Astra's pulse thudded beneath his skin as the bishop's smile curved toward him, refined and unreadable. The weight of the man's presence pressed down on the room like a second ceiling—unseen, but undeniable. Astra steadied his grip on the champagne flute, the crystal rim cool against his fingertips. He raised it with idle grace, masking the unease coiling in his chest.
The bishop didn't speak. He didn't need to. A mere flick of his eyes toward the door was enough.
Astra stepped forward. Measured. Smooth. Collected. Just another noble following a bishop into a side discussion—at least, that's most should believe.
They moved down a quiet, dimly lit corridor. The heavy hush of the tapestries lining the walls soaked up the sound of their footfalls. Every inch of fabric shimmered faintly, reflecting patterns too intricate to name, their threads dyed in deep shadow and age-old secrets.
Around Lord Alistair, the darkness seemed alive. The shadows curled and slithered at his heels like obedient hounds, responding to his presence with reverence. Astra's own shadows remained still. Passive. Unwilling to draw attention. He could feel their silence.
Don't let him subjugate you. He reminded himself of that, quietly and with steel. He was not a pawn, not another tool. He had survived too much to become disposable. If he showed weakness here—too much deference, too much fear—he'd be seen as exactly what they wanted him to be: a weapon to wield, a name to exploit, a throne to inherit and discard. To make allies, one needed strength. Leverage. The power to give—and the spine to refuse.
The chamber they entered was darkly beautiful: high-backed chairs of lacquered obsidian, deep violet drapes like velvet nightfall, and a table carved from black ash wood. As the door closed behind them with a soft click, the bishop raised a hand.
The shadows obeyed instantly, weaving into the cracks of the room and forming a barrier—a ward of silence and secrecy. The temperature dropped. The air thickened. Astra felt each breath stretch tighter in his chest.
The Bishop turned. His gaze landed like frost.
"Prince Astra Noctis of Night," he said, each syllable sculpted with precise formality. "I am Lord Alistair Tenebrous, Bishop of Shadow. We received your call for aid."
Astra offered a polite nod, his voice calm and cool. "Your honor Lord Tenebrous. It is a pleasure."
Astra had taken the time—more than once—to study the intricacies of noble decorum, though "study" hardly seemed the right word for something so labyrinthine. Etiquette in the realms was not merely a matter of manners; it was a codified reflection of power, lineage, and divine favor. In the sprawling dominion of Sahara, titles spiraled upward from the modest weight of a baron, through viscounts, dukes, kings, and the almost mythical bloodlines of emperors. Yet this was but one realm's hierarchy. Others had their own tangled orders—Snaer with its ancient tribal chieftains and war-kings, Wai with its island lords and sea-bound councils whose authority was measured as much in tides as in steel. Each system was an old tree with roots too deep to untangle, and each realm guarded its traditions jealously.
And then, there were the divine lines—families whose blood shimmered with the faint trace of godhood. They fit nowhere neatly, for mortal and divine protocols collided like waves against cliffs. A mere mortal lord might kneel before them… or refuse, if his own house's pride allowed it.
In most of the realms, there was at least one unspoken constant: one addressed others according to the respect due their station. A pawn—lowest among the ranked—was beneath notice, unworthy of any honorific. A squire fared little better. But a Rank Three, the Knight, was addressed with Ser or Sir, Madam or Lady. Even Jesters who were usually outlaws throughout the realms bore the same honorific. Bishops and Blasphemers—those who wielded divine sanction or profane miracles—were Your Honor, as one would a magistrate or judge. Saints were Your Excellency, or else addressed solely by the name of their holy office, for their very titles carried the weight of miracles.
Angels, however, defied even that simplicity. They were never addressed directly, but rather in the third perspective, as if speaking about them even in their presence—an old, superstitious safeguard against drawing too much of their gaze. One referred to them as a Holiness, a being above mortal touch.
As for rank sevens yeah good luck finding anything related to talking to a god, A normal mortal could live forever and even then he would be considered blessed and insanely lucky to even be in a setting that may allow him to gaze upon an angel, a rank six. let alone a God. Astra imagined they'd be addressed by their titles, Such as Lady Knowledge, or Emperor of War. Astra knew his fate was intertwined with gods at this point, for better or for worse, if he were to live long enough, he will attract their sights once again, especially Lady Knowledge who had already collaborated against his house. He sighed inwardly still being annoyed with the titles.
The trouble was that titles were seldom pure. They overlapped, intertwined, and in some cases outright contradicted each other. A Bishop descended from a god, an angel who bore the crown of a mortal king, a Pawn, who bore the lineage of a holy dead god—protocol became a minefield. And now, Astra himself stood at the center of one such knot.
By the inheritance of Noctis and Umbra, the godhoods of shadow and night, he bore both their lineage and their claim. In the courts of certain realms, he was a prince by divine right. In the eyes of the chessboard-like ranking system, he was still but a pawn. Yet here he was, speaking to a Bishop of Shadow—a man who, by decorum, should be Your Honor, yet by blood might owe Astra the bow of a vassal.
It was the sort of contradiction nobles delighted in: an intricate, self-contradicting game where every rule existed only to be bent, and every bow might be a prelude to a blade. Astra was brought back from his stupor as the bishops mighty calm voice resounded around the shadowy area.
"The Council of Shadows was... intrigued," Alistair continued. "A child of Nights lost lineage, bearing godhood. Rare blood, rarer fate. Umbra and Night's lines do not often converge." His smile thinned "In a way, you are kin to me."
Astra matched the gesture with a shallow dip of the head. "Then perhaps this is a long-awaited reunion.
Alistair's eyes twitched at the corner, amused but wary.
"I imagine your Council has questions," Astra said. "As do I. So—how shall we speak of terms?"
Alistair blinked—just once, and slowly. It was subtle, but telling.
"What do you mean, Heir of Night?" he asked at last. "You requested sanctuary. We answered. You will receive protection from the enemies of your house and be integrated into ours. That is the will of the Angel of Shadows."
"Yeah be integrated and used, also so they can take over the Church of Night and even possibly use me for gods knows what, I will never trust them, Good thing I already "control" the church or I would have been in a much worse situation." Astra scoffed inwardly, he had of course been right.
The air seemed to grow heavier with those words. Astra held his composure.
Astra felt it then—the air, sharp and close. The words were spoken plainly, but the subtext was iron.
He offered a slow smile, deliberate and quiet.
"That is their will," Astra said. "Not mine."
The words struck like flint. The silence that followed was absolute.
Alistair's smile faded just a fraction, his eyes narrowing in quiet assessment. Around them. The shadows stirred faintly behind him, deepening, rippling with mood.
Alistair's smile returned, colder now. "Oh? And what is your will, my prince?"
Astra did not hesitate. "To rise. In strength, in power, in name. Not for the sake of the dead, or even for my fallen house—but for the one who will stand in their place."
Of course that had been a lie, made of half the truth the best kind of lie Astra laughed inwardly. He of course had lied. He cared not for duty or even riches, he had been given a key, no two keys and a path to power and influence, fame and glory, why would he enslave himself to a house that could not give a damn about him, especially when he could potentially control a church of an olden god and even command his own house.
It was stupid and naive but what else could he do? Die or be enslaved? what choice did he have?
Astra smiled darkly.
Why not see how far he could rise? how far he perhaps will fall. Shadow must think im some desperate idiot, but they are still cautious and smart, as expected, they must have tried to find me and couldnt, after all for them to break through the godhoods effects the cloak of shadows they'd need a person or artifact of equal levels, and it seems they do not have such a thing. So they need me. Astra was no genius but he had been given too many hints and had seen too much of the political state of the realm to realize that shadow needed him more then ever. Of course if he was wrong it would be terribly embarrassing and would lower his status to unreal levels but he believed he was right.
Shadow believed him cornered. Weak. A lost heir clinging to old names. But Astra had seen through the veil. He'd walked too far in the dark to fear it anymore.
They needed him.
The signs were all there—subtle, yes, but not hidden. If they had the means to find him through his second godhood's veil, they would have. But they hadn't. And now, here they were, offering alliance in velvet words, wearing smiles carved from strategy.
Dawn. Dusk. Dune. And Shadow. The four powers that jostled for control in Sahara. Three were royal. One was not. And yet House Shadow stood among them like a golden serpent in a court of lions, hawks and owls—unrecognized, but no less deadly. War was coming. Astra could feel it in the politics, in the air, in the tension between houses that no longer pretended to be allies. Shadow needed support. And Astra… was a symbol. A wedge. A spark and most importantly a way to annex a whole Church.
He looked Alistair in the eyes, steady.
"I will not be integrated Umbras banner as an adopted, not in reality. . I will retain Sovereignty of Night as is my right and duty. The line of Noctis still breathes, and it will not be erased. I understand Shadow had tried and failed multiple times to divine my location. Ever wonder why?, I am not so simple oh lord Bishop, So let us stop this farce." Astra replied coldly trying his hardest not to shake as he spoke in such a tone to a Demi god.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. The shadows curled. Coiled. Testing.
"That will be noted," Alistair finally said. His voice was harder now. "Then what is it you demand oh Prince?"
Astra stepped forward, as if claiming space with words before weapons.
"One. Asylum and protection and training, as promised. Two. Sovereignty and full rights as heir to Noctis and godbearer of Night. Three. An equal alliance between our powers—me, my assets, and House Shadow."
Astra did not mention the Cloak of Shadows, he was wary of the angels, who knew what could happen had they learned he bore a godhood from their dead goddess. perhaps nothing, or perhaps a fate worse than death. Either way Astra was not willing to find out.
Alistair scoffed. "You ask much. I hear only the voice of a prince clinging to 'me, me, me.' Why should we the great House Shadow indulge such bold demands, when it is you who stand in need?"
Astra chuckled softly, the sound smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. " True, yet you need me, you need me to get to the Church of Night. You need me to garnish support for your upcoming war and you need me to gain an advantage over Dawn and Dusk."
That changed the atmosphere.
He continued smiling, as he spoke with confidence, "I doubt Shadow hadn't expected me to be in contact with the Church of Night, and I am here to tell you I am not only in contact but am already In charge of the Church to a certain degree and had even gotten support on certain matters regarding this, and I know just how badly Shadow needs support right now.
"I Astra Noctis swear this upon my own godhood."
By doing this Astra essentially signed a contract proving he was not lying, if he were he would have faced backlash or harsh punishments perhaps even death. After all he is using his godhoods high levels!
Alistair's brows lifted ever so slightly. Alistair was inwardly shocked. He had underestimated this rank one. That alone was a victory for Astra.
"If that is the case then it changes things, The Council of Shadows had expected such a possibility but believed it to be nigh impossible, Hmm. If thats the case then our terms have changed."
A pause. Then, with a tone wrapped in diplomacy:
"Shadow asks of you to be integrated under our ranks officially, Unofficially, your sovereignty remains intact. The Church stays yours—but aligns with us. In exchange, you gain a seat in our council. You will be expected to support our schemes—unless they conflict directly with your own interests. A generous compromise, I think."
Astra smiled.
So they had planned for this. For all of it. From his weakness to his potential. Even this outcome was on their map. But that was fine.
He would play the game—for now.
"I accept," Astra said.
And Bishop Alistair smiled.
[Contract set]
[Alliance, Shadow and Night.]
Astra sighed quietly as Lord Alistair Tenebrous finally took his seat across from him.
"Very well, Prince Astra Noctis," the bishop said, his voice a silk-draped blade. "It seems you've gotten what you wanted after all."
"It would seem so," Astra replied coolly, though he knew full well: Shadow's ploy was far from over. This was merely a beginning wrapped in the illusion of victory.
Alistair's gaze shifted, momentarily distracted—perhaps sensing some unseen ripple, perhaps calculating his next move—before he continued.
"You will be escorted, once the ball concludes, to the Shadow Estate in Duskfall. There, you'll meet our city's head of operations. From there, your course will be... aligned."
Astra gave a single, subtle nod. This was within expectations. Calculated, orchestrated. Still, every confirmation came wrapped in caution.
"Stay away from the spotlight till we depart, unnecessary attention always draws trouble." Alistair added, lowering his tone just enough. "Dune is aware of an operation we're conducting—something I'm sure you've already guessed. But refrain from basking in the limelight. Dusk and Dawn maintain a heavy presence here, and we are not yet ready for their attention."
Astra bowed faintly. "Of course. Thank you, Lord Tenebrous."
Alistair inclined his head with that ever-unreadable smile. "A pleasure."
The bishop stood, the heavy air around him shifting once more. "Let's talk again soon," he said, his voice now laced with a vague amusement. Then, as though peeled from the air itself, he turned and slipped back into the crowd.
The shadows followed him. Not clinging, but obeying—fluid, loyal, alive. And just like that, Astra was alone again.
He stood in the silence for a moment longer, allowing himself a breath. Just one. His heart was still racing, but steady enough now not to show. He hadn't expected this kind of confrontation—not so soon. Yet, he had faced it. And for the first time in a long while, he wasn't walking this path alone.
He had allies. Real ones.
With the Church and Shadows power and influence I can conclude I wont die randomly anytime soon, no, Most adventures, robberies and operations fail near success, I cannot let my guard down He sighed as he drank his champagne, it was bitter and a little warm.
I wonder how Shadow decides to use me, I have been given a seat of influence and control many saints officially, that is officially, yet unofficially I cant even tell if they actually will follow me, I need to make it worth their while, hmmm, for Shadow to agree so quickly, something is definitely up, perhaps the political state is worse then I imagined? Astra roughly guessed. Perhaps were weeks from war? Gods these political schemes are never ending.
Astra straightened his shoulders. His smile returned, faint but deliberate. He had said nothing of the Angel of Steel as one Tenebrous didn't have a right to ask and two—the Dwarven angel had done more than enough. Besides, Astra knew better than to play cards he didn't fully understand. What right did he have to reveal things still wrapped in uncertainty?
He took a moment to compose himself fully before stepping back toward the grand ballroom. The tension lingered, but it no longer threatened to unravel him. Instead, it had been tempered—hammered into something sharper.
As he emerged back into the gold-washed hall, the murmurs of the ball wrapped around him like warm smoke. Music played. Laughter spilled. Deals whispered behind fans and glasses of wine.
He moved through it differently now. The walls were no longer closing in—they were listening.
Eyes followed him. Not just the suspicious or the calculating, but the curious… and the hungry.
Leaning against a marble pillar, Astra sipped his drink, letting the role of "Shadow's noble" cloak him like silk. He remained composed, quiet, observant.
Then they came.
A group of young women—elegant, poised, eyes sharp as jeweled daggers—approached. Their gowns were tasteful, restrained, marked by wealth but not ostentation. Clearly not from House Dune's inner circle, but still born of stature. Their steps were deliberate, their intent clear.
They had seen him standing alone. And they were intrigued.
Astra barely had time to take a sip before the trio approached — poised, watchful, all silk smiles and careful steps.
One of them, Short chestnut hair green eyes spoke, her tone light but deliberate."You're one from Shadow, aren't you?"A conversation starter.
Astra met her gaze, offered a polite nod, and waited. He'd learned early that silence often drew more than words.
Another woman, slightly older red hair with orange eyes, tilted her head."Penumbra's a mystery, even among noble circles. All we get are whispers."She paused, lips curving just so."Is it true that the umbral abyss never sees daylight?"
Astra who hadn't seen the Umbral plaines, the Shadow keep or even the famed abyss, had to play the mysterious card.
Astra let a flicker of amusement show — just enough to seem disarming."Depends what you consider daylight."He glanced into his glass."But either way, Penumbra has its charm. If you know where not to step."
The third gave a quiet laugh."Cryptic. Very on-brand."
"Habit," Astra laughed. "Where I'm from, being too direct gets you noticed. And that's rarely good."
They leaned in slightly — drawn not just by what he said, but by what he carefully didn't. He recognized the play: they weren't interested in him, not really. They wanted to see what kind of pawn he might be. Ally, fool, asset.
"You deflect well," the first woman said."I had a lot of practice," Astra replied.
A beat passed, tension feather-light but intentional.
"So what brings all of you to Dune's ballroom?" the older one asked as he glanced towards a Dawn and Dusk noblemen conversing. "Not exactly neutral ground for your House."
Astra's expression didn't shift, but something in his posture settled."Let's just say... I'm here under recommendation."He glanced toward the far end of the hall — where the Bishop had vanished minutes ago."And besides, everyone shows their face eventually." He smiled slightly. "Even those who prefer the dark."
Their eyes followed his glance, but they didn't press. Smart.
"Well," said the younger one, recovering with a playful lilt, "you're doing a very good job not looking uncomfortable
"You'd never able to tell if I was. Well you maybe could" he laughed as he rolled his eyes and took a big gulp from his drink.
That earned a laugh — real this time. They relaxed. The probing gave way to posturing. He asked a few questions in return, small things — what estate they belonged to, how they found the wine here. They answered, eager now to be charming rather than strategic.
Still, even as they spoke, Astra watched their movements, read the rhythm of their glances. They weren't the real threat in the room. But they were part of it. Like everything else in this city, they had eyes — and mouths that reported.
And so he played along.
Astra felt the unmistakable weight of Princess Seraphine's gaze—sharp as a blade—cutting through the haze of laughter and idle chatter that filled the marble-walled ballroom. Even amidst the orchestra's flowing melodies and the perfume-laced air, her presence sliced through everything else, pulling his attention like gravity itself.
He turned to excuse himself from the women beside him with effortless charm—an easy smile, a murmur of promise, and the faintest dip of his head—and began weaving his way across the hall's golden expanse. The sensation of being watched didn't leave him; if anything, it intensified. He could feel her gaze tracking him—not simply curious, but deliberate. Predatory.
She didn't approach. She didn't need to. A single glance from her—eyes flicking sideways, chin lifting slightly—was all it took. An unspoken command, precise in its elegance.
And he followed.
His heart didn't race from fear—he was far past that—but something about her drew him in. She was a mystery wrapped in finery and laced with menace. Dangerous, but beautiful in the way a dagger hidden in silk could be.
If not for the Cloak of Secrecy wrapped tightly around his essence, the godhood inherited from the goddess of Shadows, he doubted he'd have even glimpsed her true strength. Whatever she was cloaking herself with, it was ancient—layered, divine, and subtle enough to fool even the sharpest mages. A seal, perhaps angelic. Or something far older.
He wondered why she would he masquerading as a Rank One.
And yet, here she was. Smiling as if none of it mattered.
He trailed her through the maze of nobles, through polished stone corridors framed by statues of past Kings and forgotten saints, even angelic statues. At last, they emerged into the palace gardens, where quiet reigned and moonlight danced across water and vine.
The air was cooler here, kissed by the wind. The scent of night jasmine lingered, tangled with something else—warm sand and old incense, like a memory from the desert or a place older than the palace itself. Pools of still water lay like mirrors, reflecting both starlight and secrets.
She stood at the edge of it all, framed by archways of climbing ivy and marble thorns. A soft smile tugged at her lips, knowing and unreadable.
"I see you met with your house," Seraphine said, her voice as smooth as silk woven over steel. "Astra of Shadow." She tilted her head, sapphire eyes gleaming. "And oh, my—did his lordship, Bishop Tenebrous, seem particularly... disturbed afterward. I wonder, what could a mere mortal possibly do to irritate a demigod so visibly?"
Her tone was light, but there was an edge to it—like she was testing him.
"Then," she continued, glancing toward the ballroom's distant glow, "flirting with those noblewomen like you belonged here. My, my. Outlaw to aristocrat in under a week." She chuckled, brushing a strand of void-black black hair behind her ear. "What a city."
Astra didn't respond immediately. He let her words drift into the night, his gaze sweeping the garden—the rhythm of the fountains, the shifting glow of the violet twilight on sculpted stone. Her presence warped the silence somehow, as though the night itself bent around her.
Eventually, he spoke. His voice low. Casual, but not careless.
"What did I do?" He gave a soft, thoughtful chuckle. "Oh, you know... the usual. A little political maneuvering. A few veiled threats. Reaffirming allegiance while subtly undermining it." He shrugged. "You know. The fun stuff."
Seraphine arched a brow. "So cryptic."
Astra's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You'd be surprised how few people actually try to hide what they want. Most of them walk around with it plain on their sleeves. You, though... I can't get a read on you. Which is rare."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "I wonder. Why would a princess with a power signature that's clearly not Rank One go through the trouble of pretending to be? And with a seal strong enough to fool even the divine...?"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
She knew the implication.
He was returning the favor—if she knew his secrets, it was only fair he hint at hers. Dangerous equilibrium. But he didn't flinch.
Seraphine's smile didn't fade, but it sharpened. She stepped closer, her gown whispering against the flagstones. Not a threat. But not not a threat, either.
"You're very bold, Astra," she murmured, voice dipping just low enough to shift the tone entirely. "Most men try to guess my desires. You try to guess my lies. That's far more interesting."
He didn't move, violet eyes meeting her sapphire ones without hesitation. Her scent—night-blooming iris and old incense—lingered in the air between them. Their proximity made every word feel dangerous.
"You're unlike anyone here," she continued, a softness slipping into her voice. "And it's obvious who you are."
A flicker of something passed through his gaze, but he kept his expression steady.
"I doubt that," he said. "But humor me. What is it you want, Seraphine?"
She paused. Studied him in silence. Her smile returned, this time slower, more deliberate.
"What I want?" she repeated. "Maybe that's the wrong question. Maybe it's more about what you need, Astra."
Astra's jaw tensed, but he said nothing. She was deflecting. That much was clear. But she was good at it.
"Then again," she whispered, stepping closer still, her breath brushing his skin, "why not claim both? Need and want. Desire and purpose. It's more fun that way."
They were close now—dangerously so. The kind of closeness that carried weight. Their lips nearly brushed. The silence between them became its own language.
Astra's voice dropped. "And what game is that?"
Seraphine's laugh was soft. Not girlish, not playful—confident. It shimmered with knowledge he didn't yet have.
She touched his arm. Barely a graze. Intentional. Slow.
"You'll figure it out soon enough," she said, stepping back as though nothing had happened. "But for now... let's enjoy the night. And when it's just us—you may call me by name."
Then she turned, walking into the shadows of the garden, moonlight spilling across her gown like oil on water.
Astra stood there for a long moment, watching her go. The air felt colder without her presence. Or maybe heavier.
What did she want from him?
What was she planning?
Why is she hiding behind a divine seal?
He didn't know. Not yet.
But he knew he was playing a game now—one he hadn't realized he'd been drawn into until it was far too late.
He exhaled and leaned back against the cool stone of a fountain, watching the stars ripple across the surface of the water.
"Scary," he muttered under his breath.
Noblewomen. Terrifying.
It wasn't just the power or the politics. It was how easily they could take the ground out from under you—and make you thank them for the fall.
Seraphine, especially. She had him off-balance, and she knew it.
He glanced toward the path where she had vanished, frowning slightly.
"Also," he whispered to himself, "she's just so damn pretty."
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous thing of all.