The fire had gone out, but its smoke still lingered in the soul of the Empire.
It wasn't just the plaza that burned. It was trust. It was safety. It was the illusion that change could be gentle.
In the aftermath of the explosion, the palace had become a fortress again.
Windows shuttered. Guards doubled. All council meetings postponed.
The scent of ash clung to every hallway like a warning.
Aurora stood on the balcony of her quarters, staring at the ruined plaza below. Her cloak snapped in the wind, the hem darkened by soot.
She had saved three children. She had stood in the fire.
But none of that mattered.
Eight were dead.
Two of them were girls from her former school in Caelstead.
And the headlines read not Aurora the Protector, but Aurora the Catalyst.
Inside the room, Mireille was pacing, clutching a stack of anonymous letters.
"All of these came in overnight," she said, dropping them onto the table. "They're turning on us. They say we're to blame for this. That you've opened the gates for terrorists."
Aurora didn't answer.
Mireille hesitated. "Some were written by your own former allies. Even the Southern Federation is hesitating. They're scared."
"I'm scared too," Aurora murmured. "But that's not a reason to stop."
"It's a reason to survive," Mireille snapped. "And right now, the tide is shifting."
Aurora turned from the window. Her eyes were sharper now. Not angry. Just clear.
"Then we hold our ground."
Lucien was in the war room, bent over the plaza blueprints.
The cart had been smuggled in from the east quarter. The driver had no traceable identity. Her face had been painted, her fingerprints burned. Whoever planned this had resources—and help from inside.
Seraphina stood on the opposite side of the room.
Her face was pale, eyes unreadable. She hadn't spoken to Aurora since the bombing.
Now, she broke the silence.
"This is what happens when you give rebels a seat at the table."
Lucien didn't look up. "She saved children."
"She inspired the explosion," Seraphina countered. "She gave the Revolution legitimacy."
Lucien met her gaze. "Or maybe they did this because we waited too long."
Seraphina laughed bitterly. "Still making excuses for the woman who ruined you."
That cut deeper than she knew.
Lucien looked away. "I won't argue blame while children are being buried."
"But you'll let her walk free?" Seraphina said. "There are nobles demanding her arrest."
"She's not the enemy."
Seraphina leaned in, voice low. "Then you're not the Emperor."
Lucien didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Because in that moment, he realized—if he protected Aurora now, he wouldn't just lose the court.
He might lose the throne.
In the civilian district, riots had started.
Not coordinated. Just furious.
Mothers screaming in the market square. Fathers breaking chairs in town halls. People dragging red-feather sympathizers into the street and shaving their heads in humiliation.
The people didn't want justice.
They wanted someone to blame.
And Aurora's face was everywhere.
On pamphlets. On murals. On protest signs.
Once, her image was a banner of hope.
Now, it was painted with blood dripping from the eyes.
That night, Elias came to her door.
He looked older than usual. Worn down by too many nights at the press, too many days defending her name in whispers.
"I got you this," he said, handing her a cloak.
It was simple. Brown. Plain. Unremarkable.
"Travel cloak?" Aurora asked, brow raised.
"Disguise," he said. "If things get worse. If you need to vanish."
Aurora took it gently.
"I'm not running."
"I didn't think you would," Elias said. "But you might need to disappear… to keep the movement alive."
Aurora looked at him, touched by the gesture.
"I thought you didn't believe in running."
"I don't," he said. "But I do believe in surviving long enough to win."
The next morning, Lucien summoned her privately.
He didn't meet her in the council chamber, or even his royal quarters.
He met her in the greenhouse—an overgrown haven of wild vines, rain-touched glass, and silence.
It was the only place where the past felt more alive than the present.
Aurora arrived wearing the same cloak Elias had given her.
Lucien turned when he heard her footsteps.
"They're calling for your arrest," he said flatly.
"I know," she replied.
"They think you planned it."
"I didn't."
"I believe you."
She studied his face.
"Then why did you summon me here, alone?" she asked.
"Because I needed to ask you a question. One I've been avoiding."
He stepped closer.
"If you could leave—right now—and take the movement with you… would you?"
Aurora's breath caught.
"That's not the solution."
"It might be the only one," Lucien said. "This city is about to fall into chaos. You're the lightning rod. If you stay, they'll break you. If you leave, you might save what's left."
"You're asking me to abandon this?"
"I'm asking you to live."
A long silence passed.
Then she said quietly, "You're afraid."
"I've never been more afraid in my life."
She reached up, touched his hand.
"I'm not leaving," she whispered. "Even if they burn this palace to the ground. I'm not leaving until the world we dreamed of is more than ashes."
Lucien looked at her as though seeing her for the first time again.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn't desperate. It wasn't a plea.
It was a promise.
But it ended too soon.
Because at that exact moment, Corin burst through the doors.
"Your Majesty—Seraphina's gone."
Lucien turned sharply. "Gone where?"
"She left through the Oracle gate. No word. No guards. Just vanished."
Aurora's heart dropped. "She's making her move."
Corin nodded grimly. "And she took the Oracle's seal with her."
By nightfall, rumors had already begun.
Seraphina had gone to the Holy Province.
To summon the Blessing of Fire.
To baptize the Empire in divine punishment.
Aurora knew what that meant.
She wasn't going to just fight the Revolution.
She was going to label it unholy.
And if Seraphina called for a Holy War…
Every city would burn.