The cathedral was as vast as she remembered, its ceiling soaring toward the heavens, adorned with breathtaking frescoes of the gods. The walls whispered the mythical tale of Romelia's birth, a grandiose legend carefully woven by emperors who, like all rulers, wished to cloak their reign in divinity.
According to the myth, the first ruler of Romelia, Romlio, was no mere man but the son of the Warrior-God himself—the deity to whom soldiers prayed before battle. The tale claimed the deity had lain with a humble shepherdess, and from their union, Romlio was born.
As he was in part god, at his birth all gods gave him gifts.
The Mother blessed him with unmatched fertility, ensuring that every union bore fruit. The Father gifted him an unbreakable sword, a symbol of his might. The All-Knower granted him wisdom, shaping him into a ruler of intellect and cunning. The Sea God caused a river to spring forth from the hills at his birth,the river that passed through Romelia . And the Warrior himself, his celestial father, sealed his destiny with his own blood.
Armed with these gifts, Romlio carved his path through history, uniting the warring tribes of the south under one banner and founding the great city of Romelia atop the three hills of his birth.
The grand cathedral, raised in honor of these celestial origins, was rarely open to the public. Its colossal doors swung open only for momentous occasions—coronations, funerals, weddings. The first time Valeria had stepped within its sacred halls had been on the day of her arrival in the capital, when she was to wed the emperor.
She remembered the moment with painful clarity. The flutter of excitement in her chest, the way her breath caught upon seeing him for the first time—a man of power, tall and imposing, his presence commanding the room like an unshakable force. Even as age crept upon him, his rugged handsomeness had not faded. But beneath the weight of his crown and his steely gaze, she had glimpsed something else. A sadness buried deep within.
She had not understood it then. But she did now.
Their marriage had been one of duty, not love. He had already loved before—deeply, irrevocably. His heart belonged to another, a woman long dead, who had given him two sons and a daughter before her untimely demise.
"The whore's beauty was that strong, apparently."
No matter what she did, Empress Valeria could never escape the shadow of a ghost. What had begun as longing soured into resentment, resentment curdled into jealousy, and jealousy festered into something darker. The birth of their two sons, Mesha and Livius, did little to mend what was already broken.
But it was Livius, their youngest, who shattered what remained.
A boy of only five summers, taken too soon.
She had grieved alone. While their son lay cold in his burial shroud, the emperor had been absent, lost in the thrill of a hunt or whoring, or whatever he had wished to do that night .
Standing now in the cathedral, watching the priests whisper prayers for her beloved boy, Empress Valeria felt nothing but hatred for the man who had abandoned them.
She had sworn revenge that day. Sworn that she would make him suffer as she had suffered.
But in the end, even that was stolen from her.
The only regret she felt as she looked upon his lifeless body was that she had not been the one to kill the bastard herself.
"Enough with painful memories," Valeria whispered, steadying her breath. "This is the time to smile. The whore may have conquered his heart, but I have conquered the throne. May you weep in death too."
Her gaze shifted to the only thing she truly loved—Mesha. Seated upon the imposing throne, her son exuded a quiet dignity beyond his ten years. The seat of power seemed too vast for his small frame, its golden arms stretching wide as if to swallow him whole. Yet he sat upright, unyielding. He would need that strength.
She knew Mesha was too young to rule alone. He required a steady hand to guide him through the treacherous waters of imperial politics. That hand belonged to her. She was the regent.
A slow smile curled her lips at the thought of her father's inevitable outrage. He had expected to rule in her son's stead, had long assumed that the weight of governance would fall upon his shoulders. But she had outmaneuvered him. That is my role, not Father's, she thought, relishing the power that was now undeniably hers.
The air in the cathedral grew heavy as the high priest approached, his presence commanding the reverence of all who watched. The old man, bent with the burden of his seventy years, bore the crown with the solemnity of one cradling the fate of an empire. His beard, long and white as snowfall, brushed against his robes as he carried the jewel of Romelia toward the boy emperor.
Forged of pure gold and studded with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, the crown was more than a symbol of power—it was a test. Mesha had spent countless hours training to wear it without faltering, for the shame of its fall would be unbearable.
The first time it had been placed upon his head, he had stumbled, tumbling to the cold marble floor.
He had cried.
There was no room for weakness—not with the nobles watching. Not with the Council rising in influence, their ambition plain as day.
But she was not alone in this fight. Behind her stood the might of her family—the Acheans—a force of unyielding power, ready to crush any whisper of dissent against her son's rule.
The high priest reached the throne, lowering himself in a deep bow before the child emperor. Silence gripped the chamber as he raised the crown high above his head, his voice ringing through the hall with sacred authority.
"By the power vested in me by the gods," he intoned, "I beseech the higher beings to witness the ascent of their descendant to the throne. Mesha of House Romelia, First of His Name, may the gods bestow upon him their blessings, shielding him from harm and endowing him with strength."
One by one, the gods were invoked, each blessing a whispered promise carried through the cathedral:
"May the Warrior grant him power and bless his armies."
"May the Womb grant him fertility."
''May the father protect his herd.''
"May the Sea bless his navies."
"May the All-knower bless him with knowledge."
As the final words echoed through the sacred hall, the priest lowered the crown onto Mesha's head.
The crown did not fall.
And Valeria was proud.
A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles before they knelt as one, swearing fealty to their emperor. But for one brief, exhilarating moment, Valeria knew they were not bowing to the child on the throne.
They were bowing to her.
She had won.
Her blood sat upon the throne.
And soon, a great deal more blood would be spilled to keep it there.