The world was burning.
Screams echoed through the midnight sky, but all Lucien could hear was his mother's voice — faint, trembling, calling his name as the Church's torches devoured their home. Her arms shielded him even as the flames licked her back. The holy men called it "purification." To Lucien, it was murder.
He had been ten.
He never forgot the scent of burning flesh. Or the smile the priest gave after declaring, "The devil's kin must be cleansed."
They didn't find any horns. No magic. No curses. Just a poor widow and her boy.
Still, they laughed. Still, they lit the pyre.
Years passed, but the fire never left him.
Now, standing at the edge of the capital — clean-shaven, dirt-smudged, and deliberately unremarkable — Lucien smiled.
A merchant passed him by, sparing a glance at his ragged clothes and pitiful eyes. Just another beggar.
Exactly what Lucien wanted them to think.
He turned to the city gates, where banners of the Church fluttered proudly in the breeze. The same symbol that had branded his mother as a devil and turned her screams into smoke.
And with that same soft, unreadable smile, Lucien whispered to no one in particular, "Let's begin."
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End of chapter 1