round straw targets 
placed on wooden stands. Cedric did as he was told—
standing with poise, breathing steadily, aiming smoothly. 
His arrows struck true. One after the other. The knight 
gave no praise, only adjusted the targets. Soon, the practice 
grew more difficult. He was made to shoot with one eye 
closed. Then with his balance on a single foot. Then with a 
heavy shield raised before him, forced to #re after only a 
single glimpse. Malvern gave few instructions, only 
gestures, and Cedric understood. He obeyed. He adapted. 
It wasn’t easy—but it was invigorating. He was enjoying 
himself. And then came the #nal test. 
Two squires emerged carrying a new bundle of arrows. 
These were unlike the others—tipped not with ordinary 
arrowheads, but with forged metal twisted into an open 
spiral, like a (ame captured in iron. Within each hollowed 
cage lay a dark wick, coiled and soaked with a dark, viscous 
oil that gave off a faint, acrid scent as it glistened in the 
light. 
Flame–arrows. 
Malvern said nothing. One of the s quires silently 
stepped forward, dipping the already soaked arrow into a 
small urn of oil, before lighting it. 
The #re caught immediately. 
Cedric took the arrow and (inched. It was heavier than 
the others, and far hotter than what he had expected. His 
#ngers burned almost instantly. He tried to #re quickly, 
but the shot veered wide and fell short—striking the grass 
and igniting a sudden patch of (ame. 
‘Damn!’ he muttered. 
The squires leapt forward with damp rags, stamping the 
#re out swiftly. 
And then he heard them. Laughter. 
From across the training yard, a group of students had 
gathered—sitting lazily on crates and benches, their 
uniforms loosened, and collars unbuttoned after the day’s 
studies. Their faces wore the easy smugness of those who 
had nothing to prove. He saw familiar #gures among them
—Gabriel and his retinue, who waved at him in a friendly 
manner, and the sly eyes of Septimius and the other 
Sletions beside him. Decimus stood right in the middle of 
them, next to Gabriel. 
The Sletions laughed freely, mockingly, clapping and 
mimicking his posture. 
‘Let them laugh,’ Malvern said quietly. ‘There will be 
thousands watching on the day. This is a good test.’ 
Cedric nodded. ‘Sir.’ 
He tried again and again. 
But now something had changed. It was not only that 
the feel of the (ame arrows was different, but it was also 
that his grip, unsteady from fatigue and fear, trembled. 
And with so many eyes upon him—mocking, measuring—
he couldn’t #nd his rhythm. 
His shots became erratic. Inconsistent. Some hit. Some 
veered off. The burning in his #ngers made it worse. The 
evening bled into night. The courtyard darkened. The sun 
gave way to lanterns. And at last, the sky was what it 
would be on the day of Floralia—dark and starlit. 
Still, he trained. 
Still, he missed. 
The #ngers of his left hand, so close to the #re, were red, 
bruised, and sweltering like they would melt off, but still, 
he persisted, refusing to give up. At one point, the 
attendees brought forward a bucket of water for him, and 
he hastily dipped his hand inside—feeling the instant relief. 
The squires then wrapped his #ngers in a thin white cloth, 
and he continued.  
Wiping sweat from his brow. His frustration mounting, 
his breath shortening. He #red once more. This time, his 
arrow struck true. And so it continued for a while longer, 
on and off. Never consistent. 
Malvern stood with arms crossed. His silence was no 
longer neutral. 
Cedric saw it. The doubt. 
At last, the knight called an end to it. 
The students began to wander off, their laughter fading, 
replaced by murmured talk and the low crackle of torches. 
Cedric said nothing to them. He returned to his room 
alone and closed the door behind him. The silence there 
was immense. He undressed slowly, #ngers trembling, and 
sat on his bed. He stared at his bandaged hands, holding 
them before his face like a man trying to remember what 
they were meant for. They felt foreign now. As though they 
were being used for a purpose unnatural to him. 
That night, he lay awake, thoughts churning, unable to 
still his mind. Then the next few days passed in the same 
way—repetition, exhaustion, frustration. All while his 
classes continued and his peers watched. Some judging 
silently, others openly mocking. Only Edwin and Decimus 
ever offered him any words of encouragement, saying that 
he was doing well. Septimus, on the other hand, began to 
refer to him as a jester for providing them all a free #re 
show every night after class. He ignored him.  
His training continued along a pattern of progression 
and regression. Again and again. And then, at last—
without realising how quickly time had passed—the day of 
the festival arrived. 
*** 
Giggling Gaulic girls in white (oral dresses led him toward 
the altar, their laughter soft and musical, like wind chimes 
caught in the breeze. They fawned around him, (uttering 
like the attendants of some young god descended from his 
palace in the clouds. Cedric could not deny the pleasure he 
felt at the sight of them, at the way their presence made 
him feel airy—almost making him forget the gravity of 
what was to come. 
Gabriella was one of them. She looked up at him with 
sparkling eyes, her hair coiled neatly with ribbons of gold 
and green. 
Half–hiding her smile behind her delicate #ngers, she 
approached him. ‘Cedric, you’re not wearing your dress 
correctly,’ she said, a small laugh escaping her. The other 
girls, her friends and cousins, giggled behind her. ‘You have 
to wear it like this,’ she added, stepping forward boldly and 
pulling the fabric over his shoulder with a precise, teasing 
touch. 
Cedric squared his shoulders and felt the subtle shift of 
fabric as the toga fell properly into place. He gripped the 
runed bow tighter in his hand. He had grown very familiar 
with it now, as if it were an extension of his arms. ‘Is this 
better?’ he asked them. 
The girls gave no answer, only more laughter, and 
whispers shared behind hands.  
He sighed inwardly. Girls… so impossible to understand. 
Dressed in a pristine white toga, with a golden laurel 
upon his brow and the gleaming bow in his hand, Cedric 
felt altered. Like a #gure out of myth. Like a God. Tonight, 
he was no longer a student, he was the Fire Bearer—the 
last. 
From outside the tent, an immense sound rolled over 
the cloth walls—the mingled voices of thousands of souls 
all packed closely together in the main square of Constaria. 
Cedric’s stomach turned hearing the noise. 
No, he thought. I have resolved myself. Nothing can stop me 
now. I am not afraid.  
The girls nudged him gently forward, leading him 
toward the edge of the tent. Cedric peered through a small 
gap in the canvas. There, beyond the veil, stood the altar of 
the eternal #re—its small (ame (ickering de#antly in the 
darkness. Once, long ago, that #re had truly been eternal. 
But it had gone out when Ascania fell into ruin. What 
burned now was symbolic, revived only in name—but even 
so, as he stared at it, a deep, profound grandeur rose in 
him. 
A girl approached him, holding before her a white cloth 
with a single (ame arrow placed on top. No second chances. 
This is it. She held it out towards him, and he took it 
carefully, holding it with the bow. The weight of the arrow, 
the ritual was familiar to him now—he had trained for this
—but his hand still trembled. Then, slowly, he stepped 
toward the exit.  
Two girls moved to each side of the tent’s front, pulling 
back the folds in silence. The opening revealed a vast 
darkness dotted with faint lights. The crowd was a black 
sea, rippling with whispered conversation, lit only by 
scattered torches and lanterns hung on buildings. Cedric 
took a breath, long and steady. Then he stepped out. 
The night air was cooler than he had expected. He could 
hear the fabric of the tent rustle behind him as it fell 
closed. Ahead, the stage stretched out beneath his feet like 
the prow of a great ship, facing a silent, dark ocean. Atop it 
were scattered (ower petals. 
He walked forward. From this height, he could see the 
heads of the people clearly—their necks craning, their faces 
indiscernible. Twenty–#ve paces ahead, rising above the 
crowd, stood his target. A massive wreath of (owers bound 
to a pole, set atop the central fountain. It crowned the 
head of the statue of Flora, a goddess of antiquity.  
Even from here, Cedric could still make out her carved 
smile, her smooth visage leaning gracefully to one side. Her 
features were softened by shadow, but the torches at the 
base illuminated the column just enough for him to see 
where his arrow must land. 
The wreath stood high, perhaps #ve–six metres from the 
ground. Behind it was a large wooden board if he were to 
miss. But he would not miss. 
He felt his heart thudding as he reached the #nal step—
the end circle. The moment his foot touched it, the guards 
lining the stage slammed the butts of their spears to the 
ground in unison. The sound was a deafening, rhythmic 
tune which echoed across the terrace homes lining the 
edges of the square. The sound was relentless. Over and 
over the spears struck the (oor, the clash reaching his ears 
like a low rumbling thunder. The murmurs of the crowd 
began to die. One by one, the voices dimmed, until nothing 
remained but the measured hammering of the spears. Then, 
that too faded. 
Now, there was only silence. 
Cedric could hear the #re beside him, crackling soft and 
steady. The altar (ame was to his left, burning #ercely as if 
in anticipation. The wind stilled as even the torches in the 
distance seemed to hold their breath. 
He was alone. 
Thousands of souls—citizens of Constaria, of Albion, 
nobles, strangers, friends, enemies—all were watching him. 
And yet not a single voice broke the air. 
The silence, the fear, the power. It was not what he 
imagined. This is terrifying… Will I feel this feeling often? He 
thought to himself. If I am a king?  
Cedric placed the bow and arrow on the cushioned 
table by the altar and took a step back. The weight left his 
hands, but not his chest. He stood still, the light of the 
altar–#re dancing across his face. Before him lay a dark 
mass of humanity, thousands of faces gathered as one, 
silent and waiting. They stared at him, and he stared back. 
He raised his right hand and began to recite the words that 
had echoed endlessly in his thoughts for days—lines he had 
carved into his memory like inscriptions onto stone. 
‘Musa memora mihi causas,’ he began, his voice calm but 
#rm, his hand extended towards the heavens. ‘Quo numine 
laeso,’ he continued, taking one step forward. ‘Dolensve 
quid regina deum impulerit virum insignem pietate volvere 
tot casus adire tot labores.’ With this, he clenched his #st 
before his chest. 
‘Tantaene irae caelestibus animis?’ he concluded, voice 
rising wrathfully. 
A breath passed. Then, he turned to face the altar. 
He took the bow in his left hand and the arrow in his 
right. Slowly, he lowered the arrow’s caged tip into the 
eternal (ame. The #re caught immediately, springing to life 
with a loud whoosh. The heat hit him all at once—his 
cheeks (ushed, his hands warmed, his eyes glinted with the 
re(ected (ame. He stared into it, and, for a moment, the 
#re was all he could see. Around him, petals stirred. 
Drawn by some sudden gust of wind, the sacred (owers 
of Flora scattered across the (oor—the silken whites, the 
soft pinks, the crimson reds—rose from the ground and 
coiled through the air in a slow, spiralling current. They 
gathered around him, encircling him in a living wreath, an 
impossible tempest formed of (ame and (ower merged in 
that moment, dancing together in the air. 
He felt it surging inside him, (ooding his chest, his 
limbs, his throat—a rising, sacred force he could barely 
contain. The folds of his ceremonial robe billowed faintly. 
An old brooch fastened at his shoulder—a tarnished 
emblem of unknown origin—glowed so ftly, as though 
remembering something he did not. Light and shadow 
played across his skin, casting his features into the likeness 
of a #gure emerged from myth. 
Thin strands of his hair (uttered across his eyes, but 
they did not deter him. His stance—bow drawn, eyes 
ablaze—was no longer that of a boy. He gazed forward—
toward the distant wreath, hanging above the statue of 
Flora. He raised the bow and drew the string.  
Thump. Thump. Thump. 
His heartbeat pounded in his ears like war drums. His 
arms trembled ever so slightly as he held the drawn bow, 
his #ngers burning with the heat of the (ame. His eyes, 
bright with #re, were #xed solely on the wreath.

Then, he released. 
The string snapped back with a clean, tight smack. The 
arrow cut through the night like a shard of light hurled 
from Heaven itself. As it sailed forward through the air, it 
lit up the crowd in the line it travelled. He saw eyes, heads, 
glints of fabric, a sea of faces turned in awe to follow its 
(ight. 
Shhhhhh… 
THWAK! 
The arrow struck true. 
The wreath ignited in an instant, a roaring blaze 
erupting into the sky. Its petals curled and blackened, parts 
of it snapping and falling down the length of the statue. A 
great charred leaf tumbled through the air and struck the 
water below with a heavy splash. 
I did it! Cedric thought. He felt it all through his chest—
the #re in his eyes now matched the #re in his soul. He 
looked out over the people, and he no longer felt fear. He 
had conquered the darkness and brought it light. 
The crowd erupted into cheer. 
‘AETERNA ALBION!’ they cried, again and again, 
voices rising in chant like the songs sung in ancient 
temples. 
Cedric allowed the sound to enter his soul, marking him 
eternally as he scanned the masses slowly, proudly. 
Forgetting in that moment what was to come next. 
Then— 
Crack. 
A sound like the snapping of ancient bone #lled the 
square. 
The statue of Flora split along the waist. Then, with the 
wail of a falling stone, it toppled forward and collapsed 
into the fountain’s basin with a violent crash. 
The cheering stopped. All fell silent. 
A horri#ed gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by 
a stunned, echoing silence. The murmurs that followed 
were quiet and uncertain, like the #rst winds of a gathering 
storm. 
The moment was broken. Something sacred had 
shattered. He understood then that this… this would not 
be seen as a mere accident. It would be seen as an omen. A 
sign. The death of the goddess was beyond a metaphor now
—it had been enacted in stone. 
Exactly as the Gaulic lords had intended. 
Cedric did not move. He stood like a statue himself, 
staring at the broken remains of Flora—her serene smile 
now shattered across the (oor. And in her ruin, (ashed the 
earlier ruins he had seen the other day.  
An anger rose within him. A rage without words. A 
pitiless pool of pure wrath and resentment.  
What have I done? 
As he stared down into the pool where the wreath still 
burned, the whole world seemed to tremble under his rage. 
Then, a #gure appeared on the stage. 
An old man in rags, his steps uneven, his voice ragged 
with despair, crawled forward and clutched Cedric’s legs 
with his withered hands. 
‘You… You killed the deathless Goddess!’ he cried, 
looking up with wild, bloodshot eyes. His hair was sparse 
and knotted, his mouth a ruin of rotten teeth. ‘Look at you
—you killed her!’ 
Cedric looked down at him in silence. He did not (inch. 
‘Unhand the Fire Bearer, you miscreant!’ barked a guard 
as they rushed onto the stage. They seized the man roughly 
by the shoulders and dragged him away. 
‘Deathless Goddess!’ the old man cried again and again 
as he was pulled from view. 
Then, Cedric turned. Without a word, he walked back 
toward the tent. 
Inside, the girls rushed to him, clapping and laughing, 
their eyes bright with joy. They had only heard the roar of 
the crowd, not the crash of the statue. 
‘Cedric! Cedric! That was incredible!’ said one of the 
girls, whose name he did not know. 
He pulled away. ‘I need to change,’ he muttered. 
He walked past them and placed the bow down by the 
tent’s edge. Then, he stepped outside. The air hit him 
differently now. The scent of burning oil still lingered 
faintly on his #ngers, mixed with the scent of (oral incense 
imbued in his garments. 
People stared as he passed. 
He felt exposed in the white toga, the golden laurel still 
on his brow. I should change out of this. He made his way to 
the changing tent. There, in silence, he removed the garb of 
Gods and donned the dark doublet of his ordinary life. 
He felt better at once. He was himself again. Whoever 
that was. 
Then a familiar face came upon him. 
Decimus Sletion. 
‘You actually did it, huh,’ he said, clasping his shoulder. 
‘That was a well–placed shot. I had my doubts seeing you 
train, but you performed it perfectly, well done.’ 
Cedric smiled, faintly but genuinely, and gave a nod of 
thanks. They then began walking side by side, making their 
way through the row of tents toward the main square, now 
glowing with scattered torches and islands of mingling 
people. 
A group of youths had formed around him—most, he 
recognised, as fellow students from College. They found a 
stone bench beneath a lantern’s glow and seated themselves 
around it, laughing, speaking, passing water and wine. 
Cedric joined in quietly. As their words (oated around 
him, his thoughts lingered with the #re, the statue, the old 
man. Yet, with every moment he spent among his 
companions, the deep wrath within him eased. The tension 
receded. 
The square around them was alive—alive in a way 
Cedric had never quite known. A youthful joy #lled the air, 
alive with cries and songs that rose with the scent of 
(owers and smoke. And in that moment, brief and 
shimmering, it felt as though the entire world was perfect 
and that nothing impure could ever taint their joy. 
Strangely, no one seemed to speak of the fallen statue 
any more. Little more than an hour had passed since the 
crash, yet already, people behaved as though it had never 
happened. Perhaps it was too much to process, or perhaps 
everyone had simply moved on, for there were always 
fresher things to dwell on. Thus, the true cause remained 
ever elusive, like so many other things in his life. 
Then, a new group arrived. 
Girls, clearly noble by dress and manner, most of whom 
Cedric had seen before. 
They came mingling freely into the group, gi ggling, 
twirling locks of hair, eyes wide with curiosity and 
intrigue. Two stood out to him. One was taller, graceful 
with a con#dent air—her name was Severa. The other was 
smaller—a fragile girl possessing an alluring charm. Her 
name was Mirabella. 
Cedric spoke to them freely, not caring for their 
affiliations or noble ties. Their presence was pleasant. At 
one point, he went away with Mirabella to fetch a jug of 
water. She walked beside him timidly, keeping just a bit 
behind. Her dress—a so ft pink with faded (owers 
embroidered along its hems—clung gently to her slender 
form. He could see her shoulders beneath its sheer linen. 
He glanced at it for too long, and she noticed. 
She looked up at him, eyes wide, innocent, startled by 
his gaze—but not unwelcoming of it. Her look stirred 
something in him. A sense of closeness, of desire, of 
longing. At that moment, she seemed to be completely his. 
It pleased him. He smiled brie(y, then returned with her to 
the others. 
Yet, after some time passed, a familiar restlessness 
stirred in his chest as it always did. He could never remain 
long among crowds. No matter how warm or kind the 
company was, he always ended up needing reprieve. 
Speaking, laughing, responding—it drained him. He stood 
up without excuse and walked off into the square, leaving 
the others behind. 
As he walked, eyes lowered, he noticed something 
strange. The ground beneath him glowed with a ghostly 
white sheen. He followed the light upward and paused. 
The sky above had opened. 
And there it was. 
The full moon, the brightest he had ever seen—quarter 
ways through the sky. Immense, round, blinding. It shone 
like a great silver eye, cast high above Aereth, watching. 
And then— 
He saw her. 
Directly beneath the silver glow, she stood. A girl, still 
and poised, gazing at him. Her head was tilted upwards 
ever so slightly, and her face possessed an expression he 
could not name. It pierced him. Her eyes carried something 
ancient, something distant and powerful, like the moon 
that hovered above her. 
They looked at each other. Not long. But enough. 
Enough for her to see him. 
Then, she turned away. 
He watched as Severa—still lingering with the group—
approached her. They spoke. Then Severa took her hand 
gently and began leading her back toward the others. 
Cedric did not follow. 
He did not want to. Not yet. He kept walking, slowly, 
aimlessly, in spirals across the cobblestones. He wanted to 
remain in the festival… and yet, apart from it. This, too, 
was a pattern of his life. To be present in the world, but 
not entirely of it. 
They forget faces quickly, he thought. No one had stopped 
him in recognition. No one had approached. No one 
whispered his name. He had just lit the #re of Floralia. He 
had just been the centre of the world for that one moment. 
And now? Forgotten. As if he were just another face in the 
crowd. 
I remember the faces of every Fire Bearer I’ve ever seen. But 
somehow, he realised with cold clarity, they will not remember 
mine. Life is strange in that way, sometimes I feel as if I am the 
only conscious person in the world. 
Further ahead, he heard music—lively, erratic, 
indulgent. A small stage was set in a corner of the square, 
and around it danced a raucous crowd. Some held chalices 
of wine, others held grapes, and many wore revealing 
out#ts along with crude crowns woven from vines and 
leaves. Their laughter was coarse, their movements wild. He 
stepped closer. 
He stood among them but did not participate in their 
revelry. They spun, embraced, kissed, their bodies 
becoming indistinct from one another. It no longer 
mattered who was whose lover. It was all sensation. All 
hunger. No shame. 
He knew at once what it was. The cult of Bacchus. The 
old rites. Their god had returned tonight, if only in echo. 
So, not all that is ancient is sacred. This sort of debauchery must 
be suppressed. 
He towered above most of them, and from his view, he 
judged them. Not with hatred, but with contempt. They 
disgusted him. There was no reverence here, no sanctity. 
Only pervasive indulgence. 
A girl, dusky–skinned, dressed in silks not of this land, 
from Parfara or beyond—approached. Her revealing chain 
dress clung to her #gure. Her eyes were dark and soft. She 
smiled sweetly, innocently, intoxicatingly. 
She extended her hand and placed it on his shoulder. 
He knew the game. She was beautiful. Almost painfully 
so. But he would not lower himself to such vices, no matter 
how beautiful or alluring. Never. 
He turned away. Said nothing. And walked. Back 
through the crowds, back toward the benches, back into 
the night. 
The laughter and chatter in front of him at the table still 
rang clear, untouched by his brief departure. Cedric 
returned, reassured by the warmth of their company. The 
weight of the night’s stranger moments seemed to lift in 
their presence. Among them, his eyes landed again on her
—the girl from earlier. 
She was speaking with Gabriel now, standing close, the 
two of them exchanging words. There was nothing 
remarkable in their posture, but something in Cedric 
stirred again. He crossed to them at once. 
Pulling Gabriel gently by the arm, he asked in a low, 
urgent whisper, ‘Who is that girl?’ 
Gabriel looked at him with an arched brow and the 
faintest smirk. He didn’t answer—but he didn’t need to. 
Cedric’s breath caught as memory collided with the 
present. ‘Valeriya Gaul,’ he said, almost in shock. She had 
been a younger student in Lauriet, a Srivanian no less. How 
she had changed. She had been so young then, three years 
his junior, but now she looked so much older and so much 
more… 
The name had spilled from him without thought, louder 
than he'd intended. A few heads at the table turned. 
Decimus laughed and nudged his shoulder. ‘What are you 
two whispering about?’ he asked. 
Cedric, (ustered, tried to wave it off. ‘Nothing. It’s—it’s 
nothing, really.’ But it wasn’t nothing. Valeriya had heard 
him. 
She turned her head, her expression unreadable. ‘Why 
did you say my name?’ she asked, her voice cutting through 
the air. Not sharp, but undeniable. Commanding. Distinct. 
It was not the light, airy voices of Mirabella or Severa or 
countless other noble girls like them. No, Valeriya’s voice 
had gravity. It resonated deeply and carried with it the 
tone of someone who never sought permission to speak. 
Cedric looked at her directly now. Her skin was like his, 
but lighter, smoother. She was striking in some impossible 
way. He stared at her for a moment too long.  
He had never truly considered girls of his own race, for 
he had been raised to believe he was Alban. But now he 
understood that he was not, and he never would be—for 
theirs was a tribe that would never let him in. Still, 
Valeriya was not what he would usually consider beautiful. 
Yet, he could not bring himself to call her anything else. 
He winced slightly. ‘I—I just remembered who you 
were,’ he said. ‘I thought I knew you from somewhere.’ 
Valeriya’s expression remained impassive. ‘Oh,’ she 
replied. No smile. No frown. Only that unreadable gaze. 
His thoughts twisted. Did she even remember him? He 
had never truly spoken to her in Lauriet. In those distant, 
peaceful days, he remembered admiring her from afar. But 
now… something about her didn’t quite #t. Not here, not 
now. 
His eyes did not linger much further on her. He didn’t 
understand why, but they drifted. Drifted back to the 
softer laughter, to the glint of gold earrings, to the painted 
lips, to the brighter dresses of the other girls.  
The night carried on with music, wine, chatter, and the 
hum of happy souls. Cedric sat among it all, letting the 
moment breathe through him. He smiled, spoke lightly, 
nodded at praise, laughed when they teased. And though 
the image of the goddess falling would never leave him—he 
could not lie to himself, he was happy. More than he had 
been in a long time. 
When the time came to part, it came gently. His friends 
embraced him, some clasping his shoulder, others making 
bold invitations to stay the night at their noble homes, to 
drink longer, to dance more. Cedric declined them all. He 
bowed slightly, gave his thanks, and made his way through 
the square’s thinning crowd. 
He did not want to see anyone else. Not now. Their eyes, 
too keen, too expectant. They would demand too much of 
him. He slipped past all with a lowered head, offering no 
chance for their attention. When he broke through the 
square’s edge and into the open streets, something inside 
him rose. 
He ran. 
The air was crisp against his face as he passed through 
winding lanes and empty stalls. Up ahead, towering before 
him, was the royal arch. As he neared it, his eyes li fted, 
drawn to the dark, heavy banners of the noble houses high 
upon the stone. 
He didn’t linger upon them. He ran up the side 
stairways of the College, his feet silent against the worn 
stone steps. The single guard stationed at the top barely 
noticed him. He moved like a shadow until he reached the 
outer gate of the Royal College and slipped through the 
side entrance. 
The dorms were #lled with complete silence. No one 
else had returned yet. He preferred that.  
Wanting to be at ease, he changed quickly, stripping 
away the dark doublet and donning his night garments. Its 
lightness soothed his mind, and he threw himself into bed, 
seeking an end to the day.  
From where he lay, the world beyond his windows 
opened itself to him.  
Above, he could see the stars.  
Bright, uncountable, and scattered across impossible 
distances. 
What are they, really? 
He knew the scholarly answer. Giant burning bodies, 
immense beyond thought, (oating alone in a black sea. But 
that meant nothing. It explained nothing. 
He imagined being near such a celestial body. By 
himself. Far from every worry, name, and burden.  
A sense of eternal, undying detachment swept through 
his chest, overwhelming him completely. He quivered, 
unable to shake the unexplainable feeling. 
Memories become sweeter with time. As they age, we forget 
ourselves, and we see only the joy in the moments we once lived. 
Our worries fade, our struggles fall away, and what remains is 
the light of those days—soft, golden, untouchable. That, and a 
faint longing to return to those days. Yet, they always remain 
just beyond our reach, like a thread of silk unravelling in the 
wind that we can never quite grasp. 
Cedric smiled. Today was such a memory. One I will look 
back on fondly in the not–so–distant future. 
Then, from beyond his window, the full moon emerged 
again, appearing suddenly from behind a vast, dri fting 
cloud. 
Massive. Glowing. Ever–watchful. He gazed at it with 
reverence. 
Then, he closed his eyes. 
In his mind, he stood again on the platform, gripped the 
bow, nocked an arrow, and drew it tight. He loosened it at 
the moon, and it struck. 
But, instead of splitting the celestial stone, it bloomed, 
and from its impact sprouted vines, (owers, trees. The 
moon became a garden. A perfect world. A paradise. 
He stared as everything else darkened under his vision. 
He did not know when he drifted off to sleep, but when 
he did, only one thing remained behind his closing eyes. 
Not the #re.  
Not the crowd.  
Not even Flora’s fall. 
No, only the lingering, piercing gaze of Valeriya.