The bells of Aurelius rang at dawn, slow and heavy, as if the great bronze tongues themselves feared the sound they were making. Each note drifted over the city's rooftops like a funeral hymn, somber, final, trembling with warning. Crowds gathered in the square beneath the Solar Cathedral, pulled from their homes by rumor and fear. Even the morning sun seemed hesitant to rise, stalled behind a thin veil of clouds that dimmed its legendary brilliance.
In the center of the stone plaza, a wooden platform stood erected, soaked from last night's rain. Shackles clinked quietly as the accused knelt in a line, wrists bound, heads lowered. A hush spread across the crowd, not born from curiosity, but dread.
They had heard who would preside today.
Marquess William Von Vaskarus moved through the cathedral doors with the steadiness of a man who had no need to rush; the world bowed to him, one way or another. His golden cloak trailed behind his armored boots, catching the weak sunlight. Every soldier stiffened. Every priest went pale. Every onlooker swallowed hard.
For William was not simply a noble.. he WAS the empire's most feared zealot.
A man whose faith in the Sun Goddess, Lia, bordered on extreme madness.
He stepped onto the platform, face carved from stone. Age had not yet be able to soften him, though strands of silver threaded through his dark hair and the beginnings of weariness clung beneath his eyes. He carried a ceremonial blade, its edge glimmering faintly with consecrated flame.
A man like him did not tolerate hesitation. Or doubt. Or mercy.
The High Priest read the charges, voice trembling. "Five suspected of consorting with witches… accused of spreading curses within the western border… pending judgment of divine flame of the Goddess of Sun, Lia!."
The crowd murmured, many feared witches, but even more feared the possibility of false accusations. The Solar Inquisition was merciless, and William's hand laid heavily upon it..
Then he said her name.
"Elara. Daughter of Mara. Herbalist of Vaskarus Territory."
A woman in the line lifted her head. Her hair, dark and tangled, framed a face too exhausted to show fear. She could have been any villager, mud on her skirt hem, calluses on her hands, skin burned from days in the fields. But her eyes… they held a quiet defiance. Not arrogance, not rebellion but simply a refusal to break.
Something in them made William pause.
Only for a heartbeat, but it was enough for the High Priest to notice.
"She was caught tending to a child claimed to be cursed," the priest continued. "Suspicious herbs, chants unfamiliar to the church, and-.."
"She is pregnant," William said sharply.
A ripple passed through the crowd.
The priest swallowed. "Yes, my lord. Two months."
William descended the steps. The accused flinched as he approached, but Elara did not. Even with ropes digging into her wrists, she held her spine straight. William stood before her, studying her face, searching it for wickedness, for corruption, for any sign of malice that might justify her place on this platform.
He found none.
"Elara," he said quietly, "do you deny the accusations?"
She met his gaze without blinking. "I am a healer. I tend to the sick. If that is a crime, then perhaps the gods should choose kinder laws."
Gasps burst from the crowd.
William's jaw tightened. No one spoke of the gods with that tone anyone but not in front of him, not beneath Lia's cathedral.
But there was something else beneath his anger was curiosity.
He leaned closer. "Whose child do you carry?"
Silence.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She refused to answer.
William straightened, emotions unreadable. "Release her shackles."
The priest stuttered. "M-my lord—? She is accused of-"
"Do it."
"I-i Understand"
Soldiers obeyed instantly. Chains fell away. Elara's arms dropped to her sides, red from friction.
The other accused, however, were not spared. Flames flared at William's gesture, swallowing their screams within seconds. The crowd recoiled, breaths stolen by the ferocity of divine judgment. The purifying fire left nothing behind not even ashes, no bone, only heat shimmering over scorched wood.
William never flinched.
When the fire died, he turned again to Elara.
"You will come with me."
The words were not invitation. They were decree.
Elara's expression did not soften, but she did not resist as the soldiers escorted her from the square. The crowd parted, whispering feverishly.
Why had he spared her?
Why had the sun not burned her?
What did it mean?
None could guess the truth, not even William, who did not yet to understand the strange pull he had felt toward her. A sense of omen. Maybe a flicker of divine approval… or divine warning?
But the Goddess Lia was silent.
As always.
The months that followed were quiet ones, unusually so. Rumors spread that the Marquess had taken the woman under interrogation, or that she was being held until childbirth. Others whispered darker stories, rumours that she was his lover, that he had gone soft, that blood would soon stain the temple steps in repentance.
Elara remained within Vaskarus Manor, confined but unharmed. She kept mostly to herself, speaking little, watching everything. Servants avoided her. Priests observed her like a specimen. And every night, she whispered to the child growing inside her.
"You will survive this," she murmured. "You will live. You will not be what they fear."
But hope was fragile in the empire.
Especially for a child born of accusation and holy fire.
As the end of winter approached, William visited her chambers more frequently. At first to question her, then simply to… speak. Something unusual stirred in him, but a kind of conflict he did not name. He had seen her strength, her clarity, her fierce protective nature. She did not fear him. She did not worship him. She did not lie.
He found that he valued those things.
But the world outside did not change.
The empire grew restless. Whispers of witch covens spread. Border villages reported demonic sightings. Priests sensed a murky shift in the world's spiritual balance. The sun itself dimmed some mornings, a rare omen.
And still, Elara's child grew.
The night she went into labor, a storm raged across the western territory. Lightning clawed the sky while thunder shook the manor walls. Servants scrambled. Midwives rushed to her side. William stood outside the door, pacing with a restless energy none had seen from him before.
Hours passed.
Then a scream, not of childbirth, not of pain but completely something else.
Something unnatural..
The midwives burst from the room, faces pale.
"My lord! The child.. the child..!"
William shoved past them, heart hammering.
He froze.
Elara lay drenched in sweat, hair plastered to her forehead, cradling a newborn boy. But the room was filled with light, not the candle glow, not fire, but radiance. Golden, warm, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The infant's cries echoed like soft bells. His eyes, though barely open, shimmered faintly with red-tinted gold.
William felt the warmth wash over him.
This was no ordinary child.
This was divine.
A vessel.
A chosen.
Elara looked up at him, exhaustion dulling her voice. "His name is Lucas."
The light faded slowly, settling into the baby's fragile form.
William's gaze hardened — not with cruelty, but with realization.
"The Sun Goddess touched him," he whispered. "From the womb."
Elara smiled faintly, a mother's final glow of pride. "She touched me too, it seems… long enough to deliver him." Her breath wavered. "Promise me… he will not live in chains."
"Elara..!"
"Promise me," she insisted, voice trembling.
William, the man who crushed rebellions and burned heretics, dipped his head, a gesture he had never given anyone except priests and emperors.
"I promise."
Her eyes closed.
Her hand slipped from the blanket.
And the woman who defied him, who survived the flames, who had carried a divine child under the empire's scrutiny…
…took her last breath as the dawn broke..
William held the newborn carefully, almost fearfully. Lucas's tiny fingers curled around the Marquess's thumb, gripping it with unexpected strength. The faint red tint in his dark hair glowed under the rising sun, like embers waiting to ignite.
A Saint.
A sign.
A miracle.
Or a divine punishment.
William could not know.
He only knew one truth:
This child would change everything.
For the empire.
For the gods.
For him.
And maybe perhaps, one day…
If..For the world.