The guard's voice rang out, clear and respectful.
"Announcing High Priest Harven of the Temple of Spirits."
A stir rippled through the court. The man who entered was seldom seen outside the Temple of Spirits.
Clad in flowing lavender and silver, the elderly priest moved slowly, each step deliberate. His hands were wrinkled like dry parchment. His eyes—though faded—were unwavering.
Surprised murmurs stirred at the sight of him.
The Empress's brow lifted slightly.
"You rarely leave the Temple. What brings you here with such urgency, High Priest?" Florina asked, her voice smooth but edged with curiosity.
High Priest Harven bowed deeply, voice solemn.
"Forgive the abrupt visit, Your Majesty. Last night, a prophecy has descended—one I could not ignore."
A flicker passed through Curtis's gaze, though his face remained still.
The Empress inclined her head slightly. "Oh, a prophecy. That's rare. What was it?"
The High Priest stood upright, voice resonating clearly in the hushed chamber. "This prophecy bore no name, only words."
He recited slowly, each syllable striking the silence like a tolling bell:
"The stars shall blink, the sun shall fade,
When blood once lost calls fate unswayed.
Veiled in white through shadowed skies,
Born of silence, death, and lies.
They walks where broken empires rise,
With hands to bless or hands to burn,
The world shall shift when silence turns."
Silence descended over the court.
Curtis's gaze sharpened. Slowly, he turned his head toward the Empress, but she remained still, unreadable.
As the prophecy was recited, Curtis found his mind drifting, unbidden, to an image of a girl with white hair.
The forgotten one.
The daughter of the late Emperor consort.
Evelyn.
Then, just as quickly, he dismissed the thought.
He frowned. It had been years since he last thought of her. Rumors said she lived quietly in Black Rose Palace, powerless and insignificant. No one of consequence.
But still—
Curtis's thoughts drifted back to the prophecy.
Veiled in white... born of silence...
Curtis's mind argued with itself. Just because she has white hair doesn't mean she is the one. The prophecy may not even speak of color or appearance.
He exhaled slightly, shaking off the lingering thought. And yet, despite himself, the image of that girl remained.
He shook his head, a scoff nearly escaping. No. That child? Impossible. A powerless, discarded girl. No reason to link her with such divine words.
He clenched his jaw and turned his focus back to the court, refusing to let the stray thought take root.
The words of the prophecy hung in the air, their weight suffocating as the High Priest stood still.
Curtis's fingers twitched slightly, but he kept his composure. His mind raced, but his expression remained cold as marble.
High priest Harven's voice broke the tension again.
"I believe the prophecy speaks of a child whose fate will bring either great salvation or ruin. We do not know their name, nor their face, only the words that came through the divine. But their presence will bring change, they will be either our destiny—or demise."
The silence in the hall was almost tangible. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, eyes flicking between the Empress and Emperor.
The Empress's lips thinned, eyes unwavering on the High Priest.
"A child, then," she murmured. "God speaks in riddles, and they are often more trouble than they are worth. But to restore—or to ruin? That speaks of great power indeed."
Curtis shifted uncomfortably. A quiet stirring inside him threatened to give voice to thoughts he knew better than to entertain.
Why does that child keep appearing in my mind? Hah… am I losing it? No… Absolutely no way she is connected.
Yet the prophecy's words lingered in his mind like smoke clinging to the lungs—inescapable, suffocating.
Curtis's voice cut cleanly through the lingering tension.
"Prophecies are like storms. Some can be solved, some cannot," he said evenly. "Why press upon it too soon?"
The High Priest lowered his gaze, the lines on his face deepening.
"Because this one feels… different, Your Majesty," Harven replied. "It does not speak of the future alone, but of a blessing. The Empire has long been... unraveling. Perhaps this child is the thread meant to mend it—"
He paused. "—or to pull it apart entirely."
The room fell into another silence but this time, it trembled with unease. The nobles exchanged glances, sensing that the undercurrents running through the court were shifting.
The High Priest's words were not lost on Curtis, who couldn't help but reflect on the vague murmurs from the court. The High Priest's words struck too close to truths he preferred to ignore.
"Enough."
Curtis rose to his feet, signaling the end of discussion. His posture straightened, authority hardening his frame like steel.
"This is idle speculation," he declared coldly. "We are an empire—not a gathering of fortune-tellers. The prophecy, like all others, will remain a riddle."
He rose to his feet, signaling the end of the discussion. His tone had hardened, as had his posture.
"After all, prophecies are riddles. They bend to the interpretations of those who wish to see something in them," He stated coldly.
His golden eyes swept across the court. "We must not waste time chasing phantoms."
The Empress remained seated, her expression inscrutable. After a moment, she inclined her head slightly.
"Very well," Empress Florina said calmly. "We will treat this prophecy as we have treated all before it—until it proves itself worthy of attention."
The High Priest bowed deeply, his expression solemn.
"As you wish, Your Majesty. We shall leave the interpretation to time."
The court resumed, turning toward mundane affairs– border disputes, merchant complaints, diplomatic letters. But the mood had shifted.
The prophecy lingered.
Curtis sat in thoughtful silence, though he listened to the voices around him. His gaze, now distant, remained troubled.
A child who can bless or ruin...
—
Astra stepped away from the window, her bare feet moved silently against the cool stone tiles, her steps unhurried, each one measured.
There was a strange grace in her movements.
And yet, her thoughts betrayed her composure. They whirled and clashed, restless and sharp.
Fragments of the dream still clung to her, whispering their meanings in half-formed shadows, tangling with the ache of the memory she had tried to bury.
Her face, calm as a mask, gave away none of the storm beneath.