Rebirth: Forgotten Prince's Ascension

The Grand Plaza of Solarium was lit with the heat of expectation.

Hundreds had gathered beneath the towering Cathedral of the Holy Flame, its spire cutting into the steel-gray sky. The Eternal Flame atop the spire flickered faintly, a feeble glow too weak to stir the hearts of the disillusioned masses below.

The air was plagued with whispers, a low murmur of speculation that hung like smoke over the square.

Vendors lingered at the edges of the crowd, their cries half-hearted, as if even they could sense the gravity of the moment. The people weren't here for bread or trinkets—they had come for something greater.

A sign. A reason to believe again.

Faith had long withered beneath the weight of corruption. The Church's promises rang hollow, and hope was a currency no longer spent. But tonight, the whispers promised something different: a cleansing.

A rebirth.

From the shadows of an arched alcove, Aric Valerian watched.

He wasn't alone. Serina stood beside him, her pale fingers absently toying with the edge of her cloak, sharp eyes scanning the restless sea of faces.

"They've packed the square," she murmured. "Still clinging to salvation. Again."

"They'll see something that looks like it," Aric replied coldly, his gaze fixed on the dais at the center of the plaza, where crimson-robed priests moved with quiet urgency. "And that's all that matters."

The Cathedral's bells tolled, deep and resonant, silencing the crowd at once. All heads turned toward the dais, where High Inquisitor Levos and High Priest Dorim stood, their faces set like stone.

Between them, the Eternal Flame on its raised altar sputtered weakly, a pale shadow of what it had once been.

Dorim raised his arms, and silence deepened until even the faint crackle of the Flame could be heard.

"Brothers and sisters," Dorim began, his voice steady but laced with desperation. "The Church has heard your cries. We know your faith has been shaken. We know our house is not without sin."

Unease rippled through the crowd. These were not the empty platitudes they had grown used to. Dorim's words cut sharper, closer to truth.

"For too long," Levos continued, his voice ringing across the plaza, "the Eternal Flame has burned dim, smothered by shadows of greed and corruption. Shadows born from within our own ranks."

The Cathedral doors opened, heavy and deliberate.

A line of men and women emerged—priests in crimson robes marked with the insignia of high office.

The crowd stirred, murmuring their names. Revered figures, men and women of power and influence. But their wrists were shackled in iron.

The whispers grew into an anxious roar as the condemned were marched forward under the watchful eyes of the Guardians of the Flame. Their faces were pale, confusion and dread etched deep as they were forced onto the dais.

"Traitors," Levos declared, raising his hand.

The Guardians shoved the prisoners to their knees before the altar. "These men and women have betrayed the Eternal Flame. They sold blessings for coin, absolved sin for favors, and stained the light of our order with their greed."

A stout priest with a golden medallion found his voice. "This is madness!" he cried. "I am Father Aldrin, Keeper of the Flame! You cannot—"

The butt of a halberd struck his jaw, silencing him with a spray of blood. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some clutched their children close. Others leaned forward, grim and fascinated, as if hungry to see justice.

"The Eternal Flame demands justice," Dorim intoned. "And today, it shall be fed."

From the shadows, Aric's lips curved into a faint smile. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had designed.

The executions began without ceremony.

The Guardians stepped forward, halberds gleaming. The first blow fell with a sickening crunch. Blood spattered across the altar, pooling into the carved grooves of the stone as the detached head rolled.

The Eternal Flame roared to life.

The crowd gasped as the weak flicker surged into a towering blaze, golden fire licking the night sky with feral hunger.

Some fell to their knees, weeping. Others clasped their hands in fervent prayer. The sight stripped away doubt as though it had never existed.

None of them saw Serina in the shadows, her fingers weaving subtle sigils as whispered incantations spilled from her lips.

The Flame's resurgence was no divine miracle. It was Aric's design—illusion.

One by one, the condemned were executed, each death feeding the Flame. With every life taken, the fire rose higher, bathing the plaza in golden light that seemed holy to the masses.

When the last body fell, silence followed, broken only by the crackle of fire. Dorim stepped forward, pale but resolute.

"The Eternal Flame has spoken," he declared. "It has accepted the blood of the unworthy and cleansed our order of its sins."

A roar erupted from the crowd. Chanting swelled, prayers rising in a wave of desperate faith reborn. For the first time in decades, belief burned bright again.

But the spectacle was not finished.

The Cathedral doors opened once more. A solemn procession of priests emerged, carrying objects shrouded in white cloth. The crowd hushed, eyes wide as the relics were unveiled on pedestals surrounding the altar.

"These are the Divine Relics of the Church," Levos proclaimed. "Hidden for centuries, restored to us now, to guide this new age."

One by one, the cloths were pulled back:

—a sword, its blade gleaming as if freshly forged,

—a chalice, engraved with symbols that shimmered in the firelight,

—a blackened fragment of stone, radiating a pulse of ancient power.

Scholars and smiths stepped forward to examine them, their hands shaking as they tested the artifacts with practiced care.

When they stepped back and declared them genuine, the plaza erupted again—cheers, tears, prayers.

In the shadows, Aric watched, his expression calm, his satisfaction cold and absolute.

The Church had played its role perfectly—too desperate, too afraid to see how fully they had been bent to his will. The Flame burned brighter than it had in decades. The relics had been revealed.

Faith had been rekindled.

And now, when the Church prayed to a god—that God would be him.