The Empire of Luxia was on the brink of chaos. Nobles plotted for power, the military whispered treason in its barracks, and the failed coup still clung to the air like smoke. The Empress—crown of the Kingdom—had fallen ill, and with no visit or word from her chambers, the Empire stood still.Waiting.
At the gates of the capital, Lucia, among merchants, refugees, and wandering travellers, stood a man wrapped in dusty robes. His ember-coloured eyes glistened beneath the harsh sun as he sighed dramatically.
"If this goes on any longer, my legs might just give out," he said to an old man behind him, who only stared in confusion.
Maybe he speaks a different language, Seraphiel thought, generously excusing the man's rudeness.
Seraphiel Saaz—Seraph to anyone brave enough—was an excommunicated priest from the Kingdom of Ignisia. A man with innate talent, but very little understanding of how to use it.
After what felt like an eternity for a chaotic mind like his, he finally reached the gates. Two lightly armed guards stood with spears crossed, looking him up and down with thinly veiled disgust beneath their silver helms.
"What business do you have here, boy?"
Seraphiel sagged his shoulders, sighed, then snapped upright with a theatrical swoosh of robes and a hand to his chest.
"Gentlemen," he said with a half-bow, "I have arrived in your beautiful Empire of marble and magnificence at the request of the Cathedral."
"Then surely you have a letter from the Hierophant," the guard replied, extending his hand. "Show it, and we shall let you pass."
Seraphiel straightened.
"Why, yes, of course. But you see—I was robbed on my way into your beautiful Empire. A band of thieves stole my belongings." He sighed. "I truly do lament for their souls."
The guards barked with harsh laughter.
"Then scram," one snapped. "We're not interested in fake priests."
Seraphiel's posture changed. His ember eyes sharpened like coals crackling in firelight.
"Gentlemen," he said softly, pulling forth a golden octagram from beneath his robes, "I am here on orders from the Archbishop of Ignisia himself. I would hate to see your Empire scrutinised for its… failure at diplomacy."
The guards stiffened. Nervous glances. A moment of doubt.
Before they could speak, the stout old man behind Seraphiel shuffled forward, stroking his beard.
"The boy speaks the truth," he declared. "The Archbishop instructed him to meet with the Hierophanta."
One of the guards frowned. "And who might you be?"
"He's a priest of the High Church of Ignisia," Seraphiel answered smoothly, "accompanying me on my holy mission. It is truly a shame you are all so uneducated."
The guards blanched. Both lowered their heads.
"Our apologies, sir," one murmured before stepping aside. "You may pass."
Seraphiel strode in, the old man following.
"Thanks for the help, geezer," Seraphiel muttered, patting him on the back. "I'm assuming you didn't have a permit either."
"I did not," the man chuckled. "Permits mean tax. Tax means lower profits."
Together, they stepped into a city of cobbled streets and brick shops, all clustered beneath a castle that gleamed almost unnaturally bright—an edifice of pure white marble rising over Lucia.
After parting at the central market, Seraphiel took a deep breath, taking in the air of the city as he looked around at the various stalls; some sold scrolls, others produce. It truly was different from Ignisia in every possible way.
"I've heard the Empress is dead," a faint whisper from a guard caught Seraphiel's attention. He turned to see a group of guards sitting by a stall selling wine, inspecting labels as they spoke.
"You mustn't say such things, sir," the seller replied as he rolled a barrel behind the counter. "Especially in your position. It weakens the Empire's image in the hearts of its people."
Seraphiel pulled his hood lower and walked to the stall beside the wine seller, inspecting—or at least pretending to inspect—the assortment of spinach.
"Yeah, but even then, Otto, you can hardly blame me. The Senators have left no stone unturned in causing doubt." The guard rummaged through his coin purse before flicking a silver coin towards the seller.
"I suppose you are right, sir," Otto nodded as he waved goodbye to the departing guards.
As they left, Seraphiel stepped away from the stall, only to be stopped by the same voice that had spoken moments earlier.
"Are you not a fan of vegetables, sir?"
Seraphiel turned to see the seller standing with his hands clasped, smiling. A tanned man with a peppered beard and frail build, adorned in a wine-stained white apron and a red headband.
"I beg your pardon?" Seraphiel said.
"It's just that you seemed so interested in the spinach and then proceeded not to buy any," he said, the same warm smile lingering.
Seraphiel walked back to the wine stall, lowering his hood. "No, I was just browsing," he said, kissing his teeth.
"You are not from around here, sir, are you?" Otto inspected Seraphiel's ember eyes and reddish-brown hair, which reached his earlobes, along with his sharp features.
"Not exactly," Seraphiel replied, picking up a bottle and inspecting the label.
"You're from the Kingdom of Ignisia, are you not?" Otto gestured towards the golden octagram on his chest.
"Yes, from the High Church." Seraphiel placed the bottle back on the counter.
"Yes—or at least that is what you wish others to believe," Otto chuckled. "I didn't get these grey hairs just by lounging around, you know."
"And you're no mere wine seller, are you, Mr Otto?" Seraphiel leaned over the counter.
"That is true," Otto replied as he lifted another barrel and placed it into a crate. "I used to be a noble—once."
"But let me tell you something, young one," he grunted as he set the crate down. "Your octagram was replaced a long time ago. The High Church forbids its priests from wearing gold."
"I'm well aware of that, but most people aren't," Seraphiel replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Forgive me if I'm mistaken," Otto said, wiping his hands, "but you're an adventurer, are you not?"
"Of sorts, yes. What gave it away?" Seraphiel folded his arms.
"Well, you won't find much to do in Lucia, young one," Otto laughed. "The guild barely has a presence here due to the strict laws."
"I'm well aware of that too," Seraphiel shrugged, "but it doesn't hurt to try."
"No, it doesn't," Otto agreed with a nod.
"So, how may I be of assistance, adventurer?" Otto clapped his hands together.
"I'm looking for the Cathedral," Seraphiel replied, smiling.
Otto gave him directions to the Cathedral of Light, explaining which roads would be quickest, all while smiling warmly—before stopping, hesitant.
"Sir, I must warn you. They would not be kind should they learn you are imitating the divinely appointed," Otto gestured towards the octagram.
Seraphiel tore it from his neck and tossed it towards Otto, who barely managed to catch it.
"Hold on to that for me, will you?" he said, giving a half-wave as he walked off in the direction Otto had indicated.