The chamber was silent but for the hum of a thousand runes. Gold and crimson light rippled across the vaulted ceiling, illuminating mosaics of war and empire. Beyond the dais, the holo-screen shimmered—an enormous, flickering projection that filled the air with the roar of collapsing storms and molten light.
Within it, two figures clashed inside the maelstrom of the Storm Forge.
Lightning arced between them—one wreathed in fire, his every strike an act of defiance; the other, cloaked in mist and lotus light, moving with the grace of a dying god. The forge quaked, its metal heart screaming as Mysteries collided, shaping and unmaking the world around them.
The Emperor of Nova Roma watched in silence. His face, carved in the hard calm of marble, betrayed neither joy nor alarm. The light from the screen danced over his features, glinting across the sun-shaped sigil that adorned his chestplate.
"So," he murmured, voice a low thunder that carried the weight of centuries, "the torch has found its bearer again."
His gloved hand tightened on the armrest of his throne. "Prometheus' flame returns to the mortal plane... in the heart of a boy." A faint smile curved his lips—part reverence, part calculation. "The cycle spins, and the ashes burn anew."
The holo-image wavered, the forge collapsing in a flood of light. Then darkness. Silence. From behind the Emperor, the shadows stirred. A figure stepped forth, her silhouette framed by the dying embers of the projection. Her voice was smooth, like silk drawn over a blade.
"Is it time then?" she asked. "Has the age of resurrection come at last?"
The Emperor didn't answer immediately. He rose from his throne, each movement deliberate, his armor whispering like wind through iron leaves. He stood before the screen's fading light, its afterglow painting him in hues of bronze and gold.
"Not yet," he said. "Let the fire grow. Let it burn the weak, test the faithful, and forge the worthy. When the world kneels again beneath the storm, then the age of resurrection will begin."
He turned slightly, the faint gleam of his eyes cutting through the dark.
"Prepare the Machina Solis," he said. "When the torchbearer reaches the threshold, I will be waiting."
The woman bowed, the sound of her steps vanishing into the cold expanse of the throne room. Outside, beyond the crystal walls of the Solar Citadel, Nova Roma stretched beneath a crimson dawn. Its legions marched in silence. Its banners rippled against the rising wind.
And somewhere across the sea, in the ruins of the Forge, the flame of Prometheus flickered to life once more—unseen, but felt. The gods were stirring. The world would burn again.