A year and a half had passed since Elshua's return to Lumora, and the Holy Palace had molded him into a figure of radiant poise.
At fourteen and a half, he stood in his private chambers, the morning light streaming through arched windows, painting the marble floor with golden vines.
The room's splendor—frescoed ceilings swirling with Aeloria's triumphs, silken tapestries embroidered with silver stars, and a canopied bed draped in translucent gauze—was now a familiar embrace, though its grandeur still sparked Jun's quiet awe.
Elshua caught his reflection in a polished silver mirror and paused, his golden eyes tracing the changes time had wrought. Once frail from the quarry's toll, his body now bore lean muscle, balanced for his age, not unhealthy but lithe, like a young stag tempered by the wild.
He was taller, his shoulders broader, his complexion luminous, a healthy glow that made his golden hair shimmer and his eyes gleam like twin suns. His features, soft yet chiseled, danced between handsome and pretty, a living work of art, as if Aeloria had sculpted him with divine care.
Jun, the college kid within, marveled at the transformation, expecting his old, lanky self, but Elshua, the Spark of Aeloria, stood tall, a testament to Pope Seraphius IV's relentless training.
His divine energy now fully recovered, surged like a radiant river, honed by daily meditations and the Grand Basilica's healers, whose careful treatments ensured his Aeloria-blessed power didn't overwhelm his still-healing body.
His skills—Mendlight, Aegis, Bless, Grand Cross, Dawnshard, Holy Chains, and the passive Heartsmite—were advanced, rivaling the empire's high-ups, their precision a mark of Seraphius's mentorship.
Yet, the Holy Palace's marble halls, blooming gardens, and vast libraries had begun to feel like a gilded cage, their beauty stifling.
Elshua yearned for the world beyond, the pulse of Lumora's streets, the heart of the Holy Empire of Aeloria, a faith-governed realm where the church—Pope, Cardinals, Exarchs, and Bishops—wielded authority over nobles.
The palace, with its soaring spires and golden runes, was a marvel, but its walls chafed against his spirit, a restlessness Jun knew from late-night study sessions craving open air.
Elshua resolved to walk outside, to breathe Lumora's life and stretch his legs. He chose a robe of pale gold, its hems stitched with subtle suns, and slipped on sandals, his bare feet accustomed to the palace's cool floors.
High Priestess Lirien, ever vigilant, arched a brow when he shared his plan, her silver braid glinting as she adjusted his collar.
"Outside, Your Holiness?" she said, her hazel eyes teasing, a hint of concern in her voice.
"Lumora's safe, but the streets can be overwhelming. Stay in the palace district, and take a guard—High Priest Caldor's free, though he'll likely charm every baker into giving him free pastries."
Elshua laughed, his golden eyes bright.
"I'll keep him out of trouble," he promised, his voice warm, Jun's humor surfacing. "Just a short walk, Lirien. I need to see the city, feel it. The palace is starting to feel… small."
He gestured to the frescoed walls, and Lirien's smile softened, her hand lingering on his shoulder.
"Small, he says," she teased, her tone maternal. "The Holy Palace could swallow a kingdom, but I understand, Your Holiness. Go, breathe, but don't wander too far. Seraphius would have my braid if you got lost."
She winked, and Elshua grinned, nodding, the promise of freedom lifting his spirits.
Caldor joined him, his bald head gleaming, his blue robe slightly wrinkled, a leather pouch of coins jingling at his belt.
"A walk, lad?" he said, his brown eyes twinkling, his grin wide. "About time you saw Lumora's shine. But I'm warning you—if we pass a bakery, my coin's got a mind of its own."
He patted the pouch, and Elshua shook his head, chuckling, the wooden lion from Caelan and the woven cord in his pocket a quiet anchor as they left the palace's inner halls.
The Holy Palace was a city within a city, its spires piercing the sky, its domes shimmering like pearls, its courtyards lush with roses and star-shaped oaks.
Its gates, massive and etched with Aeloria's sun, opened to Lumora's palace district, a sprawl of marble streets, bubbling fountains, and cathedrals where pilgrims in white robes knelt, their prayers a soft chorus.
The Holy Empire of Aeloria was vast, its territories ruled by the church's hierarchy, a faith-based realm where Cardinals governed provinces, Exarchs oversaw archdioceses, and Bishops tended parishes. The palace was its heart, its walls towering, its gates guarded by Holy Knights in silver armor, their lion crests glinting.
Elshua and Caldor reached a terrace overlooking the palace's outer walls, a wide platform of white stone framed by ivy and roses, its view stretching across Lumora's spires to the distant hills.
Elshua leaned against the balustrade, his golden hair catching the breeze, his robe fluttering, and inhaled deeply, the city's rhythm—vendors' calls, bells tolling, pilgrims' chants—washing over him.
"It's alive," he said, his voice soft, Jun's wonder blending with Elshua's longing. "The palace is beautiful, but this… this is real."
Caldor, munching a pastry he'd acquired from a passing vendor, nodded, crumbs dusting his robe.
"Aye, lad," he said, his voice muffled. "Lumora's got a pulse like no other. Faith, life, chaos—it's all here. But don't get too starry-eyed, Your Holiness. Stick close, or Lirien'll make me scrub cathedral floors."
He offered Elshua a piece of the pastry, its honeyed scent warm, and Elshua took it, smiling, the sweetness grounding him.
"Scrub floors?" Elshua teased, his golden eyes glinting. "I'd pay to see that, Caldor. You'd probably charm the mop into doing the work for you."
He leaned on the balustrade, savoring the pastry, and Caldor laughed, a booming sound that turned heads among the pilgrims below.
"Cheeky lad," Caldor said, wagging a finger, his grin wide. "You're learning too much from Seraphius—that old fox has a tongue sharper than a blade. Speaking of, how's training? Those fancy skills of yours must be dazzling by now."
He raised a brow, and Elshua's smile softened, his thoughts drifting to his progress.
"It's hard, but good," he said, his voice earnest. "Mendlight, Aegis, Bless—they're stronger, and the new ones, Grand Cross, Dawnshard, Holy Chains… they're like nothing I imagined. Granpa Pope pushes me, but it's worth it."
He paused, Jun's pride surfacing, tempered by Elshua's humility. "Heartsmite's a quiet help, too—keeps me going longer."
Caldor whistled, brushing crumbs from his robe. "Heartsmite, eh? That's a rare gift, lad. Regeneration like that's a blessing in a fight. You're shaping up to be a force, Your Holiness. Aeloria's light shines bright in you."
His tone was warm, his eyes holding a flicker of pride, and Elshua flushed, the praise warming his chest.
Before he could reply, his gaze caught a line of luxurious carriages approaching the palace gates below.
They were grand, their wood lacquered black and gold, their windows draped with silk, each drawn by four horses with plumed harnesses.
Guards in dark blue armor with silver trim stood at attention, their crests—a stylized golden eagle clutching a crescent moon—gleaming in the sunlight. Elshua froze, the pastry forgotten, his golden eyes widening as recognition struck.
The crest was of the Veltharian Empire, a powerful realm across Philan's western seas, renowned for its military discipline and arcane mastery.
In Requiem of the Fallen, it was the homeland of Kael, an outcast illegitimate prince of the Veltharian imperial family, who rose from shame to become the novel's protagonist, a hero whose path would cross, heralding a pivotal moment in the story.
Elshua's heart quickened, Jun's knowledge clashing with Elshua's instincts.
"Veltharian Empire," he whispered, his voice low, his fingers tightening on the balustrade, its stone cool under his palms.
Caldor, catching his shift in mood, frowned, swallowing his pastry.
"Veltharians, aye," Caldor said, leaning beside him, his brown eyes narrowing at the carriages.
"Fancy lot, aren't they? That eagle crest means an envoy—here for who-knows-what, though. The Holy Empire stays neutral, so it's not trade or alliance, I'd wager. Maybe they're just curious about our light."
He grinned, but Elshua's tension lingered, prompting a curious glance. "What's got you spooked, lad? Seen a ghost?"
Elshua forced a smile, Jun's quick thinking kicking in.
"No ghosts," he said, his voice light, brushing his hair back. "Just… surprised. I read about Veltharia in the library—strong empire, right? Didn't expect them here."
He kept his tone casual, though his mind raced. In Requiem of the Fallen, the Holy Empire's neutrality kept it distant from Veltharia, their interactions rare and opaque.
Kael, the outcast prince, wouldn't emerge for another year, his journey from Veltharian obscurity to heroism still unfolding. This envoy's arrival, unmentioned in the novel, was an unexpected ripple, a hint of motives that could shape Elshua's path, especially with Kael's looming role.
Caldor nodded, his grin returning. "Strong, aye, and a bit mysterious," he said, patting Elshua's shoulder.
"Their mages craft wards that'd make Seraphius squint, and their wine's a miracle itself. Last envoy—years ago, mind—brought a cask that had the Cardinals humming hymns off-key."
He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "Don't fret, Your Holiness. The Pope'll sort them out, whatever they're after. Want to guess their purpose? I'm betting on some arcane research—they love poking at divine mysteries."
Elshua laughed, the sound easing his tension, Caldor's humor a balm.
"Arcane research?" he said, raising a brow, his golden eyes glinting. "I'll take that bet—maybe they're here for a blessing, something to impress their court."
He leaned on the balustrade, playing along, though his gaze lingered on the carriages as their doors opened, revealing figures in velvet cloaks and silver, their faces veiled but their bearing regal, a mark of Veltharian grace.
"Blessing, eh?" Caldor said, stroking his chin, his tone mock-serious. "Bold choice, lad. If you're right, I'll owe you a pastry. If I win, you're polishing my staff's crystal."
He winked, and Elshua grinned, the playful wager lightening his mood, though the Veltharian crest stayed in his mind, a quiet puzzle.
Elshua's restlessness grew, the palace's confines now a palpable weight. The Veltharian envoy was a sign—the world beyond Lumora was stirring, and Requiem of the Fallen's plot was inching closer.
He needed to grow stronger, not just in body and skills but in knowledge, to navigate the uncertainties ahead. His training with the Pope had honed his active skills, was a steady anchor.
But the mystery of his drained energy three years ago, the monastery's betrayal, and now Veltharia's unknown purpose demanded answers, ones the palace's libraries might not hold alone.
"Let's head back," Elshua said, his voice calm, turning from the terrace, his robe catching the breeze.
"I want to check the library—maybe there's something on Veltharia's visits."
His golden eyes met Caldor's, and the High Priest nodded, sensing a shift but not pressing, his pouch jingling as they descended the steps.
"Aye, lad," Caldor said, his voice warm. "Books it is, but don't miss Lirien's feast tonight—she's got roast pheasant planned, and she'll drag you out if you're buried in scrolls."
He grinned, and Elshua smiled, Lirien's care a light in his unease.
The walk back through the palace district was quiet, Elshua's sandals soft on the marble streets, pilgrims bowing, their white robes rustling.
The Holy Palace loomed, its spires a beacon, but Elshua's thoughts were on Veltharia, Kael, and the novel's arc. In the library, he'd search for records of Veltharian delegations, their motives, or arcane lore, anything to prepare for what lay ahead.
Seraphius's training, Caelan's letters from the World Academy—detailing sparring victories and new bonds—and the empire's faith were his anchors, but the Veltharian crest was a reminder: the world was waking, and the Spark of Aeloria needed to shine brighter to meet it.
In the library, Elshua sat at a polished table, its surface inlaid with mother-of-pearl, surrounded by towering shelves and stained-glass windows casting rainbows over the tomes.
He pulled a scroll on Philan's diplomatic history, its parchment crackling, and began reading, his golden eyes sharp, Jun's analytical mind at work.
The Veltharian envoy was a thread in a vast tapestry, one he'd weave to defy Requiem of the Fallen and protect his light.
With Seraphius's wisdom, Caelan's bond, and his own resolve, Elshua, the Spark of Aeloria, would carve a path through the gathering shadows, his heart a flame that would not falter.