The Imperial Palace, Afternoon.
The council meeting had dragged on exactly as expected— tedious, heavy, and suffocating. Hours were spent in endless debate over supply lines, troop movements, and the ever-looming threat of war. It was the same grim litany that had become routine these days.
Elliott had sat through it all, composed as ever, listening intently and offering measured responses when necessary. Every now and then, beneath the table, he would brush his fingers against Aiden's hand— small, discreet touches whenever the younger man's patience visibly frayed and his knuckles whitened like he was moments away from throttling a particularly insufferable minister.
By the time the meeting finally adjourned, Elliott's playful mood from the morning had long since dissolved into exhaustion, and Aiden looked like he was carrying the weight of the empire on his shoulders.
He turned his head just enough to catch Aiden's eye, offering him a faint smile that held more warmth than energy.
"You look stressed," Elliott murmured, voice low enough that it didn't carry past them.
"And you look tired," Aiden countered without missing a beat. Still, the hard set of his jaw eased ever so slightly. "Don't work too much. You need rest. You're still not fully healed."
"Neither are you," Elliott replied, the softness in his voice sharpening just enough to make it clear he was referring to the wounds Aiden had sustained only a few days ago. The healers had said they were mending well, but "mending well" didn't mean "fine."
Aiden gave him a wry little smile, one that admitted defeat without saying it aloud. "Maybe we both need to rest, then."
Elliott let out a quiet chuckle, the corner of his mouth curling. "Maybe. Just... not together this time. Wouldn't want a certain bug keeping you awake."
Aiden tried to hide the grin that threatened to escape, but Elliott caught it immediately.
"...The bug is welcome," Aiden said after a pause, and then, without waiting for Elliott's reaction, turned and walked away.
Elliott stood in the corridor, watching the younger man's retreating back as he made his way toward the training grounds. The emperor's smile grew wider— genuine this time. That last comment had slipped past his defenses and landed squarely where it mattered, lightening the dull ache of fatigue in his chest. Maybe it was the banter itself. Or maybe it was the fact that it was Aiden he'd been bantering with.
They both knew neither of them would actually rest. Aiden would throw himself into drills until sweat soaked his shirt, and Elliott would bury himself in his study under a mountain of reports and documents. And yet... their steps felt lighter anyway.
Elliott was just turning toward his study, steeling himself to make even the smallest dent in the avalanche of paperwork, when a figure in white and gold approached.
White and gold—the colors of the Solar Temple.
The Lancasters were believed to be the direct descendants of the Sun God, and so the deity was the heart of worship in the Vellurian Empire. The Solar Temple's influence stretched deep into both the spiritual and political veins of the realm, and those who wore its colors carried no small weight.
The young priest bowed deeply as soon as he spotted Elliott. "Your Majesty. I greet the Eternal Sun's Chosen One, whose veins run gold with the Sun's power..."
Elliott inclined his head politely, though inwardly he still found such greetings excessive. Only the people of the temple used it. But faith mattered to the people, and so it mattered to him. "Priest. What brings you to the palace?"
"The High Priest humbly requests an audience with Your Majesty at the earliest convenience," the man said reverently. "It is a rather urgent matter."
Elliott managed not to sigh. He knew the High Priest wouldn't summon him lightly, but gods, he had been hoping for an hour— just one— to work uninterrupted. Still, duty was duty. "I see," he said, forcing a smile. "Let us not make him wait. Lead the way."
They moved toward the palace's inner grounds, where the temple wing stood bathed in an almost perpetual stillness. The main Solar Temple was elsewhere in the capital, standing on ground steeped in myth and deemed sacred, but the palace's temple was still an impressive structure in its own right— large, ornate, and imbued with the same reverence.
As expected, the High Priest awaited him there.
The outer chamber of the inner sanctum was filled with fractured sunlight spilling through stained glass, painting the marble floor in warm, kaleidoscopic hues. At the sanctum's heart stood a towering idol of the Sun God, second only in grandeur to the one in the main temple. The High Priest sat in the meeting area, his robes the same white and gold as the young priest's, though far more elaborate in design and embroidery.
He looked up as Elliott entered, his aged face serene, his amber-flecked eyes carrying the quiet authority of decades spent in absolute devotion. He pressed his palms together in the Sun's traditional greeting.
"Your Majesty."
Elliott returned the gesture. "High Priest."
"I apologize for the sudden summon. I know you are burdened with matters of state, but this could not be delayed."
Elliott inclined his head. "Of course. I have faith you would not request this meeting unless it was necessary."
They both sat. Servants poured tea, and the High Priest's gaze lingered on Elliott for a moment before he spoke. "...There are rumors that war is imminent. Is this true?"
Elliott's expression grew grave. "Unfortunately. The Altherian offenses have crossed the line."
The old man's lips pressed thin with disdain. "To think the Moon's descendants could fall so far. Altheria was once the land of art, culture, and beauty— the very image of the Moon God's grace. Only that usurper is to blame."
They both knew who he meant— Emperor Cyrus Corvette. A Corvette in name only, the real Moon-descended line lost with the presumed death of James Corvette, the last rightful heir. Whispers claimed Cyrus had slaughtered the royal family himself. Others claimed he had delved into forbidden black magic to secure his throne. The High Priest clearly believed both.
"He is a tyrant," Elliott said solemnly. "But there is no one left to question his rule."
The High Priest exhaled heavily, then leaned forward. "The matter I wished to speak of— the Ascension of Flame approaches, Your Majesty. The astrologers have confirmed the date from the stars and scripture."
Elliott stilled. The Ascension of Flame was a solar festival held only once every twenty years. It was grand, sacred, and deeply rooted in the hearts of believers. The monarch performed the central rite, a blessing believed to bring prosperity and divine favor upon the empire.
The last Ascension had been under his father's reign. For all his father's cruelty, even he had not dared to diminish the event. Elliott still remembered the sight— blazing fire, gold banners, and the way it felt as though the heavens themselves bent to watch. Now, it was his turn.
"The people await it eagerly," the High Priest went on. "It holds even more weight now, in these uncertain times. It is proof that even in the darkest nights, the Sun's light prevails. That after shadow comes dawn."
Elliott's chest tightened. It would be foolish, almost reckless, to throw such a lavish celebration on the brink of war. And yet... to scale it back would send a worse message—that fear had taken hold. That the Sun's light could, in fact, be dimmed.
The Ascension wasn't just tradition. It was stability. It was a promise that some things endured beyond politics and bloodshed.
He knew what he had to do.
"I understand," Elliott said at last. "We will proceed as our ancestors did— on the full scale. Morale is as vital as any weapon right now."
The High Priest's shoulders eased. "The temple is grateful for your wisdom, Your Majesty."
"It is only my duty," Elliott replied.
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