CHAPTER 195: CHAPTER 196: SAINTESS?

Aiden’s sleep was never truly peaceful.

It came upon him in short bursts—two hours at most—like a soldier’s truce with exhaustion rather than rest itself. His dreams were made of whispers: fragments of prayers uttered by false mouths, visions of burning cathedrals, and the endless echo of chains rattling in some unseen abyss.

[Lilith smiles]

Now, in the dimness of his chamber, he drifted between that half-sleep and waking. The moonlight fell in ribbons through the sheer curtains, silvering the sheets where Luna lay beside him. Her head rested against his chest, her breath soft and rhythmic, the warmth of her body a fragile tether to the mortal world he often forgot he belonged to.

Her sleep, ever so deep, why wouldn’t it be, he pounded her deep enough, that her body wouldn’t move an inch when sleeping.

Aiden exhaled slowly. For a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel something close to peace. But peace was a mask he wore even in sleep. Beneath it, the machinery of his mind never stopped turning.

And then—a tremor.

A faint shake at his arm. Subtle, uncertain. Not the kind of movement born of dreams, but of deliberate urgency. His eyes opened instantly, sharp and lucid, the predatory clarity of a man who had long trained himself never to wake slowly.

The soft white silhouette before him resolved into a figure—amber hair, eyes glinting with worry, a white dress flowing like spilled light in the dim room.

Amber.

His trusted abbess. His shadow in daylight.

"What is it?" he asked quietly, voice still rough from sleep, yet carrying the low gravity that commanded silence.

Amber’s gaze darted toward Luna’s sleeping form, worry flickering across her face. "Aifen...," she whispered, barely audible, "we should not speak here....She might ...."

Aiden followed her glance, then nodded once. Carefully, he lifted Luna’s arm from his chest, her body instinctively curling in the space his warmth left behind. He rose, pulling on his dark robe, its inner lining whispering against the stone-cold floor.

Amber stepped back as he approached, her posture composed but trembling slightly beneath him. Even in urgency, she had thought. She would be sleeping with him this time, but it seems it was for another night.

He motioned toward the balcony doors. "lets go Outside."

The night air met them with a shiver. The marble beneath their feet was cool, veined with the pale reflections of the twin moons above.

Below stretched the sleeping lands of Leonidus: the terraces, the pale vineyards, the river gleaming faintly like a blade. The silence was profound, the kind of silence that only deep power—or deep danger—could command.

Aiden leaned against the balustrade, arms folded, the robe swaying lightly in the wind. "Now," he said, eyes fixed on the horizon. "What happened Dear?"

Amber’s throat tightened. "It’s.... the letter, Aiden. The one you asked me to deliver to the bishop."

He turned slightly, one eyebrow lifting. "Delivered already?"

"Yes... but before I could place it through the courier’s hand, another arrived." Her voice faltered. "It bore the seal of ...the Saintess."

Aiden’s expression did not change for a full breath. Then the smallest flicker crossed his eyes—surprise, sharp and fleeting.

"The Saintess?" he repeated slowly, tasting the word like it was something bitter. "You’re certain?"

Amber nodded, drawing a folded parchment from her sleeve. Even sealed, it radiated authority—white wax imprinted with the seven-pointed sun of the Holy Seat. Aiden’s hand brushed over it; he felt the faint hum of sanctified ink, the divine residue of blessings meant to repel corruption. It felt like static against his skin.

He withdrew his hand.

"What does it say?"

Amber hesitated. Her fingers clenched the edge of her robe.

"Amber," he said, softly now—but the softness was a warning, a pressure beneath the tone.

"She’s .....coming here," Amber said quickly. "The Saintess herself. To Leonidus. She didn’t say why...but its certain she’s coming..."

The words hung between them like frost.

Aiden turned away, staring at the night’s distant horizon. For a heartbeat, the world seemed still. The Saintess—coming here.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

He had altered the course of events already—too many threads twisted by his decisions. Each choice had rippled outward, small at first, then growing into waves that reshaped the flow of history. He had counted on control. Now the pattern was shifting faster than even he had planned.

"Here?" he murmured. "this time?"

Amber nodded.

Aiden’s thoughts spun—calculations forming and collapsing in the space of seconds. Was this because of his recent proclamation as prophet? That had been reckless, yes, but necessary. The Church had to be provoked, its hypocrisy exposed. He had counted on reaction—but not from her.

The Saintess was different.

He remembered her in the book: white robes trailing through cathedrals, eyes like tempered light, a woman worshipped as a living miracle yet burdened by the machinery of faith. She was not a fool. She chose her movements carefully, each step measured between faith and politics.

So why come here, to Leonidus, of all places?

Was it because of him? Did she suspect his role, his growing shadow behind the Church’s fractures? Or something else—something older, darker, moving beneath even his sight?

"Damn it," Aiden muttered under his breath, pacing a few steps. "This is too soon. The cycle hasn’t reached the third quarter yet..."

Amber blinked. "Aiden?"

He waved her off. "...Nothing. Just thinking."

His mind raced. Every piece on the board had just changed position. The Saintess’ arrival meant scrutiny, exposure, danger—and opportunity.

Was this divine interference—or consequence?

He looked back to Amber. "You said the letter bore no explanation?"

"None, Only her personal seal. But... there was something strange."

"Go on."

"The parchment carried a scent," she whispered. "Like lilies—and ash."

Aiden’s gaze sharpened. The lilies of the Divine Garden, sacred to the Saintess herself. But ash? That was the scent of the burned sanctuaries—the places where her miracles failed.

A contradiction wrapped in fragrance.

A symbol, perhaps. A warning.

The air between them felt charged, humming faintly with invisible tension. Aiden could almost hear the clockwork of fate turning in the distance, unseen but relentless.

He leaned forward slightly. "And the bishop? You delivered my message?"

"Yes," Amber said, lowering her eyes. "I did. But..." She hesitated again, her voice trembling. "Aiden, that letter—it accuses the hierarchy itself. It’s treason, by their laws. You’re... denouncing the High Church, you know that right?"

"...I know. Nobody knows it better than me Amber..."

Her eyes flickered with both fear and faith. "If they call you heretic—"

"They will," Aiden said simply. "It’s inevitable. The Church needs something to burn, to keep ahold of their power.... I’ll give them one they can’t destroy...."

Amber’s breath caught. There was madness in his calmness, a serenity that frightened her more than rage ever could.

"And you," he added, voice gentler now, "you’ve chosen your side already."

Amber nodded. "i don’t know why you even question me.... I would follow you... even to the depths, you know that..."

"...just making sure...." His smile was faint but real. "Then the depths it shall be."

They stood in silence for a while, the wind tugging lightly at their robes. Below, the palace lanterns flickered in pools of gold, their reflections trembling across the marble.

"How long until she arrives?" he asked finally.

"Seven days at most," Amber replied. "If her escort travels swiftly, maybe less."

Aiden exhaled, slow and measured. "One week... good. That’s time. Barely enough."

He looked up at the stars. Once, the sky had seemed distant to him—a map of unreachable gods. Now it looked more like a ceiling cracking under its own weight.

"The bishop will come tomorrow," he murmured. "That fool won’t resist answering such provocation."

Amber frowned. "Should I prepare the council?"

"No. Not yet." He turned toward her, the moonlight cutting sharp lines across his face. "Let the bishop arrive first. Let him speak. Every word he utters will tighten the noose he doesn’t know he’s wearing."

Her gaze softened, admiration flickering through her worry. "You sound certain."

"I am," Aiden said. "But certainty and fate are rarely friends."

He moved past her, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the city’s sleeping spires. "Fate... it always finds a way to mock men who think they can shape it."

Amber tilted her head. "And yet you still try."

He looked back, a faint smile ghosting his lips. "Of course. That’s what makes us human...but I am beyond mere humans...."

She lowered her head. "What should I do, then?"

"Watch," he said. "Listen. The moment you hear word of her entourage entering the southern pass, you tell me immediately."

Amber nodded, but did not leave. There was a question lingering on her tongue, hesitant and heavy. "Aiden" she finally whispered, "when she comes... what will you do?"

Aiden paused. His gaze softened, but his tone remained steel. "That depends," he said quietly. "On whether she comes as the Saintess... or something else entirely...."

Amber’s breath caught again, but he didn’t elaborate. He turned back toward the night, the wind catching his robe like the wings of something ancient and waiting.

Below them, the Leonidus banners swayed in the moonlight, their sigil—a lion devouring its own tail—rippling as though alive.

A symbol of power consuming itself.

Aiden stared at it for a long moment, lost in thought. The Saintess, the Bishop, the Church—each a piece on a divine chessboard, and he was daring to rewrite the rules mid-game.

But the memory of hernin the book—of the Saintess before the crown, before the miracles—flickered in him like a candle in a storm. He remembered a girl who spoke of peace while her hands trembled with unseen burdens. A girl who looked at the main character once not as prophet or sinner, but as a man.

That was all he needed, no matter of a pure heart she has, I will covet it, if I sense the slightest desire.

Aiden’s fingers brushed the cracked crystal resting at his belt. It pulsed faintly with dormant light. A reminder of his false sanctity—and the power it still held.

"if she’s coming..." he whispered to himself, voice half in wonder, half in dread. " the female lead will also come with her...it seems I have to be involved in the end."