The morning of Caelan's departure dawned clear and crisp, the sky above Lumora a canvas of pale blue, its edges kissed by the golden light of Aeloria's grace.
The Holy Palace's courtyard hummed with quiet purpose, its marble paths lined with officials in robes of white and gold, their murmurs mingling with the chirp of birds in the ancient oaks.
A carriage, its wood carved with the Lion Hearts' crest—a golden lion encircled by stars—stood ready, its horses stamping the cobblestones, their breaths steaming in the cool air.
Elshua stood at the courtyard's edge, his cream-colored robe swaying in the breeze, his golden hair catching the sunlight, his bare feet cool against the stone.
His body remained fragile, his muscles weak from the quarry's toll, but his divine energy, now at 85%, pulsed like a steady flame, a warmth that steadied his heart.
He leaned lightly on Lirien's arm, her silver braid gleaming, her pale blue robe a soft contrast to the courtyard's brilliance.
Caelan Herdos emerged from the palace, his blue tunic crisp, his satchel slung over his shoulder, his dark curls tamed for once. His sword, sheathed at his hip, glinted with divine runes, and his blue eyes scanned the crowd, landing on Elshua with a mix of warmth and reluctance.
Beside him stood High Priest Caldor, his bald head shining, his robe slightly askew as he clapped Caelan's shoulder, and Sir Torren, the scarred veteran of the Lion Hearts, his armor polished but bearing the dents of the quarry battle.
The officials—Exarchs and Bishops, their faces stern but proud—nodded to Caelan, acknowledging the youngest Templar Commander's ascent to the World Academy, Philan's most prestigious institution.
Elshua stepped forward, Lirien's hand steadying him, and Caelan's smile brightened, though it carried the weight of parting.
"Your Holiness," Caelan said, his voice soft, bowing slightly, his curls bouncing. "You didn't have to come out here. You should be resting."
His eyes lingered on Elshua's pale face, the covenant between them—a sacred bond tying their emotions—pulsing with worry.
Elshua grinned, his golden eyes sparkling, Jun's teasing nature surfacing.
"And miss sending off the great Caelan Herdos? Not a chance," he said, his voice light but warm. "Besides, I'm fine. Lirien's just being fussy."
He glanced at the High Priestess, who rolled her hazel eyes but smiled, her braid swaying as she stepped back, giving them space.
Caldor snorted, his brown eyes twinkling.
"Fussy? She's got you on a leash, lad," he teased, nudging Elshua gently. "But you're right—can't let young Herdos leave without a proper farewell. Off to conquer the Academy, eh?"
He turned to Caelan, his grin wide, and Caelan's cheeks flushed, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
"I'll try, High Priest," Caelan said, his tone humble but firm. "Just hope I don't embarrass the Lion Hearts."
He glanced at Torren, who grunted, his scarred face softening, a rare crack in his stern demeanor.
"You'll do fine, lad," Torren said, his voice gruff. "Keep your shield up, and don't let those fancy students distract you."
He clapped Caelan's arm, the sound echoing, and the officials murmured approval, their robes rustling like leaves.
Elshua stepped closer, his robe brushing the cobblestones, and Caelan's eyes softened, the crowd fading as their bond took focus.
"You'll be amazing, Caelan," Elshua said, his voice sincere, his hand resting on the paladin's arm, the tunic warm under his fingers.
"The Academy's lucky to have you. Train hard, make friends, and don't forget to write."
He smiled, Jun's warmth blending with Elshua's faith, and Caelan's laugh was a bright spark, easing the ache of parting.
"Write? You sound like my mother," Caelan teased, his blue eyes glinting. "But I will, Your Holiness. And you—get stronger, alright? I'm counting on you to join me at the Academy when you're fifteen."
He squeezed Elshua's hand, the covenant warming with their shared promise, a thread connecting them across the distance to come.
"Deal,"
Elshua said, his voice firm, his golden eyes bright. He reached into his robe, pulling out a small, woven cord, its strands gold and blue, a simple charm he'd made with Lirien's help.
"For you," he said, pressing it into Caelan's hand. "Aeloria's light, to keep you safe."
The gesture was small, but Caelan's eyes glistened, his fingers closing around the cord like a treasure.
"Thank you," Caelan whispered, his voice thick, tucking the cord into his satchel.
He hesitated, then pulled Elshua into a gentle hug, mindful of his fragility, his curls brushing Elshua's cheek.
"I'll miss you, Your Holiness," he murmured, and Elshua hugged back, his heart full, the covenant a quiet glow of farewell.
"I'll miss you too," Elshua said, pulling back, his smile steady despite the lump in his throat. "Go shine, Caelan."
The paladin nodded, his resolve returning, and turned to the carriage, the officials parting like a sea.
Caldor and Torren followed, their voices low with final words, and Elshua watched, Lirien's hand on his shoulder, as Caelan climbed aboard, his silhouette framed by the morning light.
The carriage rolled away, its wheels crunching, and Elshua waved, his golden hair catching the breeze, until it vanished beyond the palace gates.
---
Exactly one month later, Elshua's life in Lumora had settled into a steady rhythm, his body improving though not fully restored.
He could now walk unaided, his steps sure across the palace gardens' emerald lawns, the rosebushes' dew-kissed petals a daily comfort.
His muscles, once frail, had gained strength, though exertion still left him breathless, a reminder of the quarry's toll.
His divine energy, creeping to 87%, was a radiant tide, bolstered by the Grand Basilica's healers, their daily treatments a slow weave of divine light into his soul.
The purity of his energy, blessed by Aeloria herself, made full restoration a delicate task, like filling a chalice with starlight, and the healers worked patiently, their chants echoing in his lavish bedroom, leaving him tingling but weary.
The Pope, Seraphius IV, the highest figure in the Holy Empire, had awaited Elshua's physical recovery to meet him properly, their roles distinct yet intertwined.
The Spark of Aeloria held no superior in spiritual authority, a divine conduit above even the Pope, but Seraphius governed the empire's faith and politics, a balance rooted in mutual respect.
When Elshua was deemed strong enough, High Priestess Lirien escorted him to the Grand Basilica's private chamber, a circular room of alabaster and gold, its walls draped with tapestries of Aeloria's miracles, its crystal chandelier scattering light like divine sparks.
Seraphius sat at an ebony table, his white beard flowing, his golden mitre glinting, his robes shimmering with liquid light. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, softened as Elshua entered, his cream robe simple but radiant, his golden hair framing his pale face.
"Young Saint," Seraphius said, his voice warm, rising with a creak of joints, his staff tapping the floor. "Elshua, Spark of Aeloria, at last we meet comfortably."
He gestured to a cushioned chair, its wood carved with suns, and Elshua sat, Lirien bowing and withdrawing, the door closing softly.
Elshua smiled, his golden eyes curious, Jun's intrigue surfacing.
"Thank you, Your Holiness," he said, his voice steady, though his heart raced.
Seraphius's presence was commanding, but his warmth was disarming, a grandfatherly air that eased Elshua's nerves.
"I've been looking forward to this. The empire… it's all so new to me."
He hesitated, his amnesia excuse ready, but Seraphius's nod was understanding, his beard twitching with a smile.
"No shame in that, Young Saint," Seraphius said, settling back, his staff leaning against the table. "Three years lost, a demon's claws, and still you shine. Aeloria's light is strong in you."
He poured tea from a silver pot, its steam floral, and slid a cup to Elshua, his hands steady despite his age.
"Tell me, what do you know of our empire? I wager those books you've been devouring have sparked questions."
Elshua sipped the tea, its warmth soothing, and leaned forward, his curiosity genuine.
"A little," he admitted, his voice eager. "The Holy Empire's the heart of Philan's faith, built on Aeloria's miracles. The hierarchy—Cardinals, Exarchs, Bishops—it's like a living temple, keeping the light alive. But…"
He paused, Jun's knowledge of Requiem of the Fallen nudging him, the novel's secrecy about the empire's inner workings a puzzle.
"There's so much I don't know. The Spark's role, the empire's history—it's all sealed, like a locked book."
Seraphius chuckled, a wheezy sound, his eyes twinkling.
"Sealed, eh? You've a poet's tongue, Young Saint," he teased, his tone playful.
"The empire's a tapestry, woven over centuries. You, the Spark, are its brightest thread, a conduit of Aeloria's will. You inspire, heal, and guide, unbound by our ranks, yet part of our heart."
He leaned forward, his voice softening. "As for history, it's long and tangled—wars, miracles, betrayals. We'll unravel it together, if you're willing."
Elshua's eyes widened, Seraphius's openness a surprise, his warmth making the empire feel less daunting.
"I'd like that," he said, his voice sincere, a smile tugging at his lips. "It's… comforting, talking to you. I thought you'd be—"
He stopped, flushing, and Seraphius laughed, a hearty sound that filled the room.
"Stuffy? Terrifying?" Seraphius teased, wagging a finger. "I'm old, not a dragon, Young Saint. You're the Spark, not a novice to be scolded. We're equals, you and I, serving Aeloria in our ways."
His eyes softened, and Elshua relaxed, the conversation flowing like a river, natural and warm.
They spoke of Lumora's spires, the empire's provinces, and Aeloria's miracles, Seraphius's stories vivid, his humor unexpected—tales of Cardinals bickering over wine or Exarchs tripping in processions, making Elshua laugh, his weakness forgotten.
As the tea cooled, Seraphius's expression turned serious, his hands folding on the table.
"Young Saint," he said, his voice gentle but weighty, "you're young, but your light is ancient. The quarry showed your heart, but your body and mind need forging. I've watched you study, train, endure those healers' chants. You're ready for more."
He paused, his eyes searching Elshua's. "I propose to be your master, to pass my knowledge to you—faith, magic, leadership, even a bit of swordplay, though my joints protest. The empire's high-ups may seem soft, but we're no pushovers, lad. We wield Aeloria's light as fiercely as any knight."
Elshua's breath caught, the offer staggering.
Seraphius IV, the empire's highest figure, as his personal mentor? In Requiem of the Fallen, the Pope was a distant shadow, his power hinted but never shown, the empire's strength veiled.
To learn from him, to unlock that hidden might, was a chance to change his fate, to grow beyond the novel's tragic arc.
"You'd… teach me?" he asked, his voice small, his golden eyes wide. "Everything?"
Seraphius nodded, his beard twitching with a smile.
"Everything I know, Young Saint," he said, his voice firm. "You're the Spark, but even sparks need kindling to blaze. We'll forge you into a light Philan won't forget."
His eyes gleamed, a challenge and a promise.
"Yes," Elshua said, his voice steady, a spark of determination igniting. "I want to learn, Your Holiness!"
He leaned forward, his hands clenched. Elshua felt ready, a mantle he could carry with Seraphius's guidance.
Seraphius's smile was broad, his staff tapping the floor with a crack.
"Good lad," he said, his voice warm.
"We'll start tomorrow, gentle at first—your body's still mending. Faith, magic, a touch of history to keep you sharp. You'll be my disciple, and I'll be a taskmaster, but a kind one."
He winked, and Elshua laughed, the tension easing, the future bright with possibility.
Thus began Elshua's training under Seraphius, a journey that dawned the next morning in the basilica's training hall, a vaulted chamber of marble and light, its walls etched with runes of protection.
Seraphius, in simpler robes but no less commanding, guided Elshua through meditations, his chants resonating with divine energy, strengthening Elshua's control over his radiant power.
They studied texts on Aeloria's miracles, Seraphius's insights unlocking secrets of faith, while light sparring—wooden staves, slow and careful—rebuilt Elshua's body, his muscles aching but growing.
Lirien and Caldor watched, their pride evident, and Elshua felt the empire's heart beating with his own, a connection deepening with each lesson.
Three years stretched ahead, time to master his power, uncover the truth behind his drained energy, and defy Requiem of the Fallen's tragic end.
Seraphius's mentorship was a forge, Caelan's promise a beacon, and Elshua, the Spark of Aeloria, burned with resolve to shine, his path unfolding under Lumora's radiant skies.