The great bells of Solaria tolled, their bronze voices rolling across the marble spires of House Deythar's ancestral estate. The hour of the Ceremony of Dawn had arrived.
Caelum Deythar—once Alaric, the king who defied heaven—stood in the shadow of his family's colonnade, draped in a ceremonial robe of white and gold. Sunlight struck the fabric, making him look angelic, though his eyes held something sharper. Today was no ordinary ritual. It was the day each child of the house stood before the Light of Aurelion, to be weighed, judged, and measured. Their worthiness would be etched in scripture, and their role in the family carved in stone.
"Come, Caelum," said Lady Seraphine Deythar, matriarch of the house. She stood radiant, her silver hair woven with threads of sunlight, her gaze unflinching. "Do not tarry. Today, the sun looks upon us."
Behind her towered Patriarch Kaelen, his presence like a blade sheathed in velvet. His decree was said to bend iron and hearts alike. Alaric—no, Caelum—saw the truth: these were not simply parents, but monarchs in their own right, worshipped by their retainers. Their devotion to Aurelion was legendary; their children were destined to be pillars of faith and power.
Around them, his siblings gathered, each cloaked in brilliance.
Elandor, the eldest, whose mere voice could stir flames. Lysandra, whose decree of purity was said to cleanse even poison from blood. Even Serian, older than Caelum by only a year, radiated the kind of effortless confidence that made courtiers bow without thought.
Caelum lowered his gaze, feigning the humility expected of the youngest son. Inside, Alaric's pride smoldered. So many lions in one den. No wonder the world fears this family.
They walked together into the Hall of Dawn, a sanctum of golden marble and sun-crystal. The air shimmered with hymns sung by unseen choirs. At the far end rose the statue of Aurelion, robed in flame, his face hidden by the radiance of a rising sun.
At the base of the statue waited Deacon Malchior—the chosen vessel of Aurelion in this land. His presence was overwhelming, like standing before the horizon itself. His decree was whispered to be so absolute that even kings knelt in silence when he spoke.
Malchior raised a hand, and the hall hushed.
"Children of Deythar," he intoned, his voice like sunlight breaking through cloud. "The Ceremony of Dawn is no trivial rite. It is covenant. Today, the Light shall weigh your essence, not your deeds. Your measure will determine your station—not just within your house, but in the eternal hymn of Aurelion."
His gaze swept the line of siblings. "Power is not gift, but reflection. The truest decree is not seized—it is revealed. Faith, devotion, truth of self… these are the fires that forge miracles."
Caelum's lips twitched at the words. Faith? Devotion? If only you knew what burns inside me. A truth deeper than any sun.
One by one, his siblings stepped forward.
Elandor first, placing his hands upon the crystal at the statue's feet. Flames erupted, engulfing him in a corona of fire. The hall filled with reverent murmurs.
"Flameborn," Malchior declared. "The Sun's Wrath flows through you."
Lysandra followed, and the crystal sang with light so pure it stung the eyes. A voice whispered: Sanctity.
Serian's turn brought shadows of golden chains, radiant and binding. The deacon nodded. "The Bonds of Dominion. Rare, potent."
Caelum watched each display with quiet interest. Each sibling more dazzling than the last. This was more than a test—it was a public proclamation of divine worth. Those who shone brightest were entrusted with leadership, resources, armies. Those who faltered became shadows in their own house.
And now, it was his turn.
The murmurs shifted tone—curiosity mixed with dismissal. Few expected anything. The least talented child, what could he offer?
He stepped forward, feeling dozens of eyes upon him. The crystal pulsed faintly, expectant, his hand lightly rested on the surface. At once, the cold sank into him like claws. It was not mere testing; it was hunger, probing, demanding.
What do you desire? the unspoken voice whispered. What do you believe?
Alaric did not hesitate.
I desire obedience. I believe in sovereignty—the kind no god may grant or take away.
For a moment, nothing. Silence. A dangerous hush filled the hall.
Then, a flicker. Not flame, not light, but a distortion. The crystal darkened, then blazed—but not with Aurelion's radiance. It shivered between gold and shadow, its glow bending like heat haze. Whispers rippled through the onlookers.
Deacon Malchior's eyes narrowed.
The crystal trembled violently, projecting shapes into the air: words written in flame that dissolved before they could be read, whispers like commands half-heard, and for an instant—a field of faceless worshippers, kneeling.
Then it ended. The light snapped back into the crystal, leaving the chamber ringing with silence.
"What… is this?" murmured a priest.
Malchior's voice cut the air. "Your decree is veiled, Caelum Deythar. It is not flame, nor purity, or dominion. It tastes of command, yet bends toward faith. Tell me, child: what truth lies in your heart?"
Caelum met the deacon's gaze, his own eyes burning with restrained pride. "My truth is simple. The world bends to those who believe—not timidly, not blindly, but beyond reason. Faith is power. Whether in a god, a king, or a dream."
Malchior's stare sharpened. The hall seemed to tilt with the weight of it. "And who, Caelum, is the object of your faith?"
The boy smiled faintly, bowing his head in practiced humility.
"My faith lies in the inevitable, in that which commands without asking. The sun does not plead for worship, yet men burn incense. Power does not beg, it is. That is where my faith rests."
The words rang hollow, but not easily pierced. Malchior studied him long, then nodded slowly. "Be wary, child. Faith misplaced can become blasphemy. And blasphemy, ruin.
"Mark him as Unclassified. We shall observe his growth closely."
The scribes wrote, their quills scratching across parchment. Unclassified was both blessing and curse—it carried prestige, for it meant the system could not easily contain the child, but it also carried suspicion. In either case, it ensured eyes would follow him. Exactly what Alaric wanted.
Inside, Alaric seethed with amusement. If only you knew. My faith has never wavered. I believe in myself—and that belief will remake this world.
The siblings whispered among themselves as the family withdrew from the hall. Some looked at Caelum with curiosity, others with wariness. The patriarch said nothing, though his eyes lingered on his youngest son with unusual weight.
That night, alone in his chambers, Alaric sat cross-legged on the cold floor. He extended his senses inward, searching for the seed of his power. The memory of the crystal's hunger lingered in him, a resonance waiting to be shaped.
He whispered to himself, testing.
"Obey."
The candle flame beside him bent lower.
"Rise."
The flame stretched tall, trembling.
He chuckled. "Words are the key… but words alone will bore me. No, I must weave them with faith, with fear, with the currents of the soul."
Closing his eyes, he envisioned a battlefield. Armies clashing, banners burning. He saw himself striding through chaos, his decrees reshaping reality. But not by words alone—by the energy of belief itself. If others feared him, their fear became fuel. If they worshipped him, their faith became strength. Both streams could flow into him, and he would decide how to wield them.
Let them fear me. Let them worship me. It makes no difference. Either way, they kneel.
For the first time since awakening in this frail body, Alaric felt something close to satisfaction. His power was still in infancy, but its potential was infinite. He had been a tyrant once by blood and crown. Now he would become one by decree and faith.
The next morning, servants whispered as he passed. He caught fragments: "His eyes… sharper than before," and "Did you see the crystal? It bled." Their murmurs weren't admiration—they were unease. But unease was a seed. He only needed time to cultivate it into faith or terror.
And time, he had.
For beyond the estate walls, the kingdom shifted. The bells tolled again, but to Alaric, their sound was not a call to devotion. It was a herald. A reminder that the stage was being set, and soon, the world would once again learn what it meant to live beneath a king's decree.
And this time, there would be no throne to fall from.
This time, the heaven itself will kneel.