After the purification, the rest of the ritual proceeded as planned.
It was a series of solitary rites—moments where everyone had to step back, while Elliott alone carried the proceedings. The Ascension of Flame was always carried out on a once-in-two-decades eclipse. But since this was a solar festival and not a dual one, every last detail had to be completed before the eclipse began. The instant the moon slipped in front of the sun, the auspicious time would be over. The meeting of the sun and moon wasn't inauspicious, per se—quite the opposite, actually—but this was a festival and ritual for the sun god alone. It was said if the ceremony continued in the moon's shadow, the sun god's wrath and disfavour would fall upon the emperor.
That was part of the reason no envoy from Altheria had ever been invited to the Ascension. Now, of course, with relations deteriorating and war brewing, it was completely out of the question. But even before, back when relations were cordial, no Altherian dignitary—much less a moon-descendant—had ever been permitted inside the temple during the ritual. Sun and moon could not meet here.
The Ascension had reached its final, most important step: receiving the sun god's favor.
A crown of sunbeams rested on Elliott's head as he stood in the middle of a carved sunstone dais. The carvings represented the solar system—and in the very center, in the spot of the sun itself, stood Elliott. The royal family—Aiden and Gabriella—wore smaller crowns of sunbeams, though they were off to the side. They were background figures. The true weight of the ritual rested on Elliott's shoulders alone.
Elliott's gaze flicked to Aiden, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips when he caught sight of the younger's—frankly adorable—scowl. He remembered the conversation they'd had earlier about the sunbeam crowns and how deeply displeased Aiden had been at the thought of wearing one. Sure enough, now that it sat on his head, the crown looked ridiculous. Even Elliott couldn't deny it. Though... there was something odd about it. A slight silvery sheen clung to Aiden's crown, like a pale halo mixed into the golden beams. Elliott's brows knit. He glanced at Gabriella's crown—it was perfectly fine. Maybe it was just the lighting.
The priests moved to the next stage.
The dais stood in the temple's grand hall, packed with representatives from every noble family of the empire, as well as envoys from powerful organizations. Of course, this included the Myraethra Guild—meaning Carlson Veyth had shown his face. Elliott caught sight of him lingering in the crowd like a vulture.
"Let us now proceed with the main ritual. The Ascension," the high priest intoned.
Around the chamber's edges, the gilded mirrors were adjusted into place. Then came the eternal flame—an ancient fire said to have burned since the dawn of the empire, only ever brought out during the Ascension. The flame was carefully carried and set into its pedestal. When the mirrors aligned, the sunlight and firelight together were supposed to refract, weaving a radiant halo around the emperor's head.
That was the Ascension. That was divine recognition. The sun god himself approving the chosen heir.
Till now, no emperor had ever been rejected. At least, not in any record. It was whispered that for rulers who carried unforgivable sin, the favor could be withheld. But that had never happened in living memory.
Even Elliott's father—tyrant though he was—had received the blessing without complication. The throne itself was considered a seat of sin. Every ruler had to make bloody decisions that would damn an ordinary soul. Thus the threshold of sin was different for emperors. The gods accounted for the weight of a crown.
By comparison, Elliott was... well. Practically a saint. Kind, considerate, moral to a fault. Nobody expected anything to go wrong.
And for a moment, it didn't.
Elliott knelt. The mirrors caught the light. A perfect, blinding halo shimmered around his head. The priests prayed. The crowd bowed. Reverence rippled through the chamber like a living thing. Everything was going perfectly—
Until it wasn't.
The first sign: the flame. It suddenly brightened. At first, people murmured approval— after all, a brighter flame meant stronger divine favor. But then—
It twisted.
The flame lashed like a feral beast, writhing out of its pedestal. Elliott barely had time to throw his arms over his face before the fire struck toward him. He staggered backward, eyes wide, stunned.
Then came the sound.
CRACK.
One of the mirrors split down the middle, the noise sharp as lightning splitting the sky. A shard of glass flew like an arrow. Elliott jerked his head just in time—avoiding it embedding itself in his face. It still grazed his cheek, slicing skin. Blood welled instantly, running down in crimson lines.
The halo that had formed moments before—perfect, divine—flickered violently. Half-formed. Half eclipsed.
The three events hit all at once. Nobody had time to think.
A gasp tore through the hall like a wave.
The high priest turned ashen. Someone whispered the word like a curse: "Disfavor..."
It wasn't just that favor was withheld—it was that punishment had been dealt.
"The sun god rejects the emperor," a nobleman breathed, horrified.
"What sin could he have committed?" another demanded, voice shaking. "What sin so unforgivable it surpasses his forefathers?"
The gazes fixed on Elliott shifted. Where reverence and awe had lived only seconds ago, now suspicion, unease, and accusation thrived.
The emperor knelt bleeding on the dais. And the crowd simply watched.
Except one.
The danger hadn't ended. More mirrors splintered, raining shards dangerously close. Elliott coughed, trying to pull himself together, body shaking as panic and smoke stung his lungs. A sudden gust of wind tore through the chamber, sending the decorative flecks of gold dust swirling straight into his face. He gasped, inhaled—coughed violently, clutching his chest as his body rebelled.
Another mirror cracked.
He stumbled, coughing so hard tears burned his eyes. He swayed, blinking against the blur. Still, he tried—tried to scramble down the dais. Tried to get off before another shard struck him.
But his coordination betrayed him. His foot slipped.
And Elliott fell.
The emperor of the empire tumbled from his pedestal—literally.
His wide eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the impact—for bone to collide with the unyielding marble.
But it never came.
Instead, he landed in arms. Strong. Steady. Warm.
Aiden.
He had moved without thought, without care for protocol, for blasphemy, for the watching hundreds. Fury burned in his eyes—on anyone and everyone who dared just watch while Elliott was attacked.
Protocol? Forgotten. Blasphemy? Irrelevant.
All that mattered was that Elliott was safe in his arms.
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