Lucien stood at the edge of his private war chamber, a space carved in silence and stone. He watched as thick smoke coiled over the capital's rooftops—gentle at first, then rising like black tongues licking the sky. In that strange moment, he thought of Aurora's hair. The same darkness. The same wildness. But this was not her. This was destruction.
The fire was real.
The Free Daughters' northern press had been torched just after nightfall. No warning. No arrests. Just flames.
Lucien's fingers curled into fists behind his back. He had been raised in a court that believed fire was a tool of judgment. Today, it felt more like guilt.
Behind him, boots echoed on marble. General Corin entered, his uniform still singed at the collar.
"They struck again," Corin said, voice low. "Tasselridge this time. The library. Gone."
Lucien turned, his face calm, but his eyes heavy. "Casualties?"
"None. Girls escaped through the back gate. Five missing. Probably taken. Temple Citadel claims custody."
Lucien closed his eyes for a moment. "And Seraphina?"
Corin hesitated. "No public statements. But… Oracle flags were seen on her east wing. Priests have been frequenting her quarters."
Lucien didn't answer. He already knew.
"And Aurora?"
"She's safe," Corin replied. "Retreated to Caelstead with Mireille. They're reorganizing quietly."
Lucien nodded once. "Send word. Tell her… it's time."
"For what, Your Majesty?"
He stared out at the burning sky. "For war."
Corin frowned. "You mean mobilize the army?"
"No." Lucien's voice dropped. "The quiet kind. The kind that rewrites everything."
Aurora stood in the ruins of the Caelstead print house, her boots coated in ash. The paper press was charred black. Fragments of burned ink, smudged pamphlets, and broken lead letters littered the ground like shattered thoughts. The smoke in the air mixed with the metallic scent of old nails and grief.
She wasn't crying. She had moved past tears. Now, she stood perfectly still, like a monument to the moment.
Children picked through the ruins. Not playfully, but like mourners. A girl held a half-burnt essay titled "Why I Deserve to Read."
Nearby, Mireille approached, wiping soot from her cheek. "The Oracle's enforcers took the five girls. Claimed it was for spiritual 'realignment.'"
Aurora said nothing.
"They're calling them the 'Rebellious Daughters.' It's spreading already."
Still, Aurora stared at the burnt press. One of the bricks bore her initials—AV—etched years ago when the place was first built.
"They want fear," she finally said. "They won't get it."
That night, she sat on a stool inside what was left of the schoolhouse and wrote by candlelight. Not a letter of protest. A call to arms—but not of swords.
Of voices.
To the Girls of the EmpireIf they lock your tongues, write.If they steal your books, remember.If they burn your dreams, rebuild them in ash.No crown has ever outlasted the truth.
—Your sister in storm,Aurora Vale
The letter traveled faster than fire.
Copied by hand in secret workshops. Folded into sacks of flour. Hidden inside hairpins and sleeves. Carved into tree trunks. Even embroidered into the hem of a widow's veil.
By dawn, nobles were quoting her. Farmers whispered her words to their daughters over breakfast. Children sang stanzas of it while skipping rope.
And deep inside the Imperial palace, Lucien's attendants found a copy tucked between royal petitions.
Seraphina found hers placed carefully on her altar.
She read it in silence.
Then, she smiled.
"She's good," Seraphina said to the Oracle beside her. "Too good."
The Oracle's expression didn't change. "She has the people's attention."
Seraphina stood. "Then it's time we take something from her."
She waved a hand.
"Summon the Silver Hand. And issue the Decree of Silence."
Three days later, the Free Daughters' Caelstead school was raided.
But not by soldiers.
By priests.
They arrived with glowing staffs, white robes, and blank eyes. Their mouths moved in unison as they chanted:
"Let no woman speak what is forbidden.Let no girl dream beyond her role.Let all rebellion be cleansed."
Aurora and Mireille watched from a hidden slope, peering through thick brush. Aurora held a telescope steady with trembling fingers.
The children were herded out. Books were burned in a pile. One of the priests slapped a mother who refused to surrender her daughter's notebook.
"They're getting bolder," Mireille said.
Aurora lowered the scope. "So will we."
At midnight, Lucien gathered his inner circle.
No royal robes. No guards.
Just candlelight, cold air, and five chairs.
Present were: Corin, Lord Rheston, Lady Isolde, Elias the printer, and a veiled woman who spoke only when Lucien spoke to her.
"We're bleeding loyalty," Corin said. "People don't trust the crown anymore."
Lucien didn't respond immediately.
Rheston added, "Supporting Aurora publicly will divide the court."
"It's already divided," Elias said. "We're just pretending otherwise."
Lucien raised his hand. "We're going to do something no Emperor has done in a hundred years."
They leaned forward.
"We'll let the people vote."
Gasps.
Corin knocked over his inkwell.
Isolde stared at him. "A council?"
"Three seats to start," Lucien confirmed. "One of them Aurora's. If she'll accept."
"She'll accept," the veiled woman said with certainty.
Lucien looked at her. "Then send the invitation."
Aurora opened the letter under torchlight.
The Empire invites your voice to stand in its circle.Not as a shadow. Not as a scandal.But as a choice.
—L.A.
She read it twice, then held it to her chest.
Mireille was silent, watching.
"She's scared," she said finally.
"No," Aurora whispered. "I'm ready."
But fate wasn't finished.
The next morning, just before dawn, a battered carriage arrived.
Inside, curled in a pool of blood and cloth, was a girl—barely fourteen.
Her wrists were bruised, her face swollen, her left arm burned.
On her neck was a branding mark: the Oracle's seal.
A tag tied to her ankle read:"Rebel's Daughter. Punished."
Aurora dropped to her knees, gently cradling the child.
Mireille crouched beside her. "She's from Alira's class. Her name's Seli."
Aurora's hands trembled. "How many more like her?"
"Too many," Mireille whispered.
Aurora stood, her jaw set. Her hands bloody from holding the girl.
"No more seats. No more letters. We won't wait for permission."
She looked eastward, toward the palace.
"We take the council. We take it all."
That night, Seraphina hosted a banquet.
Wine flowed. The nobility laughed. The Oracle gave his blessings to the gathered elite. Gold curtains framed the ballroom like a temple.
As music swelled, Seraphina stood at the balcony and looked down on the city lights.
"They think they're winning," she whispered.
The Oracle said nothing.
She smiled faintly. "Good. Hope makes rebellion slow. And slow things are easy to break."
She raised her glass.
"To Aurora Vale," she said, voice like silk. "Long may she rise."
But the toast, though mocking, felt like prophecy.
Because far below the golden spires, thousands of candles were being lit in windows.
And the chant had begun.
"We remember.We rebuild.We rise."