By the third day after the Sundering, the entire empire knew.
There was no corner untouched by the news, no street too narrow, no court too distant. Bells rang in cities that had not heard them in decades. ssengers rode until their horses collapsed. Oracles whispered into crystal basins until their voices bled raw.
The High Church had a new Pope.
And the Pope called himself Prophet.
The first to do so in centuries.
Lucifer.
The na alone fractured the world along invisible fault lines.
In the branch church of leonidus, Aiden stood before a long crescent table of white stone veined with gold. Morning light poured in through towering windows, refracted by sacred sigils etched into the glass. The air slled of incense, ink, and old power—centuries of authority layered so thick it felt almost viscous.
Before him lay the proof of that authority.
Letters.
Dozens of them.
No—hundreds.
They were stacked neatly by order of importance, seals facing upward. Wax crests of noble houses from every province crowded the table like a mosaic of ambition: lions, serpents, roses, towers, crowns.
So seals were freshly impressed, others rushed and imperfect, as if the sender’s hand had trembled.
Aiden regarded them with mild disinterest.
"An impressive flood," Cardinal Veylor said, the Cardinal father of Leonidus his voice carefully neutral. "Never in my lifeti have the noble houses moved so quickly to align themselves."
"Fear is an excellent courier," Aiden replied softly.
At his left stood the Grand Inquisitor, arms folded behind his back, posture rigid. Farther down the table, Commander Seraphion and two of his captains waited in silence, armored forms unmoving as statues.
The most powerful pillars of the Church.
All watching him.
Aiden reached out and lifted a random letter, breaking the seal without ceremony.
Congratulations to His Holiness, Prophet Lucifer, beacon of the Light—
He skimd the rest and set it aside.
Another.
Another.
All the sa.
Praise. Submission. Offers of alliance thinly disguised as devotion. Invitations to banquets, proposals of church indictnts, veiled requests for favor. The nobles were already circling, sensing blood and opportunity in equal asure.
"They congratulate," Bela said quietly.
She stood a half-step behind him, hands folded, white and gold vestnts catching the light. Her expression was serene, but Aiden could feel the tension beneath it—the way her breath hitched just slightly whenever a new seal cracked.
"They always do," Aiden said. "When power changes hands. Its the norm."
He moved through the pile with increasing speed, discarding letters without reading them fully. The table slowly cleared, until only a single envelope remained at the center.
The wax seal was black.
Not charred.
Not dyed.
Naturally black, infused with powdered obsidian and alchemical ash.
Stamped into it was a familiar sigil:
A dragon coiled around a broken crown.
The Archducal House of Dragons.
The room seed to quiet, as if even the walls leaned closer.
Bela noticed the shift imdiately. "That one... feels different."
"Sharp as always...It is," Aiden said.
He picked it up, weighing it in his hand.
The parchnt was heavier than it should have been.
Not physically—aningfully.
"This letter was not written to the Pope," Veylor said slowly. "Nor even to the Prophet."
Aiden’s lips curved faintly. "No."
He broke the seal.
The ink shimred briefly, reacting to his touch before settling into elegant, controlled script. The handwriting was precise, disciplined—too disciplined.
To His Holiness, Prophet Lucifer,
May the Light guide your ascent, and may the Church find renewed strength beneath your hand.
Polite. Correct. Empty.
Aiden’s eyes moved on.
The Archducal House of Dragons welcos your forthcoming visit to the capital. Matters of mutual interest and shared history would benefit from... private discussion.
There it was.
Not said.
But unmistakable.
Shared history.
Bela frowned. "That phrasing—"
"Is foolishly ...wrong," Aiden finished.
He read the letter again, slower this ti, attention narrowing. Beneath the formal words lay subtle tells: turns of phrase the Dragon Archduke never used, pauses where there should have been none, references that brushed close to secrets without touching them.
A man writing about knowledge he did not possess.
"The patriarch would never send this," Aiden said quietly.
Seraphion stiffened. "You are certain?"
"I am," Aiden replied. "Because the real Archduke of Dragons would not need to hint."
He closed his eyes briefly.
Catherine’s voice echoed faintly in mory—controlled, proud, and just a little defiant when she spoke of her family. Of the silence. Of the uncertainty. Of the patriarch, of her father, who had vanished from public life under the pretense of illness, then never reappeared.
Dead.
Or hidden.
Or replaced.
An imposter sitting on a throne of scales and lies.
Aiden opened his eyes.
"This letter confirms it," he said. "Whoever rules House Dragon now is not its rightful head."
The Grand Inquisitor shifted. "And if that is true..."
"Then the capital is already compromised," Aiden said calmly.
He folded the letter once, precisely, and slipped it into his inner robe.
"I will respond," he continued. "Publicly. Graciously. Exactly as expected."
"And privately?" Bela asked.
Aiden smiled at her.
"Privately," he said, "I will attend."
The room held its breath.
Veylor spoke carefully. "Your Holiness... the capital is unstable. The Emperor’s seat remains unclaid, this secret pushing the wall of silence, more and more. The archdukes maneuver openly. A visit now could be—"
"Dangerous?" Aiden offered.
"...Yes."
Aiden turned toward the window. Beyond the glass, the city sprawled—spires, bridges, banners snapping in the wind. Sowhere out there, rumors already twisted into half-ford legends. Sowhere, knives were being sharpened in candlelit rooms.
"Danger," he said, "is simply truth without ceremony."
He turned back to them.
"Prepare my transport. I will depart within the week."
A ripple of shock passed through the table.
"So soon?" Seraphion asked.
"The world does not wait," Aiden replied. "And neither will I...this new church, our faith, our God....needs more."
’...I need more..’ he thought.
Bela hesitated, then spoke softly. "You’ll be walking into a nest of dragons."
Aiden t her gaze, sothing unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"I know," he said. "I was invited for that reason... I know what I’m doing...dismissed"
The letter room emptied soon after, the cardinals and commanders dispersing to carry out orders. Only Bela remained.
She lingered near the table, fingers tracing the edge of the stone as if grounding herself.
"You’re certain," she said finally. "About the imposter."
"Yes."
"And about going?"
"Yes."
She inhaled, then let the breath out slowly. "Then... may I ask sothing improper?"
Aiden inclined his head. "You may."
Her eyes lifted to his. "When you look at the capital... are you seeing a battlefield, or a stage or sothing to conquer?"
Aiden considered the question.
"All of the above," he said at last. "A battlefield for those who think in terms of survival. A stage for those who understand inevitability...and for the last part...you will see my love...you will see..."
Bela smiled faintly. "And which are you?"
Aiden stepped closer—close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the faint scent of incense and power that always clung to him.
His hand rose, slow and deliberate, brushing a stray strand of white hair from her cheek. The touch lingered, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw.
"I write the script, cause I own the script. Like I own you.." he murmured.
Her breath caught audibly. The air between them thickened, charged like the mont before lightning.
Without another word, Aiden pulled her against him. His mouth claid hers—hungry, possessive, the kiss deep and unhurried. Bela lted instantly, a soft moan vibrating against his lips as her hands slid up his chest, fingers clutching at the rich fabric of his robes.
He backed her against the crescent table, lifting her easily until she sat on the cool stone, letters scattering forgotten to the floor.
"Aiden—" she gasped when he broke the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. Her head fell back, exposing the pale column of her neck as his teeth grazed sensitive skin.
He pushed her vestnts aside with impatient hands, baring her breasts to the morning light. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking until she cried out—loud, unrestrained, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
"Ohhhh...Aiden—please—"
He growled against her skin, one hand sliding between her thighs, finding her already soaked, trembling. Two fingers pushed inside her without warning, curling deep, stroking that spot that made her hips buck and her moans turn desperate.
"Yes—yes—there—don’t stop—ahhh..aahhhhhh!"
He didn’t. He worked her relentlessly—mouth on her breast, fingers thrusting in a steady, punishing rhythm—until her thighs clamped around his hand and she ca with a shattered cry, back arching, walls fluttering wildly around his fingers.
Only then did he free himself from his robes, thick and hard and ready. He pulled her to the edge of the table and drove into her in one smooth, claiming thrust.
"Ahhhhh, Aiden! Its so... Its sooooo big."
Bela scread his na—raw, ecstatic—as he filled her completely. He fucked her slowly at first, savoring every gasp, every clench, every loud moan that spilled from her lips.
"Mine," he rasped against her ear, hips snapping harder. "Say it."
"Yours!" she sobbed, nails digging into his shoulders. "Only yours—always—Aiden—harder—please—Fuck Harder!"
He gave her everything—deep, punishing strokes that shook the table, her body jolting with each impact, breasts bouncing, moans rising into a crescendo of pleasure.
"Ahh ahhhh ahh yesss yessss...ahhhh...AHHHHHH!!!"
When she ca again—shuddering, gushing around him—he followed with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside her in thick pulses, marking her once more as his.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, foreheads pressed, the scent of sex mingling with incense in the sacred air.
At last, Bela bowed her head. "Then may the Light... keep pace with you."
Aiden’s smile softened, just a fraction. "It will," he said. "It always does."
.
.
.
That evening, in his private chamber, Aiden sat alone at a writing desk carved from whitewood older than the Church itself.
He dipped his pen.
Unrolled fresh parchnt.
And began to write his reply.
To the Acting Archduke of Dragons,
Your congratulations are received. Your invitation accepted.
The pen paused.
Aiden’s eyes glead faintly as he added the final line.
I look forward to speaking of truths long buried.
He sealed the letter with the sigil of the Prophet.
Not the Pope.
When the wax cooled, he pressed his thumb into it—just enough.
A subtle mark.
A warning.
Aiden leaned back, folding his hands.
"The capital," he murmured to the empty room, "is about to rember what real faith looks like."
The candle flas wavered.
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