It was a grey morning, the kind where sunlight struggled to slip through the high windows of the manor—as if even the light itself was hesitant to enter.
Ophelia had risen early. Her sleep had not been restful, more like the stillness of a body bracing for something greater. She slipped into a simple dark dress and tied her hair back without care, as though elegance were a trivial pursuit.
She sat on her balcony overlooking the garden, a cup of tea in hand, her eyes fixed on something that couldn't be seen.
Damian entered quietly, as he always did, offering a crooked smile.
"Enjoying the morning glow of fame?"
She didn't laugh. Setting the cup aside, she replied flatly,
"The rumours have started, haven't they?"
Damian nodded.
"In the markets, they call you a saint in disguise… in private salons, they whisper that you're a witch… and in political corridors? They fear you."
Her response was calm, almost eerily so:
"Then let them fear me."
He took two steps forward and sat across from her.
"Do you plan to do something?"
"Not something. Everything," she replied as she rose, her gaze fixed beyond the garden, as if seeing past the walls of the estate.
"I've opened a door that can no longer be closed. I must see it through… not so they'll trust me, but so they'll see the truth—unmasked, unvarnished."
Damian hesitated before asking in a quiet voice,
"And what will the next step be?"
She turned to him, her eyes sharp.
"I'll expose their true history. I'll start from the roots. Tearing off their masks isn't enough—I'll rip away the faces that hide the darkness beneath a crown of gold."
Beyond her chamber, the manor wasn't silent… it was saturated with something else. Tension. Anticipation. Endless whispers.
Servants murmured behind doors. Guards exchanged long, uneasy glances. Every gaze, every fear, revolved around one name: Ophelia Carter.
"They say she's a witch…"
"I saw it myself, light moved with her like it was alive…"
"The Emperor applauded her… but he looked uneasy."
"Carter? Impossible… A Marquess like Oscar hiding a girl with a spirit?"
It wasn't long before Ophelia rose to her feet, moving calmly toward the old bookcase. She knew where to begin.
Among her father's journals and the manuscripts she was never allowed to touch, she began to search.
Damian opened a thick, old-fashioned tome, flipping through the pages without truly looking.
"If the roots of the empire are tainted by a spirit of darkness… then something must've been written about it. Even a hint—in the old records."
Ophelia replied as she brushed the dust off a leather-bound volume,
"My father belonged to a generation raised on obedience to the throne. But he was closer to the center of power than most… He must've known something. Or at least heard what was never said aloud."
Hours passed with no definitive result, until her eyes caught on a small note tucked between the pages of a worn book on the southern provinces.
"Look at this," she murmured, reading aloud,
'The Thirteenth Emperor… an undisclosed pact… decline of pure spirits… rise in possession cases…'
Damian looked up slowly.
"This isn't just a hint. Someone tried to document what happened… then had it all erased."
Ophelia pulled the note free and closed the book carefully. Her decision was made—no more waiting.
She donned her dark cloak, pulled the hood over her face, and left the estate in silence.
Her first destination was the Grand Church Library in the capital—where sacred records were kept, sealed away from all but the priests… or those bearing the Emperor's seal.
But she didn't need a seal this time—
She had something far stronger: Damian.
As they approached the church gates, Damian leaned close and whispered,
"The magical barrier is weakest on the southern side… I'll open it slowly."
Ophelia slipped through the enchantment like a shadow passing through fog, and soon found herself in the forbidden archives—a vast hall where thousands of scrolls and manuscripts sat in silence, like graves holding forgotten truths.
She began sifting through ancient records: yellowed books, scorched pages, discarded incantations… until her fingers landed on what appeared to be a report, sealed with the insignia of the Sixth Emperor.
"One hundred pure souls were sacrificed during the final rites, to ensure the capital remained under the shadow's blessing. The square was cleansed before dawn, as agreed."
Ophelia's fingers froze. Her eyes widened as she read the line over and over, unwilling to believe it.
"This confirms everything…" she whispered.
Damian spoke in a low, tight voice,
"This isn't just political corruption… it's ritualized darkness—built on the blood of the innocent."
Ophelia closed the record, tucked it beneath her cloak, and said with firm resolve,
"They will be gods no more."
The two walked through the city's empty streets. But behind every shuttered window, eyes watched. Behind every wall, whispers stirred.
"The girl who summoned the spirit…"
"Is she a new saint, or just another beautiful lie?"
"I heard she split the sky with a single glance!"
The words floated through the air—half fear, half wonder.
Exactly as Ophelia intended.
Nothing shakes a decaying empire more than truth spreading like contagion.
When they reached the city square—where imperial decrees were traditionally posted—Ophelia stood before the stone wall and drew the document from beneath her cloak.
Damian watched silently as she pinned it up with her own hand.
"After this," he said, "they won't just see you as a passing threat… but as a declared enemy."
Without looking back at him, she replied,
"I've always been their enemy.
Now, they finally have a reason to admit it."
She pinned the paper at the very center of the square.
Its title blazed in harsh red ink:
"The Black Ritual Records of the Sixth Emperor – A Betrayal of Light and Blood."
Then she walked away, beneath the fading glow of sunset.
By sunrise, the square was overflowing.
No official summons had been sent.
No drums had been sounded.
And yet they came—drawn by fear, curiosity, or the desperate hope that the document nailed to the city wall was just another lie.
But it wasn't.
The eyes of nobles, merchants, beggars, even palace guards, were fixed on the record Ophelia had left behind.
The documents were undeniable, marked with seals that no longer held authority—yet carried the undeniable weight of truth.
Detailed accounts of the rituals, of shadow-bound spirits, and the pure lives sacrificed in secret beneath the guise of sanctity.
Less than an hour later, a new decree was announced—shouted from the mouths of palace guards in every plaza:
"Anyone who spreads or believes in the contents of the recent statement shall be declared a traitor to the Crown and sentenced accordingly."
Damian let out a low chuckle.
"That was fast. They didn't even bother denying it first."
Ophelia answered coldly,
"Fear makes fools of tyrants. And that… is exactly what I plan to use against them."