The village chapel of Asmora had never seen such a crowd. Usually, its stone walls echoed only with the humble prayers of woodcutters and their families, but today it had been transformed. The scent of pine needles and old incense was masked by the heavy, cloying perfume of the capital. Velvet drapes in the Ecthellion crimson were hung hastily over the rough-hewn granite pillars, and golden relics, brought by the Imperial carriage, sat somewhat awkwardly on the simple oak altar.
Alaric stood at the center of the nave, his boots resting on a floor of worn river stone. Before him stood Bishop Valerius, a man who looked entirely out of place in such rural surroundings. His embroidered vestments trailed in the dust of the village floor, and his expression suggested he was counting the minutes until he could return to the cushioned seats of the capital.
In the pews, the atmosphere was thick with a tension that the local villagers didn't quite know how to handle. To the right, Asimi sat with her spine perfectly straight, flanked by Gina and Dawn. To the left, the Imperial presence was a suffocating weight. Crown Prince Julios sat with a bored slouch, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on his knee. But it was the man beside him who held the room in a deathly grip.
Emperor Tuare Wulfric Ecthellion sat like a statue of iron. He didn't look at the crude masonry or the flickering tallow candles. His eyes, cold and calculating, were fixed solely on Alaric. It was the first time father and son had been in the same room in years, and the silence between them felt like a physical barrier.
As the sun reached its zenith, a single, brilliant ray of light broke through the small, circular window above the altar. It was a humble aperture, but the light that poured through it seemed to magnify, catching the motes of dust and turning them into shimmering gold before striking Alaric.
The light didn't just touch him, it claimed him.
[Quest Completed: Foundation of the Order] [Level Up! You are now Level 2]
Brace yourself, boy, Alanor's voice boomed inside his mind, drowning out the Bishop's rhythmic chanting. The archives are opening. Don't let them see you flinch.
Then came the heat. It started in the center of Alaric's chest and radiated outward in a violent, thrumming wave. In full view of the Emperor and the gawking nobles, Alaric's body began to change. His small, seven year old frame stretched, his bones lengthening with a series of sharp, audible cracks that echoed against the stone walls. His ceremonial tunic, tailored for a smaller child, groaned and tore at the shoulders.
By the time the light receded, the soft features of a child had vanished. Alaric stood nearly a head taller, possessing the lean, hard jawline and broad shoulders of a boy of ten despite his eight years of age. He took a heavy breath, his presence in the room suddenly feeling nearly twice as large as it had a moment before.
Bishop Valerius raised his staff of white ash, his voice echoing through the modest rafters. "By the Light of the First Throne, the Prince's soul is bared! He is blessed with the Historic Gift: Sword Saint!"
A roar of merriment erupted from the capital-goers. For them, a Sword Saint was a safe, prestigious gift. It meant the "Spare" would grow to be a fine general or a champion for the Imperial games, a useful tool for the crown that posed no threat to the magical lineage of the primary heirs.
Asimi let out a sob of relief, her hand clutching Dawn's, while Gina allowed a rare, satisfied smirk to cross her face.
Julios grunted, leaning back with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Well," he muttered, loud enough to catch Kendrick's ear, "at least the abomination might be useful on a front line. Though a Saint of the blade is still no match for a true King. He is no Tristan, and he certainly isn't me."
The Emperor said nothing. He rose with a slow, predatory grace, his heavy cape sweeping the dusty floor. He didn't offer a word of congratulations or even a nod. He simply walked out of the chapel, his Imperial guard falling in behind him like a shadow.
An hour later, the Bishop stood in the small, cramped vestry, the smell of cheap tallow candles still lingering. Emperor Tuare stood by the small window, staring out at the mountain path.
"You signaled for a private audience, Bishop," the Emperor said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Speak."
The Bishop bowed so low his miter nearly touched the floor. "My Liege, there is a matter of the soul that could not be spoken before the court. When the light touched Prince Alaric, the scales of the Saint were clear. But beneath them, I felt a second pulse. A hidden gift."
The Emperor turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "A dual awakening? That hasn't occurred in our line for three generations."
"I cannot name it, Majesty," the Bishop whispered, his voice trembling with a genuine fear. "I reached out with the Holy Sight to identify the second core, but I was rebuffed. It was as if something divine, something ancient and immovable, was standing guard over his spirit. It blocked my vision entirely. I saw only a flash of violet and black before the light was pushed back."
Tuare's gaze sharpened into something lethal. "Divine interference? In a boy who was supposed to be a failure?"
"He is more than a Sword Saint, My Liege," the Bishop warned. "Whatever is growing inside that boy, the Heavens themselves are hiding it from us."
The Emperor looked out toward the southern horizon, where the mists were beginning to roll in from the marshes. "Then we shall see how well his divine protection holds when the world begins to burn."