Twenty years ago.
A boy crawled through the debris, his tiny hands cut and bleeding as he stumbled over broken stone and twisted wood. All around him were corpses — the faces of neighbors, family, strangers — and the faint groans of those barely clinging to life. The northern wall had fallen to the foreign invaders, and the city was nothing but fire and ruin.
The boy's breath came ragged, his chest tight with terror and grief. With trembling fingers, he grasped a sharp piece of rubble. There was nothing left for him here. If death was the only escape, he would meet it on his own terms.
He closed his eyes.
But in the darkness of his shut lids… light pierced through.
When he opened them again, he saw it — no, her.
A knight, descending from the heavens in radiant brilliance. Her armor gleamed like polished silver, her silhouette too slender to belong to a man. Flowing golden hair caught the wind, glowing as if the sun itself had woven it strand by strand.
She raised her hand, and from her palm light took form — a weapon born not of steel but of radiance itself. With a single strike, the invaders who had broken through the wall were obliterated, their shadows erased by her brilliance.
To the boy, it was nothing short of a miracle. A blessing. A mercy. In that moment, he was given not just life, but hope — a second chance.
The spark in his wide blue eyes shifted.
Now, those same eyes — older, sharpened, resolute — look out from the face of a grown man clad in ceremonial robes. A golden sun pendant rests on his chest, his presence commanding as he stands before a gathering of faithful within the great cathedral.
He raises his hands, voice carrying with practiced warmth.
"That day, I was nothing but a broken child, waiting to die. Yet by the mercy of the Divine, she appeared."
He declared, his words ringing through the vaulted hall.
"The Maiden Knight, blessed by God's own light, lifted me from the darkness. Because of her, I am alive. Because of her, I stand before you today."
The words fall heavy. The hall fills with muffled sobs and bowed heads. For every tear shed, another memory resurfaces — the same tragedy, the same loss, the same survival. His story is not only his own. It belongs to them all.
His gaze swept over them, his tone softening into reverence.
"She was no mere knight. She was chosen, blessed by divinity itself — the radiant hand of God in mortal form. And though twenty years have passed, that light has not dimmed. It burns still, through us who were spared, through the faith we carry, through the lives we now live."
The faithful wept openly now, some kneeling, others raising trembling hands toward the heavens.
He closed his eyes, allowing silence to stretch — as if his very presence was enough to sustain their belief. And in truth, it was.
The great cathedral bells tolled as the sermon drew to its end. Incense curled lazily through the vaulted arches, mingling with the soft cries of the faithful. One by one, men and women rose from their pews, pressing forward to the altar. Some knelt for blessings, others lowered their heads for the archbishop's hand to rest upon their heads— the old gesture of reverence, of asking grace to pass from the holy to the humble.
He moved among them with patient warmth, his voice gentle, his touch steady. To the commoner, he was their shepherd. To the noble, their counselor. And to all, he was hope.
At last, as the crowd began to thin and sunlight spilled through the open doors, he stepped out into the courtyard, his robes swaying with each careful stride.
There, leaning against a white marble pillar, stood a man cloaked in simple robes. The hood shadowed his face, but the glint of his smirk was unmistakable.
"Hearing my wife's name preached like some deity leaves a bad taste in my mouth…"
Roland's voice was low, unhurried, each word edged with faint amusement. He did not turn his head.
"Is that how people see her? … Tell me, Archbishop Michael."
Archbishop Michael bowed low in acknowledgment, then straightened, hands folded neatly before him. His smile was serene, his voice carrying the same warmth that had just moved an entire hall to tears.
"No, my lord," he replied softly.
"Not a deity. But to us — to those who survived that time — When the world was burning, she shone. When we despaired, she became proof the Divine still watched over us."
He paused, his blue eyes seeming to glow faintly in the sun..
"She was not worshipped as a god… but remembered as the savior we so desperately needed. That truth is what binds the faithful to hope, even now."
Roland stepped away from the marble pillar he had been leaning against, his boots echoing faintly against the polished stone floor as he stood before the Archbishop.
For a moment, the two men regarded each other in silence, the air heavy with quiet tension.
Michael broke it first, voice warm and edged with reverence.
"Lord Roland Castell… your loyalty to the Church has never wavered, and your presence here is always a blessing. Yet a man of your stature does not visit idly. Tell me—what business brings you here today?"
Roland's smirk softened into a measured smile.
"I've something to propose," he said evenly.
Michael tilted his head, interest sparking. "A proposal?"
"Something for the Eternal Flame Festival. It is only a few months away… and I intend for this year's celebration to blaze brighter than any before."
Michael's brows lifted, his interest immediately piqued. A spark of excitement gleamed in his eyes.
"The festival, you say? Then come—this is no matter to be spoken outside." His smile widened, warm and almost fatherly.
"The husband of the Light herself honors us with such words. Let us speak further inside, in the main house of the church"
As they disappeared into the inner halls, the vast cathedral stood silent, bathed in stained glass light. The scene widened, sweeping past soaring arches and ringing bells, stretching outward to the bustle of the lower city—toward a modest tailor's workshop where a very different tension was brewing.
Inside, Jean was a storm of motion, sweeping furiously and yanking down cloths to cover half-finished garments. His muttered curses filled the air as he darted from table to table.
From the back room, a door creaked open. Erika stumbled out, hair tousled, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Ugh… What's with all the noise? You're rattling the whole street. Someone important dropping by, or are you just losing your mind? It's my first day off in weeks, you know…"
Her words trailed as her gaze swept the workshop, now unusually tidy, Jean darting about like a man possessed.
"Important?" Jean barked, glaring at her while still sweeping furiously.
"You could say that! Since you've been off living your fancy tutor life in that noble house, you've forgotten what real pressure is. Lady Green is visiting today!"
Erika froze, color draining from her face. Her mind snapped back to the last time she'd seen the tall copper-haired woman—when she had, unknowingly, spoken with shocking rudeness to her.
"…Oh," Erika muttered, her voice small. Sweat prickled her brow as she turned her eyes away.
Jean stopped, broom in hand, and raised a brow.
"Seriously? That's all you've got to say? Oh?" His voice pitched with disbelief.
"Do you have any idea how much trouble that could cause? Before she arrives, hide yourself. I don't know how forgiving Lady Green is, but nobles don't just let disrespect slip away—"
The jingle of a bell cut him short. The workshop door swung open.
The two froze.
Framed in the doorway stood the very woman they had been speaking of—Lady Green, her tall figure commanding, copper hair catching the light, green eyes scanning the shop with quiet authority. Behind her walked Sylvester, his noble air matching hers as the pair stepped inside.
Jean's broom slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. His jaw hung open. Erika stiffened where she stood, her breath caught in her throat.
In that instant, the little workshop felt more like a courtroom—and judgment had just walked through the door.