Aurora had barely slept since the Revolution's message arrived.
She stared at the crimson parchment still resting on her table—unsigned, bold, and soaked in meaning. The words haunted her:
While you vote, we bleed.
She understood the anger. She had felt it herself. But now, every step she took echoed with a deeper, more dangerous rhythm. One she couldn't control.
And as much as it chilled her, a small part of her whispered:
They're not wrong.
The palace, for all its golden ceilings and diamond chandeliers, still reeked of the rot it was built to hide. In the name of peace, they polished tyranny. In the name of unity, they choked truth.
And now… someone else was rising.
Not with ballots or speeches.
With fire.
Mireille entered quietly, interrupting her thoughts. "The council's starting."
Aurora stood. "And the whispers?"
Mireille nodded grimly. "Three more messages delivered. All in red. All unsigned. The guards think it's internal."
Aurora slipped the parchment into a drawer. "Of course it is. Revolutions don't come from the outside."
She fixed her cloak and followed Mireille down the spiral staircase.
"Where do revolutions come from then?" Mireille asked softly.
Aurora's eyes didn't waver. "From the people who were promised change… and are tired of waiting."
Across the palace, Lucien stared out the west tower window as clouds gathered.
The letter had shaken him.
Not because of the threat—but because of the truth behind it.
He wanted to believe that inviting Aurora to the council had changed things. That putting her voice next to his would begin the healing. That if they spoke openly, the people would calm.
But the walls knew better.
The palace, despite its marble halls, was a tomb of broken promises. And promises, when shattered, become knives.
A knock.
"Come," he said.
Corin entered. "We have a problem."
Lucien turned slowly. "Another attack?"
"Not yet. But it's coming. Whispers. Movement in the Southern Reach. Someone's organizing."
Lucien moved to the map. "The Revolution?"
Corin nodded. "That's what they're calling themselves now. Red feathers pinned to cloaks. No leaders. Just a name."
"Names are dangerous when no one claims them," Lucien murmured.
"And powerful," Corin added. "They've taken three grain stores. Left food for the poor. No one was hurt. But they made it clear—no more silence."
Lucien closed his eyes. "Where's Seraphina?"
Corin hesitated. "She's summoned the Oracle Council. Behind closed doors."
"Damn it."
Lucien's hands clenched. "We needed time."
Corin looked at him steadily. "Then buy it. Or burn for it."
The council chamber buzzed with nervous tension.
Lady Isolde adjusted her gloves repeatedly. Lord Rheston kept glancing toward the balcony where civilian observers sat, their faces wary, hopeful, afraid.
Aurora entered just as silence fell.
Every eye followed her.
She didn't hesitate.
"Before we begin," she said, "I want to address the messages delivered to the palace."
The room stiffened.
"We don't know who is behind them. We don't know where they gather. But we do know why they've risen."
Lucien leaned forward. "You believe their cause is just?"
"I believe their pain is," Aurora answered. "And if we dismiss them, we'll turn pain into vengeance."
Whispers broke out across the chamber.
Rheston scoffed. "We do not negotiate with criminals."
"Then maybe stop making citizens into criminals," Aurora replied sharply.
Lucien's voice rose above the noise. "Enough."
All eyes turned to him.
"We will investigate. And we will respond. But not with fear."
He looked at Aurora. "Can you reach them?"
Aurora hesitated.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I can try."
Lucien gave a tight nod. "Then try."
That night, she tried.
It wasn't hard to find them—not really.
All she had to do was walk alone through the old quarters near the Iron Market. No guards. No cloak. Just her name.
The whispers followed.
And when she passed the cracked archway near the fountain, someone stepped out.
A girl.
No older than sixteen.
Face covered. Eyes sharp.
"You're her," she said. "The one who sat with the Emperor."
Aurora nodded.
"You read our message?"
"I did."
"Then why are you still there?" the girl asked. "Why are you sitting with wolves?"
"Because I know their tricks," Aurora said. "And because if someone doesn't sit at that table, they'll burn it down with everyone inside."
The girl studied her.
Then pulled out a folded note.
"Give this to him."
"To Lucien?"
"To the one who still believes he can fix this."
Aurora took it.
"Tell him," the girl added, "we're not asking anymore."
Lucien read the note in silence.
Then read it again.
It was only one line.
The fire is not coming. It's already here.
He looked at Aurora.
"They're planning something."
"They're desperate."
"They're armed?"
She didn't answer.
And that was answer enough.
Lucien stood. "We have two days until the spring festival. The palace will be full. Diplomats, children… families."
"You think they'll strike then?"
"I would."
Aurora nodded. "Then we stop them."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "Together?"
She met his gaze. "If you're brave enough."
The next two days were a storm.
Behind closed doors, Aurora coordinated safe zones and diversion routes. Lucien ordered silent reinforcements. Elias printed new pamphlets of unity and reform. Mireille worked the underground.
But the Revolution moved faster.
They had already infiltrated.
On the morning of the festival, red feathers were found inside the council library. A guard discovered a secret message carved into the base of Seraphina's statue: "Let the old gods fall."
Lucien paced the war room, tension thick.
Seraphina hadn't been seen since the Oracle council met.
And the Oracle himself had vanished.
"We've been outplayed," Corin said.
Lucien turned to Aurora. "If you were them—what would you hit?"
Aurora didn't blink.
"The children."
An hour later, all school convoys were rerouted. Tents were searched. Packages checked.
But it wasn't enough.
At exactly midday, a cart of pastries rolled into the central plaza—gilded, harmless, and pushed by a smiling woman in a baker's uniform.
No one noticed the strings under the tray.
No one asked why the wheels clicked.
Until they stopped.
And the cart exploded.
Screams tore through the air.
Flames leapt.
Glass shattered.
Aurora, who had been only a few feet away giving a speech to a group of students, threw herself over a child.
Mireille tackled two others.
Lucien ran into the smoke.
Chaos.
Guards scrambled. Healers rushed in. Mothers wailed.
And above it all, a red feather floated down like a sentence.
When the smoke cleared, eight were dead.
Dozens injured.
And the Revolution had written its first line in blood.
That night, the palace was sealed.
The council chamber locked.
And Lucien stood before the people, blood still on his collar.
"This is not reform," he said. "This is not rebellion. This is war on the innocent."
Aurora stood beside him.
But her heart broke.
Because she knew.
The people would not forget the fire.
Even if the Revolution had meant only to scare.
Even if it wasn't Aurora's fault.
The people would not forget.
And neither would she.
Far beneath the palace, in the catacombs no one spoke of, Seraphina lit a single candle.
The Oracle stood beside her.
"They've drawn first blood," she said.
"No," the Oracle corrected. "They've revealed their face."
Seraphina smiled.
"Good," she whispered. "Now I can crush them with God on my side."
She looked into the flame.
"And no one will mourn the mask I break."