Ashir had seen ceremonies before — parades of peace, chants of light, even the royal blessing rituals in the Central Dome. But this was different. This was darker.
The Offering was not a parade. It was a sacrifice.
The people gathered in the city's heart, dressed in white, holding candles lit by synthetic flame. Drones hovered in perfect formation above, beaming radiant banners that read:
"Light Above All. Peace Through Fire."
Ashir stood among the crowd, silent. Every part of him screamed to walk away, but his feet remained rooted. Something inside him needed to see this.
> "Don't blink," he told himself. "You have to know what they're hiding in plain sight."
---
The Flame Tower loomed ahead, its pillars wrapped in golden vines and sunburst symbols. The altar at its base was made of black stone — rough, ancient, almost volcanic. Unlike the rest of the Empire, which gleamed and shone, this altar seemed… primal.
A stage rose before the crowd. Gold-robed priests stepped out, their hoods high, faces hidden beneath sun masks. The High Flamekeeper stood at the center, arms lifted.
> "Sons and daughters of the Flame," his voice echoed across the plaza, "we gather in unity. In purity. In remembrance. To offer what is impure… so that our world may remain clean."
---
Guards stepped forward. Three figures in chains were dragged onto the stage.
Ashir's breath caught.
One was an older man — the same beggar who had spoken to him just a day before.
Another was a young boy, no older than twelve. The third, a woman with streaks of ash across her face, held her head high despite the ropes binding her.
Each wore simple gray — the color of "Those Who Doubted."
---
The crowd began chanting. Not with anger… but with devotion.
> "Let the Flame burn away the dark. Let the Light rise."
The chant echoed like a hymn. Ashir looked around. Children repeated it like a song. Elders wept with joy. Everyone seemed convinced this was mercy.
But all he saw was murder.
He pushed through the crowd, inching closer, heart pounding. If he could just yell, if he could just—
Suddenly, a hand clamped around his wrist.
"Don't," whispered a girl. "You'll be next."
Ashir turned. It was the same girl from before — dark cloak, sharp eyes, like she saw things no one else dared admit.
"Who are you?" he asked.
> "Someone who remembers," she replied. "Now watch."
---
On stage, the High Flamekeeper lit a torch with a golden flame. The air shimmered as he approached the altar.
"By the names of the Radiants—Solian, Luxia, Divinius—we offer the broken back to the Flame."
He raised the torch high.
> "So that the world may remain unshaken."
He plunged it down.
Flames roared across the black stone. The prisoners cried out — but no one in the crowd looked away. No one screamed. They nodded. They smiled.
---
Ashir felt his knees buckle. The heat was nothing compared to the burn in his chest.
> "This is worship. Not to God… but to something older."
The girl beside him whispered:
> "Rome never fell. It just changed names. The gods they served—Sol, Mithras, the false light—never died. They became holy. And now the world sings their praises… thinking it's truth."
Ashir stared at her. "How do you know all this?"
She pulled a pendant from beneath her cloak — an old stone with a flame carved into it.
> "Because I come from those who still follow the real Flame. Not the throne. Not the sun. But the Word."
---
As the flames died down, a drone hovered above the altar, projecting the Empire's insignia — a blazing sun with an eye in its center. Then came the chant:
> "In Light, we rise. In Light, we live. In Light, we serve."
The broadcast ended. The people dispersed.
Ashir didn't move.
The girl turned to him one last time.
> "Meet me at the old aqueduct tonight. South side. Bring no light with you."
She vanished into the crowd.
Ashir stared at the empty altar, the ash still smoldering.
---
> "I was wrong," he thought. "The Empire doesn't worship peace. It worships fire. And it's burning everything we were meant to be."
He pulled up his hood and disappeared into the night'