The halls of the Oracle's Temple had not echoed with such anticipation in years.
Its marbled floors, worn down by centuries of ceremony and secrecy, now bore the quickened footsteps of scribes and servants preparing for a ritual none had witnessed in a generation. Dust clung to the robes of the priests who whispered hurried prayers, more political than sacred.
Candles burned low on thick pedestals, their flames casting long shadows on walls carved with prophecies. A dozen hooded figures formed a silent circle, each of them ancient, each a custodian of rituals long kept hidden. At their center stood the newest name in the Empire's contested power struggle: Seraphina.
Draped in pearl-white robes laced with silver thread, she stood motionless, her chin lifted, arms spread. The ceremonial garb shimmered under the firelight, but it was her stillness—her commanding poise—that captured attention.
She had orchestrated every second of this performance.
The High Oracle, a man whose voice was rarely heard above whispers, stepped forward with an obsidian blade. His eyes were sunken, and his expression unreadable.
"The gods have listened," he intoned, holding the blade aloft. "And they have seen the turmoil of the realm. The heavens speak through storms… and through women scorned."
Gasps rippled through the watchers hidden behind columns and curtains. The language was bold. Blasphemous, even. But powerful.
Seraphina did not flinch as the blade was lowered to her palm. She held out her hand.
It sliced. A shallow line. Her blood beaded instantly—red against white, pain against purity.
The Oracle dipped his thumb into it and smeared a mark upon her forehead.
"She is the Chosen Mother," he declared. "The Womb of Order. The Light that shall guide the Empire back from rebellion."
Trumpets blared from the corners of the chamber.
She had done it.
She had deified herself.
By the time the news reached Moressin, it came with a golden seal and a headline burned into fine parchment:
THE GODS CHOOSE EMPRESS SERAPHINA.
Aurora read it with steady eyes, seated on a bench in the open courtyard of the fourth Free Daughters school. A cool wind ruffled the pages. She read the entire article silently, then handed it to Mireille without a word.
Mireille scanned it, brow furrowed. "She bought the priesthood?"
"Or scared them into obedience," Aurora murmured.
The girls around them, all in their teens, looked on in confusion.
"Is that bad?" one of them asked. "Does that mean she's queen now?"
Aurora folded her hands in her lap. "It means she's not done trying to erase everything we're building."
Seraphina's new title spread like wildfire—through temples, academies, even brothels. Her face, now sanctified by the temple, was etched onto gold coins and painted onto banners. She rode through the city on a white horse, surrounded by incense and armed guards, as priests threw petals at her feet.
And yet, the people's cheers were thin. Forced. Empty.
She noticed.
No matter how many relics she held, how many blessings she received, her shadow could never eclipse Aurora's light. Every time she addressed the crowd, she saw it in their eyes: they still remembered her.
Aurora Vale. The woman who left.
The woman who taught girls to read instead of beg.
The woman who had never once called herself holy.
In his study, Lucien received the news with an emotion he hadn't expected.
Pity.
Not for Seraphina—but for the state of the Empire. It had come to this: orchestrated miracles and blooded rituals to convince a crumbling court that control was still theirs to keep.
He sat back in his chair, a cup of cold tea untouched beside him. The scent of paper and candle wax filled the room.
On his desk lay Aurora's education reform proposal.
He opened it again.
The document had no flowery introduction, no sentimental phrases. Just clarity, logic, and undeniable truth.
"We cannot expect progress while half our people are silenced at birth. Let education rise from noble courts to peasant homes. Let knowledge become the new crown."
He ran a hand down his jaw.
There were words in that proposal that challenged him. Not as a ruler, but as a man raised in a system that rewarded silence in women.
But he could not deny its brilliance. Or its necessity.
He dipped his pen into ink and began drafting a decree.
The Free Daughters, meanwhile, had blossomed into a movement that stretched beyond Moressin.
Five schools.
Eighty-nine girls.
Seventeen volunteer teachers.
More than fifty published essays, lectures, and treatises, all distributed through underground printing presses in cities like Velmira and Tasselridge.
Aurora no longer had time to grieve the marriage she lost. Or wonder about the one Lucien had now become.
She was too busy building something better.
But every now and then, when a girl raised her hand in class and asked a question no one had dared ask before, Aurora felt something in her chest expand.
Hope, perhaps.
Or something deeper.
Freedom.
In the shadows of the palace, however, Seraphina moved with a predator's grace.
She met with Rheston behind closed doors, her new robe trailing behind her like storm clouds.
"She's still growing," she said.
"Yes," Rheston admitted. "And gaining sympathy. Even among the nobles."
"Then we act."
He flinched. "You mean—"
"I mean she must be stopped. Her schools closed. Her papers burned. She thinks herself a symbol. Let's make her a warning."
"She's protected."
Seraphina smiled cruelly. "Not in the shadows."
The plan was simple.
A forged decree.
A late-night raid.
No trial. No public spectacle.
Just disappearance.
Aurora woke one night to a strange chill. She sat up in her cot, the schoolhouse unusually quiet.
No owls.
No wind.
Just silence.
Then—
The crack of wood.
She was on her feet in seconds, slipping on her boots and grabbing the small dagger she kept in her desk drawer.
Mireille burst into the room, breathless. "Men. Outside. They're not locals."
"How many?"
"Four. Maybe six. Uniforms, but not marked."
Aurora nodded. "Wake the girls. Get them out through the cellar."
"And you?"
She met her friend's eyes.
"I'll distract them."
The men entered with torches.
They expected fear.
They found Aurora, standing at the center of the main classroom, arms crossed, chin lifted.
"You're trespassing on private land," she said evenly.
One man stepped forward, scroll in hand.
"In the name of the Empire—"
"There is no Empire without its daughters," she snapped. "You come for me, fine. But if you touch one girl—"
"We have orders," the man growled.
"So did the men who burned libraries," she whispered. "And history did not forgive them."
A pause.
Then, from the shadows—
A blade at one of the intruder's throats.
Mireille.
Behind her, five older girls held garden tools like spears.
Lucien's decree had not only given Aurora permission to teach.
It had given these girls permission to fight for what they'd learned.
The intruders retreated.
But not without parting words.
"This isn't over."
Aurora watched their shadows vanish.
"No," she said. "It's only just begun."
The next morning, Lucien received the report before breakfast.
An attempted arrest.
Unauthorized.
On land protected by his own royal decree.
His hand trembled as he poured wine.
He looked out at the morning sun, rage simmering beneath his skin.
Then he summoned the council.
And for the first time since Aurora left—
He shouted.