At the heart of the Holy Kingdom of Valdor, in the city of Astrellan, the Cathedral of the Sacred Primacy dominated the skyline as a constant reminder of divine authority. Its pale walls and towering vaults did not merely serve to welcome the faithful, but to affirm the order upon which the kingdom was built.
At this early hour, the nave stood empty, bathed in filtered light that emphasized the rigidity of its lines and the austerity of its design.
Before the main altar, Cardinal Henrique was finishing his prayer. His crimson robe fell with almost military precision over a body weakened by age yet still upright, and his clasped hands did not tremble despite the decades he had devoted to the Church.
Before him stood three statues: a six-winged woman brandishing a sword, a bearded man draped in a long robe holding a closed book, and a blindfolded woman carrying a perfectly balanced scale. Henrique prayed without excessive fervor, with the regularity of a man for whom faith was, above all, discipline.
As he straightened, as he did each day at the end of the same ritual, he noticed a priest standing motionless a few steps behind him, waiting until the prayer had concluded before daring to approach. The young man kept his head bowed, fully aware of the hierarchy that separated them.
"Cardinal Henrique, a message has arrived from the Central Church," he said, extending a sealed note.
Henrique took the paper without a word, broke the seal, and read the single sentence it contained.
The Oracle has spoken. The time has come. We must prepare the Chosen One. Proceed with the extraction.
His expression remained impassive, yet a new focus settled in his eyes. So, the moment had arrived. He folded the note slowly, tightened his grip, and a brief surge of mana reduced it to ashes that scattered across the stone floor without a trace.
Then it is time, he thought. I will see what the blood of the gods can accomplish under my authority.
Without another word, he left the altar and entered a side corridor reserved for the highest-ranking dignitaries. He walked with measured steps toward a reinforced door, sealed both by a physical lock and a magical pattern carved into the stone. He recited a coded prayer, waited for the seal to respond to his mana, then unlocked it with a key hanging from his neck before carefully closing it behind him.
Beyond it, a staircase descended into the cathedral's foundations. Henrique continued onward, passing through successive doors, each protected by a different magical schema requiring a specific invocation and precise combination. He repeated the process five times in total, systematically sealing each passage behind him until he reached the deepest levels, where the sanctuary's silence could no longer be disturbed.
When the final door opened, screams were heard immediately.
They were young, spoken in a language he did not recognize—or refused to recognize—and muffled by the thickness of the walls. Henrique closed the door behind him, fully isolating the chamber from the outside world, then advanced into a vast white space constructed from a material designed to absorb sound and neutralize magical fluctuations.
Rows of opaque vats stretched in methodical alignment around him, connected by a network of conduits through which a dark liquid circulated. The screams came from within those sealed containers, their contents unseen, visible only through the irregular tremors that sometimes rippled across their surfaces. Henrique neither slowed nor looked away; to him, those voices belonged to a higher necessity, embedded within the sacred mission of the kingdom.
He stopped before the central machine, a complex structure of metallic rings and shifting runes protected by a magical schema of extreme difficulty. Only someone trained from childhood in deciphering such architectures could hope to resolve it. Henrique placed his hands above the device and began altering the pattern, adjusting the flow of mana with meticulous precision as the mental strain steadily intensified.
Minutes passed in silent tension. A thin layer of sweat formed on his brow, his fingers tightened slightly, yet his gaze remained steady, driven not by compassion or doubt but by rigorous determination. After prolonged effort, the pattern stabilized, and a compartment opened with a sharp click.
A vial slowly emerged from the machine's core, filled with a viscous liquid of dark red, almost black in hue, denser than ordinary blood and pulsing faintly from within. Henrique grasped it with restrained satisfaction, observing the substance as the tangible result of a perfectly executed design.
"So this is the blood of the gods."
He sealed the compartment, turned his back on the vats and the screams that still echoed behind opaque walls, and left the chamber, locking each door behind him with the same rigor as before. As he ascended toward the upper levels, the voices gradually faded, smothered beneath layers of stone and magic.
Above, the cathedral remained untouched, and the faithful prayed without knowing what lay beneath their feet.
At the other end of the continent, in the demonic capital, the Empress found herself in a place she had never seen, yet instinctively understood.
The sky was an even blue, crossed by a single unmoving sun whose warmth did not vary in intensity or direction. Around her stretched a calm expanse of water reaching her knees, without shoreline or horizon to break the view. Recalling that she had gone to sleep for the first time since her awakening, she had reached a rational conclusion: this was not a physical space, but a lucid dream, an inner domain where her mind remained fully conscious.
She walked slowly through the water, observing the steady ripples created by her steps and noting the complete absence of wind, scent, or shifting light. Nothing here obeyed ordinary natural laws, and that consistency confirmed it was a mental construct. The sun's warmth was stable, almost comforting, yet she sensed no real source behind it; the landscape functioned as a symbol rather than a true environment.
Then a voice rose behind her, clear despite the absence of echo.
"Is this truly what you want?"
She turned sharply, water splashing around her, but saw no one. Her gaze scanned the uniform expanse before she answered in a firm voice, devoid of hesitation.
"Who are you?"
The reply came near her ear, like a controlled whisper.
"We are not here to speak of me, Anastasia, but of you."
She pivoted immediately and reached out to seize the source of the voice, but her fingers passed through a dark silhouette that disintegrated at once, only to reappear several meters away.
The figure was black, featureless, deliberately concealing its true form. It stood upon the water's surface without disturbing it, as though the rules of this inner world did not apply to it.
"Is that how you greet me upon our reunion?" the silhouette asked lightly.
Anastasia narrowed her eyes, refusing the provocation.
"Do not speak nonsense. How could I recognize you in that form? And what is this place? How are you here?"
The silhouette placed a finger where its mouth would be, adopting an almost playful posture.
"This is the core that houses the soul, and this one belongs to your body."
She looked again at the unmoving horizon, understanding that this landscape represented the inner domain of the body she now inhabited. The information settled into her mind without disturbance; she accepted it as a fact to be used later.
"Then what are you doing here?"
"That is a secret—for now," the silhouette replied.
Anastasia clicked her tongue briefly in irritation, aware that she could not compel an answer from an entity that seemed to exist beyond her authority.
"Very well. I will wait until you choose to speak. Why have you brought me here?"
The silhouette's tone lost some of its levity.
"I have been observing you. In truth, I had little choice. But tell me, are you certain of your decision? Is this truly the path you intend to follow? Do you not fear regret if you continue in this direction?"
A clear laugh escaped Anastasia, echoing through the silent expanse.
"I thought you were observing me. Do you not already know the answer?"
Her gaze hardened, unwavering upon the dark figure.
"I will regret nothing."
Silence settled between them, heavier than before. The silhouette studied her at length, as though measuring the solidity of her resolve, before answering in a deeper voice.
"I see…"
Its form began to dissolve gradually, as though absorbed by the unmoving light of the sky. Anastasia reached toward it, not in panic, but in an attempt to hold onto the information slipping away.
"Wait—"
The landscape shattered at the same instant, water and sky vanishing without transition. Her arm remained extended toward a painted ceiling in her chamber.
She was back.
Her arm fell heavily onto the bed, and a sharp pain pierced her skull, brief yet intense enough to force her eyes shut. It was the first migraine she had felt since awakening in this world, an unfamiliar sensation that contrasted with the perfection of her body.
She rose slowly and sat at the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to her temple, analyzing what had just occurred rather than yielding to discomfort.
After a moment, she reached for the bell beside the bedside table and rang it with a precise motion. A servant entered almost immediately, her black hair cut in a square bob, two short red horns framing a face shaped by discipline.
She bowed without lifting her eyes, awaiting orders.
"Bring me a bottle of our finest wine and a light meal. I will take it in the adjoining room."
With a brief gesture of her hand, already turning away, Anastasia left the chamber without waiting for acknowledgment. The servant executed the command in silence.
Seated in the adjoining hall, spacious and austere, Anastasia took her place at the end of the long central table. A vast bay window offered a view over part of the demonic capital, its dark towers and snow-dusted rooftops standing beneath the morning light. The room embodied wealth and authority, yet she spared it only a passing glance.
She poured herself a glass of wine without ceremony and drank it in a single motion before refilling it.
What happened?
Leaning back slightly, glass in hand, she allowed her thoughts to arrange themselves. Was it merely a dream? The hypothesis felt insufficient, given the precision of the sensations, the coherence of the exchange, and above all the fact that the silhouette possessed knowledge she herself did not. This had not been the confused projection of a restless subconscious; it had been structured, deliberate, intentional.
She remained silent for several minutes, eating mechanically and drinking at measured intervals until she reached a pragmatic conclusion: whether the entity was real or not changed nothing, for now. As long as she retained control over her decisions, the origin of the voice mattered less than the direction she chose to take.
She set the matter aside with the same cold efficiency she applied to a secondary dossier.
Her thoughts shifted instead to the notes Ophar had compiled regarding influential figures of the Empire, and to one name absent from the previous convocation: Ismerya, daughter of the former Demon King. She clearly remembered a line underlined in her profile, framed as a warning: Has always disagreed with her father regarding the succession. Has always desired power.
Anastasia swirled the wine in her glass before taking another measured sip, her gaze fixed upon the city beyond the window.
"I will have to deal with that."
Her voice was calm.
The decision was already made.