NOVPUBEveryone turned to Katarina, breaths caught in their throats. Her silence stretched like a blade poised in the air.
What did she see?
They leaned forward, curiosity etched into their faces. Whatever vision Katarina carried might decide the fate of the entire domain.
She swallowed hard, then spoke, voice trembling with the weight of revelation.
"Fury."
The word fell like a stone into a calm lake.
"He was overwhelmed by so much fury… so much pain… he marched entire armies into cities—and burned them to the ground. Mercy became a thing of the past. And the world… the world called him the Blood King."
She stared at them, her pupils wide, almost frightened. "This might be what starts it… this! We—"
The image of the massacre at Velmyra flared through Alec's mind. His jaw clenched, and creases formed deep across his brow. He didn't need Katarina to explain further.
They were all men. They could imagine being in Asher's place. And with a woman like Sapphira?
There was simply no one better. No one closer to perfection which made it hurt even worse.
Katarina pressed on. "Shouldn't we wait? Wait for him to come out? For him to speak his truth?"
But the fury in the room had already begun to boil. Men like Alec and Finn weren't just angry—they were wounded. It wasn't only a matter of betrayal; it was about pride, legacy, honour.
"She should at least be detained," Claude interjected. "The people are watching. If we do nothing, they'll believe we're letting the Crimson Temple rule us. And no such liberty has been granted even to the Golden Temple in Paradise."
Aquila turned her calm, analytical gaze on him. "The Golden Temple serves a different purpose. It nurtures those who walk between life and death—seers, God-priests, divine judges. But that temple remains empty. I Am has chosen no one."
She folded her arms. "The Crimson Temple was created to serve the people. It provides healers, not rulers."
Claude narrowed his eyes. "And if Lady Sapphira one day forbids her priests from leaving the Temple? What then? Will the sick and dying suffer for her will?"
"She has never done such a thing," Aquila countered, frowning. "Not even when she had every legal right to. Her kindness is known across the realm."
"She should still be summoned," Alec said coldly.
Adam nodded in agreement.
Kelvin pushed his monocle higher and sighed. "Then what?" 𝔫𝖔𝔳𝖕𝖚𝔟.𝔠𝔬𝖒
"Have her explain herself!" Finn's voice echoed through the hall.
But just as the words left his lips—
Creak.
The great oak doors groaned open, silencing the room.
All eyes turned.
She entered like moonlight wrapped in shadow—Sapphira. Enchanting, black-haired, barefoot, her white feet kissed the floor with each step. The hall seemed to dim around her, every breath drawn slower as though the air itself bowed to her presence.
Flanking her on both sides were priestesses of the Crimson Temple, robed in layered silks of crimson and ivory. Their translucent, dragonfly-like wings glistened faintly with divine shimmer.
Behind Sapphira, two more priestesses followed, each carrying a baby swaddled in white cloth, only their delicate heads exposed.
Without a word, Sapphira walked to the smaller but elegantly carved throne beside the Lord's own. With grace too fluid to seem human, she sat, one leg crossing the other, and raised her chin.
The air changed. Softer yet heavier with her presence.
"You seek to question me?" she asked, her voice calm yet unyielding.
"You dare bring that… filthy—!" Claude began.
"Watch your mouth, Viscount Claude. And your eyes, Count Finn." Her words cracked like a whip.
And then—
Before their stunned eyes, her form shifted.
Her black hair unraveled into a waterfall of emerald that shimmered as it spilled down the sides of the throne, nearly reaching the marble floor. Her body expanded, lengthened—her very being transformed. Before them stood a nine-foot-tall goddess, draped in pristine robes or silk, her skin glowing with a soft, pale luminescence.
"Do not dare utter such words about the blood of my blood," she said, voice no longer that of a woman, but of something older. "Or I will take your heads where you stand."
The room turned to ice.
Was this the instinct of a mother? Or the fury of Tenaria herself?
None could say. But one thing was clear—this was no mere woman.
She was divinity made flesh.
The noblemen and noblewomen couldn't move. Even the most iron-willed among them felt their hearts thunder in their chests. It wasn't just beauty they were beholding—it was dominion. Every inch of her radiated majesty.
Her beauty was no longer something describable in human terms. It was the ideal—what men craved, what women dreamed of becoming. Not just form, but essence. An aura of absolute perfection.
Thud.
Claude dropped to his knees, eyes wide in disbelief and awe.
Finn followed seconds later, then Alec—fighting it, gritting his teeth—finally lowered himself to one knee, overwhelmed by the instinct to submit, to worship.
It wasn't manipulation. It wasn't magic.
It was just her.
Sapphira's true horror was not a spell… but the terrible beauty of her presence alone. An existence so complete, so radiant, it could crush the ego of even the proudest of men.
And as silence claimed the chamber, none dared to rise.
Only one thought echoed in their minds:
What is she, truly?
A silent priestess stepped forward, her steps reverent, her head bowed. In her hands was a veil—sheer, woven from threads that shimmered faintly like moonlit mist.
With practiced grace, she lifted the veil and gently draped it over Sapphira's face.
Only then did the suffocating tension in the room ease.
As though the spell had been lifted, the nobles exhaled in relief. Shoulders loosened, backs straightened. They stood—not out of defiance, but out of necessity, reclaiming what little composure they had left.
Alec was the first to speak, his voice uncharacteristically soft, like someone just waking from a vivid dream. "So… he got the hair from you."
His eyes flicked to the green-haired infant, then back to the veiled figure of Sapphira. The fury he'd felt only moments ago was now as distant as a forgotten storm. All that remained was awe.
The edge of Sapphira's lips curved in the faintest of smiles. Without speaking, she extended her arms. The priestess to her right stepped forward and gently placed the green-haired child into her grasp.
Sapphira brought him to her lap with a mother's quiet tenderness, then reached for the second child, who was handed over without a word.
She glanced between them, her expression unreadable behind the veil, and spoke with the warmth of a hearthfire.
"He takes after his father," she said, eyes lingering on the child cradled in her left arm—a boy with tufts of white hair like snow and vibrant, golden eyes.
Then she turned her gaze to the green-haired infant resting on her right. "And he takes after me."
Her voice was softer now, almost like a lullaby. It wasn't meant for the nobles. It wasn't meant to assert power or command reverence.
It was meant for them—the children. Her sons.
And for a moment, in the grand and judgmental hall of politics and fear, what sat upon that throne was not a goddess, not a several thousand years old Tenaria, not the Grand priestess of the Crimson Temple…
…but a mother.
And even the coldest heart among the nobility could not deny it.
