Theodora’s hands moved in intricate patterns, her gestures precise and fluid, weaving the very fabric of reality. The war room held its breath, the air charged with anticipation. When the final movement was complete, a portal shimmered into being, its edges crackling with magic. Through its swirling surface, the heart of Notre Reine’s main auditorium became visible, an awe-inspiring tableau that felt at once sacred and foreboding.
Maximilian had wanted to come. The set of his jaw when they’d discussed the plan had made that clear. But someone had to coordinate the City Watch, manage the chaos that Valère’s fall would unleash, and, most importantly, stay with Aurora. The Duke of Pharelle couldn’t abandon his city or his daughter, not even for this.
“Bring him back alive if you can,” Maximilian had said, his voice tight with the frustration of staying behind. “Dead if you must. But end this.”
Lambert’s breath hitched at the sight. This was a place they all knew, though for different reasons. It was where Alexios’ state funeral had been held, a ceremony of heartbreaking grandeur. It was where the de Vaillant children had had their Emberlights. The cathedral’s vast stained-glass windows depicted scenes of divine glory, casting a kaleidoscope of colour across marble floors polished to an impossible sheen. Massive stone pillars reached heavenward, their carved surfaces telling stories of celestial triumphs. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, a ghostly reminder of countless prayers whispered over centuries. Above it all, the frescoed ceiling shimmered with depictions of angelic hosts, their gazes eternally fixed on the heavens.
Theodora stepped aside first, her hands weaving another spell as she crossed the threshold. A shimmering ward blossomed around the room, its translucent barrier brimming with protective energy. Her face was taut with concentration as she turned to the group. “This barrier will hold, but only if I maintain it. My focus must remain here—I can do nothing else to aid you.”
Laila and Lambert exchanged a glance, their expressions grim. The ward effectively isolated the cathedral’s heart from the rest of Notre Reine. Whatever awaited them beyond this barrier would have to be faced alone.
At the far end of the chamber, Esteban sat on the Pontifical seat, its gilded splendour almost as ostentatious as the man occupying it. Yet, despite its grandeur, the chair bore subtle signs of haste: the golden filigree was newly affixed, the plush crimson cushions too pristine. It had been set up recently. Beside him, in a smaller but equally lavish chair, was Valère. Though his seat was less grand, his commanding presence rendered it irrelevant. Around them, several Primates stood, their faces a blend of reverence and unease. Lambert recognised many of them: true clerics, devoted to their faith, not mere political players.
Esteban held a gleaming metallic flower in his hand, its coppery sheen catching the light. Isabella’s eyes narrowed as recognition struck. It was the bronze flower she had left at L’Orsienne. Esteban’s tone dripped with theatrical irritation as he addressed them. “Well, it’s about time you showed up. Our scouts sought to venture into L’Orsienne, but imagine our surprise when we found that someone had acquired the Sun Crown before us. Have you come here to offer it to us and help confirm Valère’s status as head of the Republic?”
Wylan folded his arms, his expression unflinching. “Your associate was openly discussing a reign of terror—dismantling every trace of the ancien régime.”
Esteban’s expression hardened, but his tone shifted, almost reverent. “Change always demands sacrifice.” Esteban’s fingers tightened on the metallic flower, its copper petals leaving faint impressions on his palm.
“Valère will bring a new order—one of clarity, purpose, and revolutionary zeal. The ancien régime is a relic, and if you cling to it, you will drown in its decay. What you call terror, I call necessary reform.”
Laila’s eyes narrowed as she reached out with her senses, searching for traces of enchantment. She found none. What bound Ramirez to Valère was not magic, but loyalty forged through charisma. A loyalty that inspired blind devotion and unshakable faith.
Her heart sank as understanding settled in. To those who viewed Valère as a messiah, no evidence, however damning, could shatter their belief. The man’s charisma was his greatest weapon, capable of bending even the most rational minds to his will. Convincing Esteban, or anyone like him, would be a battle not of facts, but of faith.
? Battles of faith are notoriously tricky. Unlike swords, which can be sharpened and tested, belief often relies on things like hope, charisma, and the implicit understanding that someone else will be doing the dying.
Lambert stepped forward, his presence shifting as a radiant aura of inviolate peace enveloped him. The soft, golden glow blurred the edges of his form, imbuing him with an almost ethereal quality. His stark white hair shimmered with the light, and his voice carried a melodic resonance that calmed even the most restless hearts. For a moment, the chamber held its breath, suspended in a fragile serenity.
Reaching out to the fractured remnants of Invictus, Lambert saw his own crisis of faith mirrored in the faces of the senior clerics. Once steadfast in their devotion, they now clung to Valère out of desperation, their belief hollowed by the absence of Invictus. In their eyes, Lambert recognised the same uncertainty that had haunted him. Yet, as his luminous presence filled the chamber, some of their resolve began to waver, their doubt surfacing like cracks in glass. They weren’t beyond saving, their faith teetering on the edge, yearning for something real, something pure.
“Clerics of the Sun Church,” Lambert began, his voice steady and resonant, “you have lost your way. You have lost Invictus. I feel this pain as you do—the unravelling of our world, the theft of our sun. But what you seek now is fool’s gold, the glint of pyrite where there should be divine grace. I come not to condemn, but to offer a path back to light, to wonder, to renewal. Follow us, and together we will forge a new dawn. Resist, and you choose the ashes of destruction.”
A ripple moved through the primates as Lambert’s words struck with undeniable conviction, resonating deep within the chamber. One by one, some of the clerics began to kneel, humility softening their expressions as his conviction reignited a glimmer of faith they had thought lost. Others remained standing, their defiance etched with determination, but even they seemed shaken, their eyes betraying flickers of doubt.
The air grew heavier as Valère rose, his movements deliberate, his presence commanding. His voice, proud and full of conviction, rang out: “And like all false prophets, you would rob this church of its succour and hope, the foundation upon which generations have relied.”
Lambert’s gaze remained steady. “I steal nothing. I do this not for myself, but for humanity’s sake.”
With a gesture, Valère bloomed into an aura of sunlight. A wave of dazzling, terrible glory swept through the chamber. Guards fell to their knees, swords trembling, while even the defiant clerics faltered. Valère’s presence grew larger, framed by a mane of blinding light. For a moment, he appeared every part the demigod.
Laila closed herself off to the pull, retreating into her mind palace to construct a barrier against the assault. She envisioned the walls of her sanctuary rising higher, each stone imbued with the calm determination that had carried her through countless storms. The pull of Valère’s aura diminished, unable to pierce the clarity of her defences.
Isabella stood resolute and unimpressed. To her, this was just another godling drunk on his own self-importance. She had faced far too many tyrants cloaked in divinity to bow to another. Her defiance was a quiet statement, a refusal to dignify the display with anything more than disdain.
Wylan, however, faltered. Knowing Valère to be false did little to weaken the compulsion radiating from him. It pressed down on Wylan like a physical weight, threatening to crush his resolve. His knees buckled slightly, and his breath came shallow, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself upright. If I kneel now, I betray everything I’ve fought for.
Lambert turned his focus back to Valère, and his own aura surged in response. A radiant holiness poured forth, ignited by his fervour and unshakable righteousness. The bronze radiance enveloping him intensified, golden flames licking at the edges of his form, a vessel of divine justice. From his feet, a shadow stretched vast and dark, eclipsing even Valère’s brilliance. This shadow carried the weight of mortality, a stark reminder awaiting even those who claimed divinity. For a fleeting moment, terror flickered in Valère’s eyes as he met the force of Lambert’s unwavering conviction.
“You play at divinity,” Lambert said, his voice quiet yet unyielding. “But even gods must reckon with death.”
Valère’s composure snapped back like a taut wire. “Apostate!” he thundered, his voice crackling with wrath. “I pronounce thee heretic!”
A suffocating madness crept into Lambert’s mind, like shadowy tendrils curling around his thoughts. Valère’s words crashed over him with an almost physical weight, shaking the foundation of his faith. Doubt seeped in, sharp and grotesque, entwining with the weight of his own sins. His golden aura faltered, dimming to a tarnished flicker as his conviction wavered. His voice, once steady, trembled with desperation as he spoke.
“Apostate? Heretic?” Lambert’s voice rang out, trembling but sharp. He fixed his gaze on Valère, his words carrying the weight of raw conviction. “For all that you preach the values of enlightenment and Reason, how quickly you fall upon the crutches of dogma when challenged.”
From across the chamber, Valère’s expression shifted to one of calculated persuasion, his voice rich with conviction. “You see, Lambert,” he began, “the weight of this world is too much for one man to carry, even one as righteous as you. Things must change.” He gestured towards the edges of the chamber where banners of the Sun Church hung limply, their symbols tarnished.
Lambert’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“The king sends troops not to aid the people, but to hem in the revolution, to suffocate it before it breathes. This is not the path of enlightenment or Reason; this is the decay of an order that refuses to evolve.”
Valère stepped forward, his aura dimming just enough to let his words take centre stage. “You and I both know, Lambert, that humanity cannot thrive while shackled to the corpse of the past. This is not tyranny. This is renewal.”
Lambert’s hands shook as he fought to steady himself. “No.” His voice trembled but held. “I will not join you in your madness.”
He closed his eyes, reaching for that sacred place where Invictus had dwelled. Nothing. The void yawned, cold and absolute. His breath caught. Then, deeper, beneath the absence, beneath the fear, a different warmth. Not borrowed. His own.
? Philosophers often debated whether believing in oneself counted as heresy if one happened to be divine. The general consensus was that gods probably didn’t mind, as long as taxes were paid and prayers were punctual.
With a steadying breath, Lambert focused on his own inner flame, a spark not divine but wholly human. The warmth he discovered was raw, imperfect, yet deeply real: proof of his own convictions, forged through trial and sacrifice. The darkness clawing at him faltered, unable to hold against the unyielding force of self-belief.
Lambert’s aura flared to life once more, brighter than before. Golden light flooded the chamber, not as the borrowed radiance of a god, but as the unshakable brilliance of a man who believed in himself. His voice rang clear, calm yet resolute as he met Valère’s gaze.
“We will not fall to your darkness, Valère. We will fight for a future where humanity thrives, free from your tyranny.”
The battle of faith had been waged, and Valère’s dominance over the room was broken. The de Vaillants, no longer burdened by the oppressive weight of his power, found themselves free to act. Their resolve sharpened like tempered steel, ready to seize the moment and turn the tide.
Wylan was the first to act. His sharp eyes swept the room, locking onto the cluster of primates with calculating precision. His hand hovered over his belt, fingers brushing the vials of volatile chemicals that hung there. A decision came swiftly.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
In one motion, he snatched two vials, their liquids swirling with ominous intent, and smashed them together. The resulting acidic mist hissed as it arced through the air. One primate collapsed instantly, his cry cut short, while two others stumbled back, clawing at their faces as the corrosive spray ate through robes and skin alike.
The remaining primates turned, their expressions hardening into masks of wrath. Their voices rose in a unified chant, the harmony unsettling in its perfection. The temperature in the room spiked as golden flames coalesced above their heads, gathering in a single blinding mass. With a final note, the inferno surged toward Wylan, a wave of divine retribution.
Instinct took over. Wylan’s hand darted to a vial at his belt. He uncorked it with his teeth, swallowing the metallic tincture in a single gulp. His other hand grabbed his canteen, dousing himself in water. The flames hit hard, a wall of searing heat, but Wylan’s preparations held. The tincture coursing through his veins turned his body into an alchemical fortress, while the water absorbed the brunt of the assault.
Steam erupted around him, a dense, swirling mist that cloaked his figure. For a moment, he was obscured, the sound of sizzling filling the chamber. When the steam cleared, Wylan emerged unscathed, his clothes singed but his stance firm. His expression betrayed no triumph, only focus. The primates faltered, their confidence shaken by the sight of a man standing untouched amid their divine fury.
Behind him, Hamish’s great axe swept through a cluster of guards attempting to flank, the orc’s roar carrying over the chaos. The Order of the Thistle flowed through the gap he created, their strikes precise and efficient.
But Wylan didn’t pause. His hand flew to his belt again, another pair of vials ready.
Laila was next to act. Her gaze darted to Esteban, his hesitation like a storm caught in his eyes. She could see the struggle, the conflict between loyalty and righteousness that froze him in place. But there wasn’t time to sway him now. Instead, she shifted her focus, her magic unfurling like an unseen tide.
The clerics seized on her divided attention. Their voices rose in harmony, golden threads of power weaving through the air as they cast a spell of sleep. The shimmering wave surged toward her, ancient and relentless, designed to drag even the strongest minds into oblivion.
Laila felt its weight press against her, warm and smothering, but her mental shields snapped into place. Her will formed an unyielding barrier, shattering the spell’s influence like brittle glass. She smirked, her gaze locking onto the clerics. They dare to challenge me with my own craft?
Across the chamber, Soren moved like a shadow, his silence falling over a chanting cleric mid-incantation. The man’s voice died in his throat, his spell unravelling into nothing.
Her irritation sharpened into precision. Drawing deeply from her power, Laila shaped a spell as cold and cutting as steel, its threads laced with whispers of chaos. With a flick of her wrist, she unleashed it. The spell struck the clerics like a shadow spreading across their minds, its tendrils burrowing deep and fracturing their unity.
The effect was immediate. Their chants faltered, voices breaking into discordant murmurs as nightmarish visions clawed at their thoughts. Staggering, the clerics clutched their heads, turning on one another, fighting phantoms that only they could see.
Isabella’s eyes narrowed, locking onto Valère. She drew her heavy war bow, a weapon designed for sheer, overwhelming power rather than subtlety.
She notched a javelin-sized arrow, bracing the bow with her legs. The bowstring thrummed as she inhaled deeply, her focus narrowing to a singular point: Valère.
The release was sudden. The arrow tore through the air and found its mark, grazing Valère’s side but with enough force to rip through flesh and muscle. Blood sprayed from the wound. His scream, wrath and agony mingled, reverberated through the chamber.
Isabella didn’t pause to revel in her success, already preparing for another strike. But the air behind her shifted, a whisper of movement that her heightened senses caught just in time. She sidestepped, though not quite quickly enough.
Pain flared briefly as a knife scraped across the metallic plating of her armour. The blow glanced off, the assassin’s intent thwarted by the craftsmanship that shielded her. Spinning on her heel, Isabella turned to face her attacker. The figure was clad in black, their movements precise and fluid. A professional, not some hapless guard.
Isabella settled into a fighting stance. Good. She’d been hoping for a challenge.
As the assassin lunged, she sidestepped, evading the blade. The assassin pressed forward, strikes fast and relentless, but Isabella met each one. With a quick shift in weight, she trapped the assassin’s arm in a lock, twisting sharply and forcing the blade to clatter to the ground.
She stepped in closer and struck a vital pressure point. The assassin crumpled.
The battle surged around her. Elena’s spectral shields flickered into existence, deflecting blows meant for the Thistle monks. Mirabelle’s illusions led a squadron of guards into a blind corridor, their shouts of confusion echoing off stone. The Notre Reine defenders were outmatched, their lines crumbling under the coordinated assault.
Wylan stood motionless for a moment, his gaze locked on Valère, calculating his next move with the precision of a tactician. From his belt, he retrieved two alchemical bottles, their contents swirling with volatile energy. With practiced precision, he hurled the first bottle high into the air. The glass shattered upon impact with Valère, drenching him in a shimmering liquid that clung to his robes and skin like molten silver. Valère flinched, momentarily disoriented by the sudden assault.
The second bottle followed in quick succession, its arc deliberate and deadly. It crashed into the liquid-soaked Valère, and the instant the two substances combined, the hall erupted in chaos. A blinding flash of light seared through the chamber, accompanied by an ear-splitting detonation. The resulting shockwave rippled outward, sending guards and clerics sprawling like ragdolls caught in a storm. The sheer force shook the very foundations of Notre Reine.
Valère staggered, his robes smouldering, his commanding presence shattered. The combined alchemical assault left him visibly shaken, his veneer of invincibility reduced to ashes. As the echoes of the blast faded, a heavy silence fell over the battlefield. Notre Reine guards lay scattered, their weapons clattering to the ground in surrender.
Wylan stepped forward, his boots grounding themselves upon the marble floor. “Time to end this,” he called out, his voice carrying over the stillness. “Isabella, if you would.”
Isabella loosed a second arrow, dark and sinister, its size akin to a javelin. The projectile streaked through the air, passing over Wylan’s head with lethal precision. It struck true, pinning Valère’s other arm to the wall with a resounding thud. Valère cried out, his struggles futile as his power and composure crumbled further.
In that moment, the remaining Primates still standing fell to their knees, their faith broken and their resolve shattered. Guards dropped their weapons, their faces etched with surrender. The battle was over, and House de Vaillant had triumphed in the heart of Notre Reine, save for one final confrontation.
Seated in his ad-hoc pontifical seat, Esteban had watched the battle unfold with the stillness of a man watching his own funeral. His hands gripped the armrests, knuckles white against the gilded wood. The bronze flower had fallen from his fingers at some point; he couldn’t remember when.
Valère was pinned to the wall. Bleeding. Struggling. The radiant aura that had filled the chamber moments ago had guttered out like a candle in a storm, and what remained was just a man. Just flesh and blood and desperate, ragged breathing.
This is what I believed in, Esteban thought. This is what I staked everything on.
The revolutionaries who had cheered in the streets. The terror Valère had promised to unleash. The old order burned to ash so that something new could rise. Esteban had told himself it was necessary. He had told himself that Valère was the answer to the void Invictus had left behind.
But the void was still there. It had always been there. And now he sat on a throne that meant nothing, in a cathedral that had become a battlefield, watching the messiah he had chosen bleed like any mortal man.
Lambert approached. Not with triumph in his bearing, not with condemnation, but with something quieter. Something that looked almost like recognition.
“Esteban.”
The name struck him like a bell. Not Pontifex. Not Your Holiness. Just his name, spoken by a young man he had known since childhood. Alexios’ boy. The chaplain who had sought him out in the depths of the Sepulchre, who had believed he could still serve when everyone else had given him up for dead.
“Your saviour has fallen,” Lambert said. His voice was steady, but there was no cruelty in it. “He led you down a path that ends here. But it doesn’t have to end with you.”
Esteban’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue. He wanted to defend what he had done, to explain that he had seen no other way. But the words wouldn’t come.
“I know what it is to lose your faith,” Lambert continued, and something in his voice shifted—became rawer, more personal. “I know what it is to reach for Invictus and find nothing. To feel the void where grace should be.” He took another step closer. “I stood where you’re standing. Not long ago. And I made a choice.”
“What choice?” Esteban’s voice cracked.
“To believe anyway. Not in borrowed light. Not in someone else’s fire.” Lambert’s golden aura had dimmed to something softer now, something human. “In the light I could kindle myself. In the people I could still serve.”
Esteban looked at Valère again. The man who had promised to remake the world. The man who had spoken of Reason and clarity and a new dawn. He was still struggling against the arrows that pinned him, still snarling defiance at anyone who met his gaze.
But Esteban saw him clearly now. Not a god. Not even a prophet. Just a man who had wanted power and dressed it in the language of salvation.
And I helped him. I endorsed him. I gave him the Church’s blessing.
The weight of it crashed down on him: every compromise, every justification, every moment he had told himself that the ends would justify the means. He had spent decades in the Sepulchre, praying at Hyperion’s tomb, sustained by nothing but faith and the fading warmth of a dead god. He had survived that. He had kept believing when there was nothing left to believe in.
And then Valère had come, and Esteban had been so desperate for certainty that he had abandoned everything he once stood for.
Laila watched from across the chamber, her magic a gentle pressure at the edges of his mind. Not coercing. She could feel the spell working as it was meant to, unravelling the fear and confusion that had clouded his thoughts. Guiding him back to himself.
“Remember who you were,” Lambert said softly. “Before all of this. The man who spent years in darkness, keeping faith alive when no one else could. The Church needs that man now. I need that man.”
Esteban’s hands unclenched from the armrests. The rigidity in his posture softened, and for a moment he looked very old, and very tired, and very lost.
Then he looked at Lambert, really looked at him, and saw not an enemy, not an apostate, but a young priest who had walked through his own crisis of faith and emerged with something worth holding onto.
“I don’t know if I can find my way back,” Esteban said. His voice was barely a whisper.
Lambert extended his hand. “Then let me help you.”
The grand hall of Notre Reine had fallen silent. The clash of weapons had faded, the chanting had ceased, and even Valère’s struggles had stilled. In that silence, Esteban reached out and took Lambert’s hand.
The battle was over.
Across the chamber, Theodora’s ward flickered and died. She stood swaying, her face pale, her hands still raised in the gesture that had held the barrier through the entire assault. But it wasn’t exhaustion that made her tremble.
“Aeloria,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “The kraken took her. I felt it—during the battle over the city—I felt her go under.”
The connection she shared with the dragon queen, the bond that had defined her purpose for so long, had gone quiet. Not severed, but... submerged. Drowning somewhere in the dark waters of the Bassin-de-Marne.
Saffron was at her side before anyone else could move, one hand steady on her niece’s shoulder. Her eyes held something the others couldn’t offer: recognition. She knew what it meant to be bound to something vast and ancient, to carry a patron’s weight in your soul. The shadow magic that answered Saffron’s call came with its own chains, its own terrible intimacy.
“I have to find her.” Theodora’s voice was raw. “I know what she is. I know what she’s done. But the bond—I can’t just—”
“I know.” Saffron’s voice was quiet. “Believe me, I know.”
Theodora looked at her, and something passed between them, an understanding that needed no further words.
“Then I’m coming with you,” Saffron continued. “You’re in no state to go alone, and you’re my niece. Whatever obligations you carry, you don’t carry them alone. Not tonight.”
She guided Theodora toward a shimmering tear in the air, a portal the younger woman had barely managed to hold open. They stepped through together, aunt and niece, vanishing toward the river and whatever remained of the dragon queen beneath its waters.
Theodora’s portal deposited them in the manor’s entrance hall. Lambert and Isabella dragged Valère’s unconscious form between them. The journey from Notre Reine had taken seconds rather than hours, one of the few advantages of having a portal mage in the family, though the return address had been somewhat approximate.
The ducal audience chamber of the de Vaillant estate was alive with subdued tension, its high ceilings and gilded edges contrasting sharply with the weight of the moment. Maximilian sat at the head of the chamber, his posture commanding yet burdened. Around him, the family had gathered: Laila, Isabella, Wylan, Lambert. Exhaustion marked every face.
In the centre of the chamber sat Valère, bound by heavy chains, barely conscious. Maximilian rose to his feet. “I will not make this a long matter. I am the Duke of Pharelle, and your actions have hurt the people of this city. Under my authority, I find you guilty of treason and crimes against the people of Gallia.”
Maximilian’s gaze was unwavering as he continued. “As for your punishment, we cannot kill you, for you are immortal. We cannot imprison you because such a cage will eventually decay.”
? This was the trouble with immortals. They made a mockery of legal precedent. Every sentence eventually became ‘until further notice.’
Laila broke the silence, her voice steady but edged with weariness. “We do not need to worry about either of those things, not when we have our very own dungeon, which can be sealed. We imprison him there.”
Maximilian nodded sharply. “Very good, but we cannot waste time on a full journey into the heart of the dungeon. We have barely an hour left before the dawn. For now, throw him in, and we can deal with him later.”
Time was of the essence. Valère’s injuries were knitting themselves together unnervingly fast, and the night was almost over.
They dragged him through the estate to where the umbral portal in the secret chamber lay. Wylan handed the signet ring over to Maximilian, who ceremonially pressed it into the slot. The Umbral mirror hummed to life, opening a way into the dungeon.
As Valère was dragged over the threshold into the Umbra, his complexion grew ashen, his skin pallid and lifeless. The realm drained him of vitality.
Here was the Ankh altar once more, its surface etched with symbols of finality and decay. They secured his chains to the cold stone, the bindings glowing faintly, resonating with the altar’s power. As Valère was forced down, his breaths became shallow and laboured. The oppressive weight of the Umbra and the altar’s dedication to death sapped what remained of his strength, leaving him hollow. The defiance in his eyes faded into something closer to desperation.
As the umbral portal closed, taking Valère from sight, Wylan smirked faintly and remarked, “You can stay put for a while.”