The iron key resisted.

  Cassian forced it anyway.

  The sealed chamber behind the altar opened with a groan that sounded almost… unwilling.

  Dust. Cold air. Silence thick as old blood.

  At the center — the Great War Record.

  Cassian stepped forward slowly.

  “So you were hiding down here…” he murmured.

  A thin smile tugged at his lips, but it never reached his eyes. They were sharp, restless — like a man already expecting bad news.

  Each candle flame along the wall flickered as if reacting to his presence.

  “…Don’t tell me even paper can feel fear,” he muttered.

  His fingers were steady, but the slight tension in his jaw betrayed him. He was forcing calm — and he knew it.

  He opened the archive.

  Pages whispered.

  Names of fallen Sovereigns. Broken covenants. Burned cities.

  Cassian’s fingers slowed.

  “Show me,” he whispered. “Show me what they buried.”

  His pupils narrowed as he read, the casual mask on his face slowly cracking into something far more serious.

  Then—

  “The Crimson Moon Incident.”

  His breath stilled.

  “…There you are.”

  There was a painting beside the text.

  A figure beneath a bleeding sky.

  The painting was centuries old.

  But the eyes looked… freshly awake.

  The face blurred.

  But the eyes—

  Dark.

  Too dark.

  Alive.

  Watching him.

  Cassian leaned closer.

  His smirk faded completely now. For the first time, unease crept into his expression, faint but undeniable.

  “…What are you?”

  The candles began flickering violently.

  The air grew heavy.

  His hands trembled.

  The tremor annoyed him more than it scared him — his brows pulled together in quiet irritation at his own reaction.

  “…Heh.” A dry laugh escaped him. “So it wasn’t just a story.”

  The eyes darkened further.

  As if they recognized him.

  Cassian’s smile thinned.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “So that’s what they sealed away…”

  His hand brushed the inside of his cloak.

  Something small and heavy rested there.

  He smiled faintly.

  “Let’s see what happens when the world forgets its chains.”

  There was excitement there now. Dangerous excitement. Like a gambler who finally found a worthy table.

  “…You can see me too, can’t you?”

  The candles went out.

  Darkness swallowed everything.

  Cassian’s voice came one last time from the dark—

  “…Good.”

  Gold bells rang across the capital.

  Miha knelt beneath the cathedral’s stained glass dome.

  Light poured over her like liquid gold.

  The High Priestess lifted the ceremonial crown.

  “From this day forward,” she declared, voice echoing across the marble hall, “You are the Chosen.”

  A noble whispered sharply, “Comparable to Stage Six from birth… unbelievable.”

  “Four affinities,” another muttered. “The heavens truly favored her.”

  The crown settled onto Miha’s head.

  Applause thundered.

  “Glory to the Chosen!” someone shouted.

  “May the gods watch over her!”

  Miha rose slowly.

  “I… will serve faithfully,” she said softly.

  Her smile was gentle and perfect, but her shoulders were just a little too stiff — like someone learning to wear a role that didn’t quite fit yet.

  The High Priestess studied her face.

  “We know you will.”

  For a fleeting second, the priestess’ eyes narrowed — not in doubt, but in careful measurement. She was not celebrating. She was evaluating.

  Word traveled faster than prayer.

  By evening, Miha’s village had erupted into chaos.

  Children ran barefoot through dusty streets shouting—

  “Miha is the Chosen!”

  “She’s blessed by the Sovereign!”

  Women gathered at the well whispering.

  “I always knew that child was different.”

  Men who once ignored her father now stood at his doorstep.

  “Congratulations,” one said with an awkward bow.

  “You must be proud.”

  Miha’s mother stood frozen in the doorway.

  Her eyes were bright with tears, her hands pressed tightly together — joy and disbelief fighting across her face at the same time.

  “Your daughter… she will change everything.”

  Miha’s father swallowed.

  “She’s still just Miha,” he said.

  His voice was steady, but his grip on the doorframe was firm enough to whiten his knuckles. Pride was there — but so was worry.

  Lucas stood near the fence, arms crossed.

  The twins tugged at his sleeve.

  “Brother Lucas… does this mean she won’t come back?”

  Lucas didn’t answer immediately.

  His jaw tightened, and his gaze drifted toward the distant capital. He already understood what the others didn’t.

  “…She’ll come back,” he said firmly.

  One twin frowned. “You don’t sound sure.”

  Lucas exhaled slowly.

  “…She’ll come back,” he repeated.

  But his eyes betrayed him.

  Elias stood at the edge of the hall, watching Miha greet nobles.

  He looked hollow.

  The High Priestess approached him quietly.

  “You grieve,” she observed.

  Sushank didn’t look at her.

  “Do I?”

  His face was calm, but his fingers had curled slightly at his side — the only crack in his composure.

  “You hide it poorly.”

  He exhaled slowly.

  “Another friend gone.”

  The High Priestess’ gaze sharpened slightly.

  “Sacrifice is the foundation of order.”

  Elias’s eyes finally moved toward her.

  There was no anger on his face — which somehow made the moment heavier.

  “…That sounds like something people say when the dead can’t argue back.”

  A brief silence followed.

  Then she said calmly,

  “You are sharper than you pretend to be.”

  His gaze shifted toward Miha.

  “She didn’t ask for this.”

  “No,” the High Priestess agreed softly.

  “But destiny rarely asks.”

  Miha glanced toward them briefly.

  For a moment—

  Her eyes met Elias’s.

  Her smile remained flawless, but her gaze lingered half a second too long — as if she was trying to read something only he was hiding.

  Night.

  Cassian sat alone.

  His hands were still trembling.

  He stared into the darkness.

  “So that’s how it is…”

  A soft glow formed in the air.

  White.

  Pure.

  Cassian’s lips slowly curved.

  There was no fear left on his face now — only sharp, reckless amusement.

  “…You finally came.”

  A man stepped forward from the light.

  Calm.

  Unmoving.

  Not angry.

  Not merciful.

  Just inevitable.

  Cassian let out a low laugh.

  “You’re late.”

  Silence.

  The light intensified.

  Cassian leaned back in his chair.

  “You can kill me,” he said with a crooked smile.

  Cassian’s eyes drifted toward the distant village beyond the cathedral walls.

  “But I’ve already planted the seed.”

  The figure did not respond.

  Cassian’s eyes sharpened.

  “…What? No speech?”

  Still nothing.

  The air grew unbearably still.

  A single white feather drifted down between them.

  Cassian watched it fall.

  Then he chuckled quietly.

  His expression finally softened — not in surrender, but in acceptance of the inevitable.

  “…Yeah.”

  His eyes gleamed defiantly.

  “I thought so.”

  The morning came .

  A scream echoed through the cathedral corridors.

  “He’s not breathing!”

  “Call the High Priest— now!”

  Cassian lay lifeless in his chamber.

  His face was eerily peaceful, the earlier tension completely gone — as if he had simply fallen asleep mid-thought.

  A young acolyte whispered shakily,

  “…What… what killed him?”

  No one answered.

  Only a single white feather rested on Cassian’s chest.

  Outside—

  The bells rang in celebration of the Chosen.

  Inside—

  Something far older had begun to move.