The Ritual of Rebirth neared its solemn crescendo beneath the unblinking stars. The sacred square of Lumivara shimmered with ethereal firelight—violet and silver flames dancing atop crystal braziers that surrounded the ceremonial circle. The crowd, a sea of nobility, pilgrims, and common folk, watched with bated breath. No laughter stirred the air now. Only reverence, and something else beneath it—an unspoken tension, like the hush before a storm.
Lord Edmund Vesperion Aetheris, Emperor of the Imperium and son of Theris, stepped into the center of the circle. His towering frame, draped in obsidian ceremonial robes embroidered with ancient sigils, cast long shadows across the polished stone. A silver circlet rested upon his brow, and in his gloved hand he held the Ember Scepter—an heirloom said to have been forged in the first flame of Theris herself.
The silence was total when he lifted his hands.
"Theris," he called, his voice like a blade striking stone, "Great Flame of Endings and Beginnings, Divine Scythe and Phoenix Heart, we summon thee."
As if in response, the sacred flame surged skyward. The fire turned a deep violet hue, its sparks flickering like falling stars. Wind stirred the Emperor's cloak as though the very elements bowed to his call.
"May the weight of what was be consumed. May the seed of what will be take root," he intoned, each word measured, ancient. "Let this realm pass through the crucible of your will, and rise anew."
From the gathered masses, a unified chant echoed back, rhythmic and haunting:
"From ash, to flame. From end, to birth."
Empress Evalynne stood at her husband's side throughout the invocation, her figure regal and still beneath the opaline silk of her veil. Yet beneath the veil, her expression trembled—faint and fleeting, like the shimmer of heat over stone. She reached out subtly, brushing her fingertips over her abdomen as if to still the life within.
The chants ended, and Edmund turned to her. She smiled—graceful, practiced—but there was tension in the corners of her mouth. Her skin, usually pale like ivory, was tinged with pallor. A sheen of sweat clung to her temples beneath the veil.
"I need to retire early tonight," she murmured, voice low yet steady. "It seems the little one is… restless."
Edmund furrowed his brow. "Are you certain? You're pale. Let me call—"
She shook her head, pressing his hand in hers. "There's no need, love. Just… a little discomfort. You should remain. The rites must continue."
He hesitated. His golden eyes—always so sharp in court, so fierce in battle—now softened with concern. "Then I'll come to you at once when it ends. Don't lock the door."
She managed a faint smile, its edges fragile. "I wouldn't dare."
The handmaidens moved quietly, guiding her away from the circle as the crowd resumed their prayers. None noticed her limp. None noticed the way her free hand clenched the folds of her gown, knuckles white.
None saw the crimson stain beginning to bloom behind her.
Part II: The Flight Through Shadows
The sound of distant chants faded into the wind as the Empress walked the corridors of the imperial palace. Each step echoed unnaturally loud against the marble floors, her footfalls becoming uneven. Her veil clung to her face, damp with sweat. Pain throbbed in her lower abdomen—sharper now, insistent. Her hand pressed against her belly, not just in comfort, but in silent protection.
She was no longer certain whether she was walking toward sanctuary or into a snare.
The golden torchlight along the walls flickered violently as if warning her. She stopped at a pillar, grasping it as a fresh wave of pain struck. A warm trickle ran down her leg. She looked down. Blood. Not a little. Too much.
"Not now… not like this…" she whispered.
She turned, glancing behind. The hallway was empty. Too empty. She had walked these halls for years—she knew the rhythm of footsteps, the voices of night guards, the shuffling of attendants. But now, the air was still. The usual comforting background noise of palace life had vanished.
Whispers slithered across the silence.
"The child… must not survive…"
Her pulse quickened. Someone's here.
Faces she had trusted flashed in her memory—maids who never met her eyes, a midwife who spoke too little, a steward who lingered too long near the nursery wing. Paranoia? No. Not anymore. The scent of betrayal was too strong.
She tore off her outer cloak, revealing the simpler robes beneath. Pulling a drab shawl over her hair, she turned away from the main hall and veered left—toward the servants' passage. It was a gamble. But one she had to take.
"Run," a voice urged—clear, strong, and oddly familiar. Her mother's voice? Or something deeper?
She moved, clenching her teeth, pushing herself forward despite the pain. The narrow servant corridors were darker, the air thicker. But she knew the way. These were the paths of her childhood, where she had once played chase with the stable boys, back before marriage and titles bound her in gold.
The palace gates were too far. She needed the forest. The sacred glade.
She pushed open a side door leading into the palace's lower gardens. The cool night air hit her like a tide. Distant music still floated from the city, a cruel contrast to the dread pressing against her chest.
Then, from behind—
"Where has she gone?" a low, unfamiliar voice hissed. "She couldn't have made it far."
"Split up," another whispered. "No blood must touch the altar until the child is dead."
She froze. Three shadows peeled from the garden hedges—hooded, swift, silent. Assassins. Not Imperial. Foreign. Marked by something... older. She didn't need to see their faces to know—they were cultists of the Withered Flame.
Her body screamed in protest, but she fled.
Branches clawed at her skin as she pushed into the outer woodlands. The path ahead was barely visible, lit only by the occasional shaft of starlight. Her breath was ragged. Every step was agony. Her blood painted the earth.
"You must live," she whispered to the child within. "For all of us. For him. For our House."
Above, a silver shape glided silently through the trees. A moon-borne owl—white-feathered and spectral. It circled once, then veered to the northeast. Her heart surged with a fragile hope. Yes... that way. Follow the moonlight.
Deeper she ran, into the thick of the ancient Sylvanina. The trees here were older than kings, older than empires. Some whispered they once spoke to the gods.
Finally, her legs gave way. She collapsed onto soft moss beside a stone altar long reclaimed by roots. Her waters had broken. She had no time. No midwife. No spells of ease.
Only pain, blood… and resolve.
Lightning crackled far away, violet against the black clouds. She gritted her teeth and gave herself over to the primal rhythm of life and death.
And then—
A cry. Tiny, fierce, and full of life.
Her arms trembled as she lifted the infant. A girl, slick with blood and warmth, crying against the night. Her cry sounded like a spark, like thunder waiting to bloom.
Evalynne sobbed—not from pain, but from awe. She had done it. They had done it.
The forest held its breath.
She unsheathed her dagger and turned it in her palm, drawing blood without hesitation. With reverence, she marked the child's brow—the symbol of Theris, five-petaled and ancient.
"Child of the Flame… may destruction pass over you, and rebirth find you always."
Tears fell as she cradled the infant close, her strength waning.
"You are Eclissa… Veronia… Aetheris," she whispered, brushing her lips to her daughter's forehead. "My little sun and moon."
The wind stirred around them. The owl circled once more, then vanished into the trees.
Evalynne's eyes closed slowly. Her breath stilled.
But the child—alive and glowing faintly with silver fire—remained.
🐦🔥End of Chapter 4: The Ritual of Rebirth🐦🔥