The night was alive with chaos, which was generally considered poor timing for a city already managing one apocalypse. Panicked screams echoed through the streets, mingling with the acrid tang of smoke and the distant roar of destruction: the usual accompaniments to godlike monstrosities making their presence felt. Carina, a nurse whose hands bore the scars of countless lives saved, moved swiftly through the makeshift triage station. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her chest tight with exhaustion and smoke. Yet she did not falter. Even as blood slicked her gloves and the cries of the injured pressed against her resolve, she continued.
“Hold on,” she whispered to a man clutching his abdomen, his face pale and drawn. She tore a strip of cloth from her own sleeve to fashion a crude bandage. “We’re almost there. Just hold on.” Her voice was steady, though her hands trembled with exhaustion.
Around her, chaos reigned. The city was falling apart under the shadow of R?zvan, a godlike monstrosity whose very presence twisted the air. Yet Carina focused on the here and now, on the lives she could still save. She moved from patient to patient, steady as a heartbeat.
Then it happened.
A crack echoed through the night: sharp and jarring. The stray fragment struck Carina in the chest, knocking her backward. She staggered, her hands instinctively reaching for the wound as crimson bloomed across her uniform. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed to the ground, her breath leaving her in a ragged gasp. The world tilted, her vision narrowing as the weight of death closed in.
Yet she did not stop.
Even as her life ebbed away, Carina’s hands moved. She reached out to the nearest patient, pressing her palm against a gaping wound, her fingers steady despite the trembling of her fading strength. She bound wounds, whispered reassurances, and continued her work as though nothing had changed. Her body lay still, lifeless, but her spirit refused to succumb.
The air shifted.
Two figures stepped into the scene, their presence commanding yet oddly serene. One moved with an ethereal grace, his angular features and nebulous form shimmering faintly. His eyes, stars made flesh, gazed at Carina with curiosity. Beside him stood another, his broad frame draped in muted gold, his expression carrying the weight of inevitability.
Her? Onetropy’s voice was like the whisper of a thousand stories, each word filled with wonder and possibility.
Anatropy nodded, his tone steady and certain. Yes, her. She understands duty.
Carina looked up, her hands still moving, her gaze locking onto the two figures. She said nothing, her expression caught between confusion and an unspoken question.
The second of the two stepped closer, his voice carrying the resonance of unbroken truth. Carina, you must come with us. Your duty has not ended. It has only just begun.
Her lips parted to protest, but something in his gaze stilled her.
The first knelt beside her, his luminous presence casting a soft glow over the broken street. Your work is far from finished, he said gently. Come. There is more to do.
For a moment, Carina hesitated. Then, with a resolve born of years spent in service to others, she rose. Her body remained on the ground, but her spirit stood tall; luminous and unbowed. She turned to the two figures, her expression calm despite the storm that raged around them.
It’s not bad, she thought absently, glancing down at her body. A bit battered, certainly. Could have done with fewer stains. But it served its purpose. She adjusted her spirit-self reflexively, smoothing down an apron that wasn’t there. Old habits, she realised, died harder than she did.
The starry one’s curious expression deepened, observing an intriguing narrative unfold. The certain one, however, merely inclined his head, his certainty unshaken. Carina met their gazes and nodded. “Lead the way,” she said simply, her voice steady and clear.
The three figures faded into the night, their departure marked only by a faint ripple in the air, the universe itself acknowledging the weight of their passing.
In the streets below, the wounded continued to cry out. Other hands would tend them now. Carina’s duty had been chosen for her, as so many duties were on this longest of nights.
Theodora moved to the war table, her grief held in check by sheer will. With a sharp motion, she unfurled a large map of Notre Reine, placing it firmly over the map of Pharelle that had dominated the table until now: a cartographic coup that suggested rather clearly where priorities now lay. The new map was painstakingly detailed, every spire, cloister, and defensive ring of the cathedral etched with precision. The room stilled, its occupants instinctively leaning in toward the table.
“Notre Reine has become a massive focal point for the city’s belief,” she began, her voice steady but tinged with strain. “The beacon has made it not just a centre of faith but a nexus of power. I’ve been observing the state of the city. Pharelle is awash with belief,” she explained. “It’s as though every prayer, every desperate hope, is searching for something to ground itself in. Valère is attempting to harness this tide for his ascension, but it need not be him. This energy can be redirected. If you wish to ascend someone to godhood, now is the time to act.”
She let the weight of her words settle over the room before gesturing to Elizabeth. “The Rogue’s Gallery has gone undercover, mingling with the faithful on the edges of the cathedral. Elizabeth, what’s their status?”
Elizabeth stepped forward from the shadows at the edge of the room, her hands clasped calmly in front of her. “We’ve placed your charms at key locations within the defensive perimeter,” she said, her tone measured but firm.
Theodora inclined her head. “Good. These will allow me to open portals directly into the heart of Notre Reine.”
Elizabeth allowed a faint smile to cross her lips. “It wasn’t easy—fanatics are everywhere, and my team is far from inconspicuous. But it turns out true believers don’t look twice at someone carrying hymnals and wearing the right expression of devotion.”
“Excellent,” Theodora replied. “This gives us a direct path to Valère. No doubt he’s already in the heart of the cathedral, waiting.”
Maximilian broke in, his tone bellicose. “Then why aren’t we going now? Every second of delay strengthens his position.”
Theodora met his gaze without flinching. “We have a way in, but once inside, the fight will be brutal. Valère is expecting resistance. Moreover, I won’t be able to assist you directly—I’ll need to devote the better portion of my abilities to containing the battle to a single room. He cannot be allowed to call upon reinforcements.”
Sadriel spoke up from the back. “I can recall the Order of the Thistle from the streets. What we need is an agile strike force, not infantry. With the Rogue’s Gallery already embedded—and counting the de Vaillants among the team—we would have a formidable group.”
Maximilian’s face lit with a grim smile. “Finally, a fight I can weigh into.”
? For Maximilian, every fight was an opportunity. For his advisors, every fight was an impending headache. Being a duke came with many responsibilities, chief among them being told repeatedly what you couldn’t do.
Laila shot him a pointed look, her tone sharp enough to cut through any further bravado. “Max, no. You are needed here. You’re the Duke of Pharelle, and the people are reeling from a dangerous attack. They need to see you leading them, reassuring them. Use your charm—rally them. This is your duty as their duke and an essential part of this war. Protect the people and give them a reason to place their faith in you, not in Valère.”
Before the room could fall silent, Lambert stepped forward, his expression heavy with thought. “I need everyone to pause for a moment and consider this: what we’re about to do may remove the best candidate for replacing Invictus,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t proceed, but we must think carefully about who would take his place. If we don’t, we risk leaving the world without a sun god—and that void would be catastrophic.”
“We need to decide who will ascend,” Lambert continued, his voice heavy with the gravity of the decision. “This is a monumental choice, and it cannot be made lightly.”
Maximilian’s eyes flickered with a mix of fear and determination. “What about me?” he asked, his voice steady but fervent. “I bear fire at my command and hold influence over this city.”
Laila, directing her attention to Maximilian, said, “Max, your ambition and your anger would make you a poor god.”
Lambert closed his eyes, reaching out for the presence of solar divinity: a ritual that had once been so familiar, almost second nature, yet now felt eerily hollow. The absence of Invictus weighed heavily, an unspoken void.
Far away, he sensed a searing brightness, Valère’s presence burning like a merciless star within the heart of the Cathedral. Its intensity was overwhelming, casting all else in shadow. Yet, closer to him, he discerned another light: smaller, fainter, but no less divine. Aurora.
Her flame burned steadily in the arms of Greta, its glow soft and nascent, as if untouched by the chaos of the world. It lacked the fierceness of Valère’s fire, yet it carried a quiet promise: a seed of potential, waiting to take root and grow. Lambert lingered on that thought, the warmth of her light easing the cold, hollow ache within him. It was not salvation, but perhaps, it was enough for now.
He finally spoke. “Maximilian, I do not think you are a viable candidate. While you bear a measure of fire within you, in order to hold the faith of the masses, I think you had best be predisposed to the nature of the sun. You are far too grounded in your role here.”
Theodora spoke up, her tone measured but resolute. “Agreed, Maximilian is not the right candidate. Beyond Valère, there are perhaps only three individuals in this city with the potential for ascension. Pontifex Ramirez, for his years of proximity to the Flame of Hyperion, could hold promise. Mother Vaziri, by virtue of her lifelong devotion at the centre of the church’s faith, may also be viable. But I think we all know where the greatest potential lies—it is with the child, Aurora.”
“She’s pure of heart,” Lambert acknowledged. “And the strain of darkness upon her has been taken by Valère; perhaps the only one of us uncorrupted by the world’s evils.”
Maximilian bristled dangerously. “She is just a child,” he argued. “We cannot ask her to bear such a burden. It’s too much.”
Lambert’s thoughts churned as he wrestled with the implications of Aurora’s potential. Her latent Brand, so pure and untainted, was both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling. It was undeniable: she had been shaped by forces far beyond her control. Valère’s calculated interference and Aeloria’s primal influence intertwined within her very essence, crafting something extraordinary, perhaps even destined. Yet, as Lambert considered her wide, unknowing eyes and fragile form, the weight of the truth settled heavily upon him. Aurora was a child, innocent and unprepared for the immense burden her Brand suggested she could bear.
The thought gnawed at him. How could such divine potential reside in one so small? Aurora could barely string sentences together. She still needed help with stairs. And they were discussing whether to make her a god.
Maximilian’s jaw tightened with each exchange, his breathing growing ragged. When Lambert mentioned Aurora’s “purity,” something behind his eyes snapped. He moved before anyone could react, stepping between Aurora and the room, fire erupting from his outstretched hands. The wall of flame roared to life, heat washing over them in waves. “Stay away from her!”
Lambert raised both hands, his tone careful. “Max, we’re not—”
“You want to turn my daughter into a god!” Maximilian’s voice cracked with anguish. “She’s not even three years old! She deserves a childhood, a life, a choice!” The flames roared higher, heat distorting the air between them. “I won’t let you take that from her. I won’t let you take her.”
Wylan tried next, his voice softer. “We’re trying to find another way, Max. That’s what all of this is about—”
“There is no other way that doesn’t put her at risk!” The fire pulsed with each word. “Every path you’ve shown me ends with Aurora changed, Aurora lost, Aurora sacrificed for someone else’s vision of the future!”
Laila watched her son, seeing the father’s terror beneath the fury. She could talk him down, given time. But they had no time. Valère was waiting. The city was burning. And Maximilian, in his desperation, was preventing them from even discussing solutions.
Forgive me, Max.
Her hand moved subtly behind her back, fingers tracing the pattern of the spell. She hesitated, feeling the familiar thrum of the enchantment ready to release. Taking his agency. Removing his voice from a decision about his own daughter. This was the kind of act that fractured families.
But we have no time. And he’s not thinking clearly. And someone has to—
The justifications rang hollow even as she thought them. She knew what this was.
She did it anyway.
The enchantment released with barely a whisper. Maximilian’s eyes widened as he felt the magic take hold, understanding and hurt flashing across his face before the spell claimed him. His fiery barrier flickered and crumbled as he slumped to the ground, the fire within him subdued by an unnatural sleep.
The room exhaled.
Wylan’s voice broke the silence, strained with desperation. “Not Aurora. We have other options. What about Primate Esteban? The primordial blaze—that’s Esteban, isn’t it? He could—”
Lambert’s response was immediate and emphatic. “I do not see Esteban as a god. The vision showed duality, chaos walking beside power. That’s not Esteban’s nature.”
“Then who?” Wylan’s frustration spilled over. “Because we’re not ascending my niece. The New Dawn showed perpetual beginnings, but does Aurora even get to have a beginning if we do this to her? She’s a child. She deserves to live her life!”
Laila’s voice wavered. “I agree. I could never bear to see my granddaughter ascend. Not when she’s too young to understand what she’s losing.”
Lambert’s voice grew sombre. “And you would leave her mortal, to age, to suffer, to die? The New Dawn promised light without shadow, hope without end. You wouldn’t want to make your granddaughter an immortal being, free from pain, beyond death?”
“You saw the Ember Monarch,” Wylan shot back. “We need someone who understands restraint, not a toddler who can barely form sentences!”
Isabella hesitated. “Is there a way to separate the part of Aurora that could ascend into a sun god? Could we somehow harness that essence without harming her?”
Wylan shook his head. “You’re talking about separating a Brand from its host. The magical theory is sound, but the subject?” He gestured at Aurora. “She thinks ‘why’ is a complete argument. How is she supposed to consent to soul surgery?”
Laila asked, “And is there no way to create a temporary sun? To ascend someone temporarily, just until we can find a better solution? I’m not saying we don’t ascend Aurora, just not now. Let her make the choice when she’s older.”
“This is an impossible choice,” Lambert said quietly. “The kind scripture says tests the faithful. But I cannot see a path where the city—where anyone—survives without it.”
Wylan slumped into a chair. “I hate it when scripture becomes literally applicable. Can’t we have a nice metaphorical test of faith? Something involving grain symbolism?”
Laila’s voice cracked. “I can’t approve this, Lambert. That is Max’s daughter, my granddaughter. She’s our flesh and blood.”
Lambert’s tone hardened. “Those in power must prove they are capable of making the ultimate sacrifices. Being a noble house isn’t just privilege; it’s responsibility.”
“There are other ways, other options,” Laila insisted. “You just refuse to see them.”
“You are correct, in that I see no other option,” Lambert countered.
Wylan’s patience snapped. “You don’t have a child, Lambert. You can’t understand what this means.”
The words landed like a blow. Lambert’s expression flickered, something raw and quickly buried passing across his features. He said nothing.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Laila took a deep breath. “I vote Esteban. If it comes to a vote, I vote for Esteban.”
“Enough!” Theodora interjected with chilling certainty. “Dawn is almost upon us. The moment is now. There won’t be another chance to ascend anyone after this: it took Valère centuries to create this opportunity.”
“I have some powers of divination,” she began, her tone steady but measured. “And while I am no oracle, I have seen glimpses of possible futures. There are many paths ahead, but one stands stark against the rest.”
“If no action is taken,” she continued, “the sun’s dominion will vanish, and Reason itself will fail.”
She paused, her expression contemplative. “But to see these futures fully, we will require someone with a true gift for prophecy. I would not presume to grasp the threads of time myself when there is one under my charge who can do so far better.”
Theodora turned toward the others, her eyes alight with intent. “I have one such person who has served me, by the name of Nadir. She is a true oracle from Auvergne. If you trust me to summon her, she will guide us with the clarity we need.”
Laila exchanged a wary glance with Lambert. “I take it she is another member of the dragon cult?”
Theodora’s voice was even. “She is, but her gifts remain genuine. Her loyalty to Aeloria does not compromise her sight.”
Laila, resolved on the matter, said firmly, “If she has the power to show us the way, then bring her.”
Theodora nodded and moved purposefully toward the balcony. There, she opened a shimmering portal that revealed a grand, torchlit temple of marble: presumably Aeloria’s domain. The flicker of flames danced across towering columns and carvings that glowed faintly with an otherworldly sheen.
“Nadir,” Theodora commanded, her voice resonating with authority, “come to me, and bring your brazier.”
From the other side stepped a figure with dark skin, lustrous black hair, and eyes that held the weight of countless visions, most of them, judging by her expression, profoundly inconvenient. Nadir carried a large bronze bowl filled with glowing coals, the fire within it alive and crackling. She moved with a quiet grace, her presence exuding both humility and an aura of power. Once through the portal, she placed the brazier reverently on the floor, kneeling beside it. With a ready motion, she scattered a handful of powder onto the coals. The flames leapt higher, casting sharp, shifting shadows across the room.
Nadir bowed her head slightly as the brazier roared to life, her voice calm and resonant. “I have been bidden to come, and so here I am. What are the futures that you would seek?”
Theodora stepped forward, her expression solemn. “We seek the way out of this endless night. Find for us pathways into the light.”
Nadir’s gaze turned inward, her tone carrying the weight of prophecy. “The flames show five paths out of the darkness. Though their details are unclear, I sense what they hold. One reveals an ember monarch, another a draconian pyre, one a jealous flame, one a primordial blaze, and the last a new dawn. But the fire does not yield its secrets freely,” she continued, her voice steady. “A price must be paid.”
? Prophecies traditionally came in threes, which was considered dramatically satisfying and easy to remember. Five prophecies suggested either that fate had grown indecisive, or that someone was showing off.
Laila’s voice was unwavering. “What must we give?”
Nadir’s gaze lifted from the flames. “Something of deep meaning to you. Wealth does not interest the fire—it must be personal.”
? This represented a significant departure from standard theological practice, where donations of wealth were not only accepted but enthusiastically encouraged. Most gods would happily accept gold first and ask questions about personal meaning later.
Lambert stepped forward, his movements resolute. He reached for the holy symbol of Invictus that hung around his neck. Without hesitation, he threw it into the brazier, the flames consuming it greedily. “Here is my offering,” he said, his voice firm. “Show me the new dawn.”
Nadir’s eyes fixed on the brazier, her voice softened as the brazier flared, its light coalescing into a flickering vision. “The flame reveals her: one who will ascend as a goddess of light. Gentle yet unyielding, she will bring renewal and hope, her radiance casting out shadows. Under her guidance, the world will flourish in perpetual beginnings. Darkness will remain only in memory.”
As the vision faded, Laila’s quiet sobbing broke the silence.
Wylan stepped forward immediately, holding a vial of golden liquid. “Though these memories are bitter, they have defined me,” he said, casting the vial into the flames. “I will see the draconian pyre. Perhaps there is still a future for Aeloria.”
The brazier flared, and Nadir’s voice took on a distant quality. “A transformation heralding a new age. She rises as a goddess of the sun, her immense form shimmering with scales that refract the light. Vast wings span the skies, casting regal shadows over a reshaped world. Under her reign, dragons rise to dominance, reshaping existence. Humanity lingers at the edges of this new order, caught in her shadow.” The fire flared violently. “This path is one of dominance and transformation. Beware what must be left behind to claim such power.”
Theodora spoke softly. “It is as much as we expected, but at least she lives.”
Laila approached the brazier, holding a dried stem of lilacs and lavender. With a steady hand, she cast it into the fire. “Show us the ember monarch,” she declared.
Nadir’s voice resonated deeply as she gazed into the flames. “I see him rise, a monarch of fire. His aura blazes with unrelenting heat, the sun his crown, and flames weaving through crimson robes that herald purges in the name of order—”
“Wait,” Wylan interrupted, leaning forward. “Purges? What kind of—”
Nadir’s eyes remained fixed on the fire, her voice cutting through his question. “His revolution spreads terror, consuming all that he deems chaotic or irrational. The streets run red as fear supplants reason. The guillotine’s shadow stretches long, and the people cry out, their voices drowned in the roar of the inferno. His light is merciless, reshaping the world in fire’s image, devoid of compassion and marked by unending terror.”
Laila staggered back, her resolve shaken. Lambert’s grim voice broke the silence. “It’s as bad as we feared.”
Finally, Isabella stepped forward, pulling a patch from her bag, a remnant of the Undertow Keep uniform. With a firm hand, she tossed it into the brazier. “If nothing else, I choose the primordial blaze,” she announced.
The flames surged upward, and Isabella flinched back from the sudden heat. Nadir’s voice steadied. “A figure touched by the primordials. He rises as a sun god of duality, his light nurturing growth and harmony, yet burning with untamed fury. The sun sets on modernity, ushering in a primal age where beasts reclaim dominion and fire rules. The balance is fragile, civilisation teeters, and the world constantly threatens to burn under its fiery saviour. Power and rebirth lie ahead, but chaos walks beside them.”
Lambert exhaled heavily. “That’s the best of all these hard choices. It sounds more promising.”
Laila’s voice was firm, though edged with weariness. “I wouldn’t say it’s the best. It’s exciting for Heroes, perhaps, but for a peaceful world? No.”
Wylan nodded slowly. “It’s the second least dreadful option... but still dreadful.”
The room fell silent, the weight of their choices pressing down. “That’s only four,” Lambert said, his voice quiet. “Does anyone else have something to offer the fire?”
Laila, Wylan, and Isabella exchanged uneasy glances before Laila spoke, her voice trembling. “I... I don’t think I can bear to lose another part of myself.”
Wylan stared at the brazier, his voice low. “The hope I had... It’s gone. I can’t go through that again.”
Isabella’s confidence faltered. “I’ve lost my sense of home. I can’t risk losing more.”
The family stood united in silence, bound by shared sacrifice and pain. Theodora’s gaze swept over them, her expression solemn. “You have made your choices and illuminated possible futures. Now, it is time to decide your path.”
Laila stared at the dying embers in the brazier. The new ‘Dawn’ had shown them a goddess of light, gentle yet unyielding. But Aurora was a toddler. She still needed help getting dressed, much less bearing the weight of divinity.
Where would such a divine identity even come from?
The question refused to settle.
“If the prophecy of the new dawn refers to Aurora,” Laila began, her voice tinged with concern, “how can a child possess a divine identity? Where is this identity coming from?”
Isabella turned to Theodora, her expression sharp with curiosity. “Is there a way to elevate Aurora’s Brand without fully ascending her?”
Lambert scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Can you... remove someone’s Brand anyway?”
“That’s what I’m suggesting,” Isabella replied, a note of hope creeping into her tone. “If we could separate her powers into a new, independent identity, we might avoid harming her.”
Wylan shook his head, his scepticism palpable. “You’re talking about ripping out part of someone’s soul. Even if she survived, she’s just a child. She can’t consent to any of this.”
“Not everyone gets to be a Hero,” Lambert pointed out drily.
? Heroes, after all, were often just the unfortunate individuals who hadn’t run fast enough when destiny came knocking with a clipboard.
Wylan sighed, frustration etched into his features. “Maybe, but that decision should be hers to make when she’s old enough.”
“Should we ask her what she wants?” Isabella offered lightly, though her smile was half-hearted.
Wylan raised an eyebrow. “She’s three. She’ll probably ask ‘why’ forty times and then get distracted by a butterfly.”
Wylan leaned forward with a gleam in his eye. “What if we created something artificial? Like a homunculus or a golem. We could imbue it with the power instead of Aurora. It wouldn’t be a person, just... something programmed to act benevolent.”
Laila’s lips pursed as she weighed the suggestion. “It’s not the worst idea, but do we even have the resources? And how long would it take?”
Wylan’s enthusiasm faltered slightly. “Well, homunculus creation typically requires three to six months, a dragon’s egg—which we’re already using—and a laboratory that isn’t currently serving as a war room. So... time is definitely an issue.”
Aurora, nestled in Greta’s arms, murmured something about ‘pretty fire,’ blissfully unaware of the storm of decisions swirling around her. This was probably for the best, as toddler opinions on theological matters rarely improved the quality of debate.
Theodora’s projection flickered slightly as she spoke, a reminder that even strategic advantages came with expiry dates. “You have choices. You can pursue Valère now and leave this dilemma for later. That you currently hold the crown holds him in check for the moment, but the Caul of Night weakens your allies and strengthens his position.”
The flickering light held its breath. Aurora mumbled “no nap” and settled again, oblivious to her role as the fulcrum upon which the world might turn.
Laila turned to Lambert, her voice trembling with sorrow. “I’m sorry, Lambert. I know you want to see the city safe again. I just don’t believe we should choose Aurora, not when we have other paths.”
Lambert’s eyes darkened, frustration etched into his features. “So, in the end, the rich and powerful put their own desires above the common good.”
Wylan’s eyes flared with anger. “Don’t twist this, Lambert. This isn’t about privilege.”
“It’s always been about securing the future of the city,” Lambert argued. “Ensuring that people can live free.”
Wylan’s frustration boiled over. “Were you not the one who condemned the tyranny of the dragon queen? Was it not you who preached that light and dark must coexist, that one cannot exist without the other?”
Lambert’s voice was measured, though distant. “That remains true. I’ve never contradicted that belief.”
“Then you’re doing exactly that now,” Wylan retorted.
Isabella stepped between them, one hand on each chest, pushing them apart with the casual authority of someone who’d broken up far more dangerous confrontations. “Enough. Save it for Valère.” She jerked her chin toward Aurora. “Besides, someone needs to stay with her, and it can’t be anyone in this room. We’re all compromised.”
“Before we go,” Laila said, her tone firm but weary, “I’m going to put Aurora to bed. It’s well past her bedtime, and from the looks of things, Maximilian’s too.”
She asked the servants to escort Maximilian and Aurora back to their quarters. Greta followed, cradling Aurora with the tenderness of someone carrying the future in their arms. The nursery’s soft tranquillity offered no answers.
As Laila walked, her thoughts churned. Can a flame taken away ever be reignited? The question lingered, each step towards the nursery deepening her unease.
Inside, she gently laid Maximilian down and released the spell’s hold. The magic dissipated like smoke, and slowly, he stirred. His eyes flickered open, landing on Aurora. For a moment, his features softened with relief, but it was fleeting. Rage, determination, and uncertainty quickly returned.
“What happened?” Maximilian’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp but not unkind.
Laila drew a deep breath, her tone regretful. “I need to apologise. I’m sorry for what I had to do.”
Maximilian’s eyes narrowed. “’Had to’ is doing a lot of work there. Go on.”
“Aurora will be safe,” Laila said firmly. “There is no path that would see her taken from you.”
His expression hardened. “Then you’ve chosen a replacement?”
Laila hesitated. “We’ve glimpsed possible outcomes. If Lydia ascends, the result is uncertain. If Aeloria ascends, dragons will rule. If Valère ascends, revolution will drown the world. And if Esteban ascends, we’ll endure, but it won’t be peace. Monsters will come, and survival will be harsh.”
Maximilian’s gaze bore into hers. “You’re holding something back. Say it.”
Laila exhaled. “There is a possibility we could use Aurora’s essence—not to ascend her herself, but maybe a part of her. It’s something we’re exploring.”
“If it worked, she could live a normal life. But she’d lose her Brand,” Laila explained. “It might keep her safe, but it would change her.”
Maximilian’s voice steadied, cutting through the haze. “You’re my mother. If I lost my powers, I’d still be your son. Maybe I wouldn’t meet all your hopes, but I’d still be yours. Aurora will always be my daughter. No flame, no power, no destiny can change that.”
Laila found herself quieted by his clarity. In moments like this, Maximilian’s strength shone through his tempestuous nature.
“When she’s old enough to understand what was taken from her, you’ll need to tell her,” Laila said. “That burden falls to you.”
Maximilian’s jaw tightened. “You’re asking me to explain why her family made her ordinary.”
“I’m asking you to explain why her family kept her alive.” Laila’s voice was steel wrapped in velvet. “But the final choice—whether we pursue this path at all—that’s yours. Not mine. Not Lambert’s. You’re her father.”
Maximilian was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Aurora’s sleeping form. “And if I say no? If I refuse?”
“Then we find another way,” Laila said simply. “Or we accept the consequences of having no sun god at all.”
Maximilian yawned. “I’ll think on it.”
Then, without prompting or magic, Maximilian passed into sleep.
Laila’s gaze lingered on Aurora in her cradle, wrapped in the peace of deep sleep. Yet something flickered at the edge of her awareness: Aurora was dreaming. Not the innocent, half-formed dreams of a child, but something vast and ancient.
Without closing her eyes, Laila let herself drift. She entered the space between waking and sleep, where her senses sharpened, and the world dimmed.
Her body stayed in the nursery, but her mind stepped into Aurora’s dream: a luminous realm where cobblestones shimmered like molten gold and the sky glowed with soft, endless twilight. It was the sort of place that would appear on inspirational tapestries, assuming tapestries could capture the unsettling perfection of a child’s unrestrained imagination.
A castle loomed ahead, perched atop a hill so steep it rose directly from the earth itself. Its walls gleamed as if carved from sunlit quartz, and its spires stretched skyward, delicate yet impossibly strong. The architecture was strikingly simple, like a child’s drawing brought to life: imperfect lines that carried a strange, enchanting clarity. Every stone in its construction was alive with light, glowing faintly, breathing in harmony with the dream.
Laila followed the cobblestone path leading to the castle, her steps silent yet weighted with an eerie familiarity, as though she were walking through a fragment of her own memory. Surrounding her, golden grass swayed in a soundless breeze, adding an ethereal stillness to the air. The castle’s brilliance made it almost painful to look at directly, yet an invisible force pulled her closer with every step, its presence as commanding as it was comforting.
In the throne room, a golden figure stood waiting. Tall and resplendent, it shimmered with the hues of dawn, its skin glowing with a soft, radiant warmth. Dark, cascading curls framed a face both familiar and otherworldly, the hair catching the golden light like a halo. Her features held a striking balance of Aurora’s youth and the timeless grace of a goddess. She wore a flowing gown that seemed woven from the first rays of morning, its fabric shifting gently between shades of amber, rose, and gold. Laila felt an instinctive pull, recognising it not by sight but by essence. This was Aurora—or something that had grown within her, exuding both the fragility of a child and the unyielding presence of divinity.
“Hello, grandmother,” the figure greeted, its voice bright and clear, like sunlight through stained glass.
“Hello, Aurora,” Laila replied, her words soft with awe and unease.
“Is that my name?”
“Yes, it’s the name we gave you,” Laila confirmed.
“It’s a pretty name,” the figure mused. “Where am I?”
“Physically, you’re asleep. But here... I’m not entirely sure. This is your dream, Aurora. I’ve never spoken to you like this before.”
Laila paused, the weight of the moment pressing down as she studied the radiant figure before her. At first, it had the quality of a mirage, a fleeting image conjured by the dreamscape. But the longer she stood in its presence, the more the figure’s reality asserted itself, undeniable and vivid.
The figure shifted slightly, golden curls shimmering in the light, its movements echoing Aurora’s childlike grace. Yet there was something else: a poise, a resonance, that was not Aurora at all. Laila tilted her head, her thoughts racing. “Aurora... is that really you?”
The figure’s expression softened into something between a smile and contemplation. “I think so,” it replied, its voice bright yet laden with a strange weight. “But I think I’m something more, too.”
Laila took a step closer, her eyes searching. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” the figure admitted, its tone carrying the simplicity of a child’s honesty. “But I feel it—a warmth inside me that doesn’t quite belong. It’s always been there, but now... It’s different. Like it’s trying to be something.”
Laila’s heart tightened as understanding began to dawn. The Brand. Aurora’s exposure to the Umbra, Aeloria’s curse, and the divine energy she carried: all of it had shaped this moment. The figure before her wasn’t just Aurora. It was something new, something nascent and undefined, yet unmistakably alive.
You’re Aurora’s Brand, Laila thought to herself. Shaped by Aurora, bound to her... but distinct. You’re becoming something else.
As Laila reached out with her empathy, she felt a flood of emotions: curiosity, warmth, and a quiet, aching loneliness. This being, born of divine energy and Aurora’s identity, had grown in the boundless realm of the dreamscape. Yet, for all its splendour, it longed for connection; a reflection of its human half.
Laila’s thoughts turned practical. Could this entity exist apart from Aurora? What would happen if they were separated? The dream world was fluid, a place where boundaries blurred. What happened here might ripple into the waking world. Her mind buzzed with possibilities, bold and reckless.
“If you could be anything,” Laila asked gently, her tone probing, “what would you want to be?”
The figure hesitated, its form flickering faintly, the question itself too vast to contain. “I don’t know,” it admitted at last. “But I don’t want to be alone.”
Then one final thought: What if the Ascension ritual could be performed here?
Laila emerged from the dreamscape to find her family waiting, their expressions a mixture of concern and impatience. How long had she been under? Minutes? Hours? Time moved strangely in dreams.
“Well?” Wylan asked.
Laila steadied herself against the doorframe, still adjusting to the weight of her physical body. “I have a plan. It’s unconventional. Possibly mad.”
“Those are usually the ones that work,” Isabella said.
She described her encounter in Aurora’s dreamscape, recounting the golden figure with quiet awe. “It’s Aurora’s Brand,” she explained. “It knows itself, and It’s... aware. Intelligent. But I’m certain it’s not what we would traditionally consider Aurora.”
Laila paused, her gaze sweeping the room, letting the gravity of her words settle over them. Carefully, she explained her plan to ascend that part of Aurora by conducting the ritual within the dreamscape.
Theodora’s expression grew contemplative. “You’d need a way to physically enter the dream,” she said.
Lambert’s response was immediate, his tone resolute. “We can figure that out.”
Wylan let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s great and all, but can we please get to dealing with Valère before he sets the world on fire?”
? Few people appreciate how often saving the world boils down to identifying which particular ambitious individual with delusions of godhood is most likely to ruin it at any given moment. The city archives maintained a register for such purposes, though it was perpetually out of date.
He gestured broadly, his frustration spilling into his voice. “We can deal with Aurora later.”
As the group absorbed the comments, Wylan weighed his own responsibility. The divine flame couldn’t be left unguarded. His thoughts turned to Soraya, whose talent for handling volatile situations, often by making them explode, had proven reliable. He remembered how she’d kept Alexios’ signet ring safe for years, a task few would have trusted to anyone else.
Wylan called her over, holding the lantern containing the divine flame. His voice lowered, quiet but firm. “Soraya, I need you to take care of this while we’re gone. I don’t trust taking it anywhere near Valère. You’re good at keeping secrets, and I can’t think of anyone better to entrust it to.”
Soraya’s brow furrowed briefly as she studied him, then softened into a faint smile. “You’ve got it,” she said, taking the lantern with careful hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it safe.”
Wylan nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face. He turned to Theodora, something of his old energy returning. “Right. We deal with Valère first, figure out the rest after. Can you open the portal?”
Theodora’s hands were already moving, arcane geometries tracing themselves in the air. “I can. The Rogue’s Gallery has done their work well.” The air before them began to shimmer, the faint outline of stained glass visible through the forming rift. “Once we’re through, I’ll need to focus entirely on containment. You’ll be on your own against whatever waits inside.”
“We’ve faced worse,” Isabella said, though her hand moved to check her weapons.
Laila looked back once at the nursery door, at the two sleeping figures beyond it. Then she stepped toward the portal.