In the days that followed, the truth began to unfold. The knights who had slaughtered her family were soldiers of the Sun Empire. And by some unfathomable twist of fate—or perhaps the will of the gods themselves—Liviana was named the new Saintess of Aetheris.

At first, Liviana had no desire to accept this title, no wish to become something so far removed from the girl she had once been. She had never imagined herself as the Saintess.

Until now, the question lingered in her heart. Why me? Why had she, a simple child from humble beginnings, been chosen by the gods? What was her purpose, and why had they taken everything from her in exchange for this fate?

When Liviana was first brought into the temple to confirm her divine powers, the reactions were almost uniform—murmurs of doubt, sidelong glances, and carefully veiled skepticism.

Tradition dictated that the next Saintess would be revealed through a divine message to the High Priest, the appointed voice of the gods on earth. It had always been so. Yet this time, there had been nothing. No visions. No omens. No whispered words from the heavens.

It was as if the gods themselves had chosen to remain silent.

Even Emperor Iskareth, who had personally brought the girl in, could not hide the flicker of confusion in his eyes.

“If you’re still unconvinced,” a calm voice interrupted, “then allow me.”

A figure cloaked in travel-worn robes stepped forward. The priests stiffened. The High Priest’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Magnus?!” 

The man pulled back his hood. Magnus stood before them.

“This child,” he said, placing a gentle hand atop Liviana’s head, “manifested divine powers.”

Liviana gazed up at Magnus with innocent, bewildered eyes.

As his palm made contact, a radiant light pulsed from beneath his fingers, spilling outward in soft, golden waves. The chamber fell silent. The light enveloped Liviana’s entire body, warm and ethereal, lifting her hair as if carried by a divine breeze. Then her eyes—once a gentle brown—shimmered and shifted—turning a brilliant, luminous gold.

Gasps echoed through the room. 

The High Priest, whose name is Regulus Ottavio, staggered back, eyes wide. “Go-Golden eyes!”

Magnus nodded solemnly.

Golden eyes were the most undeniable sign of divine power.

Magnus slowly withdrew his hand, his expression thoughtful, “Given that this child has already manifested her divinity once before, it’s not surprising her powers are still in their infancy. Her body hasn’t fully awakened to them yet. For now, her eyes will only turn gold when she channels her power—but in time, if her connection to the divine strengthens, they may remain that way permanently. That’s only my speculation, of course.”

High Priest Regulus, still wide-eyed from what he had just witnessed, furrowed his brow, “But you said her powers were unlike any Saintess before her. What exactly did you mean by that?”

Magnus’s gaze grew serious.

“The divine energy within her is… fierce,” he said, his tone steady. “It doesn’t possess the calm, steady warmth we’ve come to expect from the Saintesses of Aetheris. Their power is usually gentle—meant for healing, purification, restoration. But hers...”

He glanced at Liviana, who stood quietly, her expression expectant.

“…hers feels different. Sharper. It doesn’t soothe—it reacts. It lashes out when threatened. It’s not the kind of power that mends—it defends, and it strikes back. In all my years, I’ve never seen divine energy behave this way. Instead of flowing with quiet grace, it builds under the surface like pressure, ready to explode.”

“You're saying it's meant for combat?” High Priest Regulus asked, cautiously.

Magnus nodded, “That’s precisely what I’m saying. Perhaps the gods have foreseen a time when Aetheris will need more than prayers and blessings.”

With the truth laid bare, the temple could do nothing but accept Liviana. The divine sign had spoken—whether they liked it or not, she was the chosen Saintess. But her acceptance wasn’t out of respect or devotion; it was a duty they couldn’t ignore, and one they carried out with visible hesitation.

Before she was formally brought into the temple, Emperor Iskareth and Magnus met with High Priest Regulus in private to speak with him directly.

“She’s still grieving,” Iskareth said. “Tread carefully.”

High Priest Regulus remained silent, head slightly bowed in deference.

However, Iskareth’s violet gaze darkened, “Remember this, High Priest Regulus. I was the one who found her that day. And while she does not carry the Imperial name, nor have I formally adopted her, Liviana is my responsibility.”

The room fell heavy with the weight of his words. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was no mistaking the threat layered beneath his composure.

‘Because I fail to push forward the peace treaty with the Sun Empire,’ Iskareth thought grimly, ‘her parents are dead.’

“I hold no jurisdiction over the Temple,” he continued, “and I will not interfere with your customs or internal affairs. But if I hear so much as a whisper that the girl is being mistreated within these walls…” He paused, letting the silence sharpen the moment. “Then you will hear from me.”

High Priest Regulus’ jaw clenched.

“Train her properly,” Iskareth instructed. “And because her divine power isn’t like the others, Magnus will oversee part of her training.”

High Priest Regulus stiffened. “Your Majesty—”

“That is all I ask of you, High Priest,” The emperor's voice brooked no argument.

High Priest Regulus opened his mouth to protest further. But then he saw it, Iskareth’s eyes had shifted again, turning a vivid, unnatural shade of violet. The Soul Sigil stirred behind them, clear and unmistakable—a warning. For a moment, the room felt colder, heavier.

He bowed deeply, swallowing his pride.

“…As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“Good.”

“Saintess, Thoren,” The voice halted their steps. In front of them was High Priest Regulus, his hands neatly folded in front of him, his expression unreadable.

“High Priest,” they said in unison, bowing in respect—Thoren with practiced grace, Liviana with a stiffness that never quite softened when it came to him.

“I see you both have returned,” Regulus said, offering a shallow nod before gesturing for them to rise. “Congratulations on your victory. It appears the gods were with you.”

“Thank you, High Priest,” Thoren replied. “But credit goes to Liviana. We would’ve lost without her.”

Liviana caught the brief flicker across Regulus’ face—a twitch of the lips, almost imperceptible, but telling.

‘He just hates my guts, I swear,’ she thought, resisting the urge to sigh.

Regulus gave a thin smile, his gaze turning toward her. “Of course. Saintess, while I do share in the joy of your victory, I would ask—no, urge—you to refrain from entering the temple in such a state. Blood on your armor, weapons still at your side… You are not a knight. You are the Saintess of Aetheris. There are standards—”

“High Priest,” Liviana interjected, her tone polite but firm, “I just returned from the battlefield, and I came here straight away after receiving word of my master’s death. Forgive me if I didn’t stop to cleanse myself before entering the temple.”

A brief pause hung in the air, heavy with unspoken tension.

Regulus let out a slow, audible sigh, “Your temper worsens with every passing day, Saintess.”

Liviana didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes on him, responding, “I apologize, High Priest. But I’m exhausted. And I’m grieving. That’s likely why I’m not as… careful with my words as I should be.”

Thoren shifted beside her, casting a quick glance between them. His lips parted like he might interject, but he thought better of it and held his silence.

Regulus’s expression hardened. His disapproval was never loud, but it was always there—in the narrowing of his eyes, the way his mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

Liviana, sensing it, dipped her head—not in submission, but in a gesture of respect. Just enough to remind him that despite their differences, she still recognized his authority.

“You’ve known from the beginning what I am,” she continued. “I can heal, yes, but that’s not what my divine power was meant for. It was never soft or gentle like the Saintesses before me. Mine was meant for battle. That’s not something I chose. It’s just… what it is.”

She met his gaze again, calmly but without apology, “I know you don’t like it. I know I don’t fit the image of what a Saintess should be. But I didn’t force the gods to pick me. They did. And whether any of us like it or not, I’m still the one they chose.”

Regulus studied her for a long moment, then gave a cold nod.

“Very well.”

With a final sweep of his robes, High Priest Regulus turned on his heel and began to walk away. But just before disappearing into the corridor, he cast a last glance over his shoulder.

“The rest of the Holy Order is waiting for both of you,” he said curtly, then vanished down the hall.

Thoren let out a quiet breath and turned to Liviana. 

“I’ll meet with them,” he said gently as he placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. “You don’t need to push yourself any further today. Go rest, Liviana.”

She gave a small nod, grateful but too tired to find the words. Without another word, she turned and quietly walked away, her steps heavy with exhaustion.

Meanwhile, in the training grounds of the Magic Tower, Genev stood in stunned silence

He had expected progress—but not like this.

Ludolf stood before him, palm outstretched, a steady glow of light radiating from his hand. The power wasn’t just present—it was focused, controlled, as if he had been born with it. But Genev knew better. Ludolf wasn’t born with innate power. He had come into this world without the natural gift that many mages spent years trying to master. And yet here he was, conjuring magic with startling ease.

Genev had taken on the role of his mentor with cautious expectations. Sure, the boy was exceptional in swordsmanship and combat, but talent in one field rarely translated to another—especially not to magic. And yet...

"Genev," Ludolf asked, his gray eyes shining bright with quiet focus. "Is this how it's supposed to be done?

Genev blinked, then managed a faint smile, “Yes, Ludolf. You’re doing well.”

He hesitated for a moment, watching the glow in Ludolf’s hand brighten with calm precision.

“Teaching you will be… easier than I expected,” he added, more to himself than to Ludolf.

A prodigy. There was no other word for it. Ludolf was going to be a force unlike any the Magic Tower had seen in a while.

Months had passed since the death of Magnus. The people of the Aestheris Empire still could not accept that he was truly gone. Even now, they spoke of him as though he might return at any moment—his brilliance, his compassion, his triumphs, the countless deeds he had accomplished for the empire. These memories became their refuge, retold in markets, taverns, and family gatherings—clinging to his legacy as if it might hold back the weight of loss. They refused to let his name fade into silence as though burying his memory would mean burying the very light he had brought to their lives.

Today, November 17, X816, Ludolf turned thirteen. It should have been a day of joy, yet it became his first birthday without his father. He struggled to accept it. All his previous birthdays had been alive with laughter, harmless tricks, and a father’s presence that made the day unforgettable. But this year, joy felt out of reach. The tower seemed emptier than ever, and even the cheerful voices of the tower members could not mask the aching silence.

Collapsing onto the ground, he clutched his sword, chest heaving as he struggled for air. Genev’s training was merciless, each strike and spell designed to push him past his breaking point. But he had asked for this—demanded it, even. He knew that strength could never be born from softness. If he wanted to grow, he had to endure the pain, rise above exhaustion, and sharpen both blade and will against his enemies.

“Okay, let’s take a ten-minute break,” Genev said as he sat down beside Ludolf, handing him a bottle of water. Ludolf accepted it with a quiet nod and took a long drink.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to throw you a birthday party?” Genev asked.

Ludolf lowered the bottle and shook his head, “No. I don’t need one.”

“Oh, come on,” Genev pressed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Thirteen is a big deal. You survived twelve years of being a brat—don’t you think that deserves at least a cake? Maybe some candles?”

Ludolf’s expression hardened, “It doesn’t matter. Without Father, it’s pointless. A party won’t change that.”

Genev’s smirk softened into something gentler, though he refused to let the tension hang too long, “Pointless, huh? So you’re saying I should eat your share of cake myself? Maybe I’ll invite a few people over, tell them it’s my birthday instead.”

Ludolf let out a tired breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, but his eyes stayed downcast, “Do whatever you want. I just want to train.”

“You know,” Genev teased, nudging him with his elbow, “most kids your age would kill for a day off training. And here you are, acting like swinging a sword is more fun than presents. You’re a strange one, Ludolf. Magnus would want you to have a fun, happy birthday, just as you deserve.”

“Maybe,” Ludolf muttered, tightening his grip on the bottle. “But if I don’t get stronger, then none of it matters.”

Genev studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod, “Alright then. No party. Just training. Don’t think you’re off the hook—next year, I’m bringing twice the candles and twice the cake to make up for it.”

Despite himself, Ludolf almost smiled.

Almost.

“Genev!” A voice called out, making both Genev and Ludolf turn toward the source.

Genev raised his brows in surprise. “Kyle? Is something the matter?” he asked as he stood.

The man approaching was Kyle McRael, a mage of the Magic Tower known for his expertise in defensive sorcery—particularly the conjuring of barriers said to be unbreakable.

“The Saintess is here,” Kyle said, his tone low and urgent.

Genev froze, his eyes widening, “Saintess Liviana?” 

He could hardly mask the confusion and shock in his voice.

Why would Liviana come to the Magic Tower unannounced?

“What is she doing here?” Genev demanded as he moved closer to Kyle. Ludolf rose to his feet as well, his curiosity piqued at the mention of the Saintess.

“She says she wants to speak with you—and with Ludolf,” Kyle whispered.