The cathedral was as big as she remembered, the ceiling reaching as high as the sky as it was filled with paintings of the gods alongside the mythical story of the birth of Romelia.Apparently, the emperors , like most autocratic figures, liked to tell everyone that they had divine origins.

According to legend, the first ruler of Romelia was revered as the spawn of the Warrior, the deity whom soldiers prayed to before battle.

The myth went that the warrior had lain with a humble sheepherder, and from their union, Romlio was born. He was said to be the warrior's firstborn son, bestowed with divine gifts by the gods as a tribute to their brother. The mother granted him fertility, ensuring that each union with a woman would result in the conception of a child. The Father gifted him an unbreakable sword, symbolizing his strength and prowess. The scholar bestowed upon him wisdom and knowledge, making him a ruler of great intellect. The sea god caused a river to spring forth from the hills at his birth, resembling his connection to the gods. And finally, the warrior himself blessed his son with his own blood, marking him as a chosen heir.

With these gifts, Romlio went on to conquer the surrounding tribes, establishing the great city of Romelia atop the three hills where he was born.

This marked the second occasion she had stepped foot inside the grand cathedral, a place typically kept under lock and key by the vigilant priests. Its imposing doors swung open only during momentous events such as weddings or coronations. The first time she had beheld its magnificence was upon her arrival in the capital, where she was destined to marry the emperor.

She recalled the moment vividly, her heart filled with glee as she laid eyes on the emperor for the first time. He was a figure of power and strength, his tall, commanding presence exuding an air of authority. Despite his advancing age, he retained a rugged handsomeness that drew her gaze. Yet, even as they exchanged vows, she sensed a lingering sadness in his eyes.

Their union was one of duty rather than love, she soon realized. He was already married in his hearth to another woman, a woman who had borne him two sons and a daughter before meeting her untimely demise. 'The whore's beauty was that strong apparently' . And try as she might, Empress Valeria could never fully escape its reach.

Over time, love soured into jealousy and resentment, until a deep-seated spite began to fester within her. Though it had not yet blossomed into outright hatred,. The birth of their two sons, Mesha and Livius, did little to bridge the divide.

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But it was the loss of their youngest, Livius , a tender boy of five, that dealt the final blow to their fractured relationship. As she watched the priests offer prayers for her dear departed son, Empress Valeria couldn't help but feel hate toward the emperor. He had been absent in her hour of need, too consumed by the hunt he had organised.Killing beasts was apparently more important than attending to the death of their son.From that moment she swore that she would get her revenge, in the end though she didn't. Even that was stolen from her.

The only thing she regretted when she saw his body was that she was not the one to kill the bastard.

"Enough with painful memories," she whispered to herself, steeling her resolve. "This is the time to smile. The whore may have conquered his heart, but I have conquered the throne.May you weep in death too "

Her gaze shifted to her only love, Mesha, seated on the imposing throne. Despite his youth—just twelve summers—he sat with a solemn dignity that an emperor should have . The throne seemed to dwarf his small frame, yet she knew he possessed strength and needed it.

Valeria understood that her son was too young to rule alone. He needed guidance and a steady hand to navigate the treacherous waters of imperial politics. And that hand belonged to her; she was the regent . She couldn't help but smile at the thought of her father's inevitable outrage at being bypassed for the position of regent. "That is my role, not Father's," she thought, relishing the prospect of asserting her own authority.

As the high priest, a venerable figure in his seventies, approached her son, Valeria's heart swelled with pride. His long white beard brushed against his belly as he carried the crown—the jewel of the Empire.

Crafted from pure gold and adorned with precious gems—diamonds, rubies, and emeralds—it was a symbol of the empire's wealth and power. Yet, despite its splendor, it posed a challenge for her young son. She had spent countless hours training him to keep the crown on his head, fearing the shame of its fall.

The first attempt had ended in tears as Mesha tumbled to the ground. Valeria had struggled to conceal her disappointment, striving to instill in him a sense of dignity that an emperor should have . The nobles were already circling, hungry for any sign of weakness. The rise of the council was evidence enough of their ambition; she had to stop that.

But behind her stood the might of her family, the Eageans , a supporting force that would not hesitate to crush any dissent to her son's rule.

The old man approached the child emperor with solemn reverence, his every movement weighted with significance. With a deep bow, he offered deference to the young ruler before raising the crown high for all nobles to witness.

"By the power vested in me by the gods," he intoned, his voice carrying through the hushed chamber, "I hereby beseech the higher beings to witness the ascent of their new descendant to the throne. Mesha, first of his name, may the gods bestow upon him their blessings, protecting him from harm and endowing him with strength."

As he spoke, each invocation was a fervent prayer, a plea for divine favor.

"May the warrior grant him power and bless his armies.

May the mother grant him fertility.

May the Father bless his lineage.

May the sea god bless his navies.

May the scholar bless him with knowledge."

With each blessing, the atmosphere in the chamber seemed to hum with the gods's power. And as the final words echoed through the hall, the old man lowered the crown onto the young emperor's head.

The crown did not fall. And she was proud .

In that moment, all the nobles present bowed in deference to their rightful ruler. Yet, for a fleeting instant, Valeria felt a surge of emotion , as if they were kneeling not to the child before them but to her—the guiding force behind the throne.

She knew she had won. Her blood was sitting on the throne.Ignoring the copious amount that would be soon spilled