The rain had barely turned to a gentle mist when Sebastian emerged from the tavern, a stack of freshly replicated parchments tucked beneath his arm. The power of the Hexen had worked flawlessly; each copy was a perfect mirror of the original, the ink shimmering with a life of its own.
As he began to hand the Scripture of Vinushka to the gathered villagers, a hush fell over the square. The shock, however, came from the tree line. A group of Elves stepped into the open—not with bows drawn, but with open hands. They, too, hungered for the word.
The people read in a daze of revelation. They learned that Vinushka was not a solitary spirit, but the divine offspring of two greater, more terrifying primal forces: Gro-goroth, the God of Destruction and Sacrifice, and Sylvian, the Goddess of Love and Creation.
"Gro-goroth..." the village elder whispered, tracing the name. "A god of fire and endings. Could the Eternal Fire be but a pale, misinterpreted shadow of His true flame?"
"And Sylvian," an elven healer murmured, her eyes wide. "She who grants life through the Marriage of Flesh. Is she the mother the humans call Melitele? Have we all been worshipping fragments of a much harsher, much more beautiful whole?"
The philosophical weight of the scripture began to bind the two races together in shared wonder. But the theological debate was cut short by the thunder of hooves.
The village gates groaned as a massive contingent of Nilfgaardian cavalry swept in, black armor gleaming like wet beetle shells. The peasants scrambled back, fearing a purge, but the soldiers did not draw their swords. Instead, they formed a rigid line of honor.
A black carriage, obsidian in the afternoon light, came to a halt. The door opened, and a man stepped out whose presence felt as heavy as the stone of a mountain. It was Emhyr var Emreis, the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies.
The Emperor of the South did not look at the villagers, nor the cowering elves. His cold, calculating gaze fixed solely on the schoolboy in the dark priest robes. Emhyr had crossed the war-torn landscape not for conquest, but for the one thing his gold and spies could never secure: Divine Certainty.
He walked toward Sebastian, his cape snapping in the wind, and stopped only a few paces away. To the utter shock of everyone present, the most powerful man in the world bowed his head slightly.
"The reports spoke of a jar and a storm," Emhyr said, his voice a low, commanding rasp. "But my soul tells me of a truth that transcends politics. I am told you speak for the Gods who actually answer, Priest. I have come to see if you can put an Empire on the 'Right Track'."
The village square of White Orchard held its breath as the Emperor of the South stood before the schoolboy in the ink-stained robes. Emhyr var Emreis did not look like a conqueror in this moment; he looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice.
"My Empire is built on the Great Sun," Emhyr said, his voice low and dangerous. "We claim to be the light of civilization. But tell me, Priest—is the Flame I serve a hollow lie, or have we simply been blinded by its glare?"
Sebastian looked into the Emperor's cold, weary eyes. The Dark Priest System hummed, feeding him the ancient lineage of the divine. "Your faith is not a lie, Emhyr," Sebastian replied, his voice echoing with a weight that made the Nilfgaardian horses stir. "But it is a corrupted spring. You worship the Sun God, Amon—the Lord of Might, Discipline, and the Radiant Path. Nilfgaard was meant to be a beacon of order, but you have twisted 'Discipline' into 'Tyranny' and 'Might' into 'Cruelty'."
A murmur went through the Black Infantry. To speak such treason to the White Flame usually meant a slow death, but Sebastian was already drawing. With a piece of sanctified charcoal, he traced a massive, radiant Ritual Circle across the cobblestones.
"If you seek the 'Right Track,' then look upon the source," Sebastian commanded. "Kneel. All of you."
The Emperor, the battle-hardened soldiers, the terrified peasants, and even the skeptical elves lowered themselves as the ritual ignited. The air didn't turn green this time; it turned a blinding, scorching gold.
The village vanished. They stood upon a plain of polished brass beneath a sun so massive it filled the entire sky. From the heart of the light, a figure emerged—towering, armored in shifting solar plates, holding a scepter that pulsed with the heartbeat of a star. This was Amon.
The God's voice was like the ring of a hammer on an anvil. "Emhyr var Emreis," the deity spoke, the sound vibrating in their very teeth. "You march in my name, yet you bring only the shadow of my light. I granted you the power of conquest not to hoard the dirt of the North, but to forge a vessel for Progress."
The Emperor bowed his head, the heat of the God's presence peeling away his royal pride.
"True prosperity is not stolen from a neighbor's barn; it is built through the discipline of the mind," Amon thundered. "Rule not with the blunt edge of the sword, but with the sharp proof of your superiority. If your Empire is truly the 'Right Track,' then let the people follow because they see your light, not because they fear your fire. Progress is the only tithe I accept."
The vision snapped shut.
The square returned, but the atmosphere had shifted. The golden light lingered in the eyes of the Nilfgaardian soldiers, many of whom were weeping silently. Emhyr stood slowly, his hands trembling. He looked at his black-clad army, then at the terrified Nordlings.
The Emperor turned to Sebastian, his expression transformed by a grim, holy clarity. "The conquest will continue," Emhyr whispered, "but the methods end today. We will not burn. We will build. We will prove the Empire's worth through the progress of the mind, just as your jars proved the truth of the trees."
The elves stood in shock, seeing the 'Black Ones' suddenly humbled by a power greater than any King. For the first time in history, the sun over Nilfgaard felt like it was actually starting to rise.