By the third day after the Sundering, the entire empire knew.
There was no corner untouched by the news, no street too narrow, no court too distant. Bells rang in cities that had not heard them in decades. Messengers rode until their horses collapsed. Oracles whispered into crystal basins until their voices bled raw.
The High Church had a new Pope.
And the Pope called himself Prophet.
The first to do so in centuries.
Lucifer.
The name alone fractured the world along invisible fault lines.
In the branch church of leonidus, Aiden stood before a long crescent table of white stone veined with gold. Morning light poured in through towering windows, refracted by sacred sigils etched into the glass. The air smelled of incense, ink, and old power—centuries of authority layered so thick it felt almost viscous.
Before him lay the proof of that authority.
Letters.
Dozens of them.
No—hundreds.
