The vision shattered, and Auther crumpled.
Pain lanced through his skull like molten iron poured into his veins. He hit the altar steps on his knees, gasping, the world tilting. The throne, the angels, the trumpets—all gone. Only the echo of limitless power humming beneath his skin, too vast for his mortal frame to hold.
The church erupted in chaos—nobles rising, murmurs swelling to shouts. Some faces shone with desperate joy; others twisted in fear or calculation.
Queen Elizabeth moved first. She glided forward, veil concealing her expression, but her hand—cool, steady—pressed to his forehead. Mana surged from her palm, cool and probing, flooding his channels like a river seeking cracks.
Auther stiffened. Her touch was clinical, almost foreign. Her skin felt... wrong. Not the faint warmth he remembered from rare childhood moments, but textured, subtly ridged. He flinched, instinct screaming danger.
The mana rummaged through him, testing, pressing against the newborn star of his soul. It tried to contain, to bind—perhaps to heal, perhaps something darker. But his divine seed devoured it greedily, swallowing every drop until Elizabeth withdrew with a sharp inhale.
Shock flickered across the faces that could see beneath her veil.
Viola was there in an instant, her taller frame cutting through the crowd like a blade through silk. "Your Majesty, Archbishop—my prince needs rest," she said, voice calm but edged with steel. "His body is too fragile for this power yet."
She positioned herself between Auther and the others, screening reactions with deliberate care. Lana stood frozen, wide-eyed but unafraid. The archbishop bowed deeper, reverent. Neon Gold shifted uncomfortably, irritation flashing. And the queen... the queen's posture stiffened, a flicker of something cold passing through the air.
Viola scooped Auther up without ceremony—bridal carry, his lighter frame cradled against her chest. Heat flooded his face; even half-delirious, the reversal stung his pride and stirred something deeper. Lana, lingering nearby, stifled a soft chuckle despite the tension.
"Those two have a strange dynamic," she muttered to herself, pink hair falling over worried eyes.
The carriage ride back was a blur. Crowds pressed at the palace gates, voices rising in pleas—avenge us, free us, save us. Auther drifted in and out, Viola's arms a steady anchor, her heartbeat a slow, reassuring rhythm against his ear.
He slept for days.
Fever wracked him, body aching as if rebuilding itself from the inside. Nightmares came in flashes: the throne returning, angels with swords of light, a golden dragon coiling around the sun. He woke gasping more than once, sweat-soaked, only to find Viola at his bedside—tall silhouette against the firelight, hand resting lightly on his arm until he settled again.
Healers came and went at Elizabeth's command, murmuring about mana overload, fragile vessels, unprecedented potential. But Viola never left the room for long. She slept in the chair, rapier across her lap, waking at the slightest shift in his breathing.
On the third night, the fever broke.
Auther opened his eyes to moonlight spilling across the bed. Viola was there, as always—slumped slightly in the chair, head tilted back, azure hair loose over one shoulder. Exhaustion lined her face, but even asleep she looked ready to fight.
He watched her for a long moment, chest tight with something he couldn't name. Gratitude. Longing. Fear that this new power would drive a wider wedge between them.
She stirred, eyes snapping open. "You're awake."
"Finally," he croaked. His throat felt like sand.
Viola poured water from a bedside pitcher, bringing the cup to his lips with careful hands. He drank greedily, then caught her wrist as she pulled away.
"Thank you," he said again, quieter this time. "For everything."
Her fingers tensed under his grip. For a heartbeat, the air thickened—the memory of her chamber, her body arching beneath his touch, the door closing behind him. Neither spoke of it.
"You're my charge," she said at last, voice rough. "I don't fail."
He searched her face. "Is that all?"
Viola looked away, jaw tight. "Get some rest."
But she didn't leave the chair.
In the church, after the crowds dispersed, Lana lingered to clean ritual tools. Neon Gold had already stormed off, muttering about wasted reagents.
She was stacking vials when low voices drifted from the sacristy—Queen Elizabeth and Archbishop Johannes, behind a half-closed door. A silence barrier shimmered faintly, meant to muffle sound.
But Lana heard everything.
"How do we handle the boy?" Elizabeth asked, voice low, almost amused beneath the veil.
Johannes's tone was grave. "I report to the Golden One. Then to Hopelys's theocracy. A Destruction God title... only devils rejoice at such births. The angels may demand euthanasia before he matures."
Elizabeth laughed softly—cold, unfamiliar. "The dragons grow greedy. The Golden One not enough?"
"The world shifts," Johannes replied venomously. "If humans cannot harness this sun—Viratu reincarnate—then you deserve the bottom rung. We will guide him. As vassals, perhaps."
Silence. Then Elizabeth: "He is my son."
"Is he?" The dragon's voice dripped doubt. "The veil hides much."
Lana's blood ran cold. She dropped a tray deliberately, shattering glass. The voices cut off. Neon stormed back, slapping her hard across the face.
"Clumsy worm," he snarled, dragging her away by the ear. "How will I remake the holy water now?"
No one intervened. The strong preyed on the weak; it was the way of things.
But Lana had heard it all.
Questions gnawed at her as she worked late into the night—about the queen's laugh, the dragon's greed, the threat hanging over Auther's head. The boy who had spoken to her like a person, not a servant. The one who had listened.
She had to see him again.
She had to decide what those words meant—and whether to speak them aloud.
In the palace, as dawn crept through the curtains, Auther drifted toward real sleep. Viola's hand rested on the edge of his bed, close enough to touch.
For the first time in days, the power inside him felt quiet.
But outside his door, the world was already moving—whispers spreading, envoys preparing messages, shadows lengthening.
And in the quiet spaces between heartbeats, danger drew closer, wearing familiar faces.