The bells rang crisp in the city of Viremont—each chime deliberate, holy. Sunlight poured through gold-trimmed windows and polished marble reflected the glory of the High Seat. The air carried the scent of rose incense and polished wood. The empire prided itself on order.
Beneath the towering spires of the central cathedral, Anthony knelt quietly in prayer. Seventeen, sharp-eyed, obedient. A boy built by the system, groomed to serve.
"Anthony," called a sister softly from behind the altar. "Fetch the broom. The lower storeroom."
He nodded, rising without complaint.
Down the spiral steps he went, leaving the light behind. The cathedral's belly was colder, older—walls lined with sealed crates and untouched furniture, preserved in neat rows. The broom rested where it always had.
But something else caught his attention.
A worn leather book lay on an isolated shelf behind a storage rack. No dust touched it, as if someone had used it recently. Curious, he opened it. Pages fragile. Script unfamiliar.
Greek, maybe? His eyes narrowed.
«Η ιερή αυτοκρατορία εισέβαλε στη γη μας και κατέστρεψε όλα τα όπλα που είχαμε. Γιατί ο λευκός δαίμονας δεν βρίσκεται, και το είδος μας υποχωρεί.»
"The Holy Empire invaded our lands and destroyed every weapon we had. Why has the White Demon not been found? Our kind retreats..."
He shut the book with a sharp breath.
That wasn't the Empire's version of history. It contradicted everything he was taught—tales of glory, salvation, divine conquest.
A small creak behind him.
Anthony turned fast—but saw only silence. Stone, shelves, holy relics locked in crates. But his heartbeat had changed. Faster. Aware.
He took the broom and climbed back into the light.
The world above was still perfect, clean, peaceful.
But the book's words stayed. A splinter in his mind.
A question beneath the skin of paradise.