Ultimately, the Imperial family was irrelevant. The Emperor was irrelevant. Even the Empire was irrelevant—just a means to an end. From the beginning, the Lassedites had been charged with guarding the faith. But few knew the true depths of that responsibility.

The Lass’ miracles were no legend.

They were as real as the earth beneath our feet.

There was, however, one great misconception. The people believed the miracles had been Enille’s doing.

This was not the case.

No.

It was the Sword of the Angel that worked the miracles. In most men’s hands, the Sword was a lifeless relic. But, with every few generations, someone capable of wielding the Sword’s powers would be born among the nations.

The Chosen.

Only the Chosen could use the Sword to work miracles as the Lass had done. Once in an age, perhaps, a person capable of drawing forth the Sword’s powers would be born.

In the hands of one of the Chosen, the Sword of the Angel could call down the Sun’s holy fire. They could scour the land with lightning and tear chasms in the earth. They could part the waters of the seas and turn the damned to ash.

It was the Church’s duty to find the Chosen, and to preserve the knowledge they gleaned of the true Light through their interactions with the Sword. Their ascent to the office of Lassedite was preordained by the Moonlight Queen herself, their names inscribed on the Tablets of Destiny since the dawn of time.

The sacrament of Unction never failed to find the Chosen. That was its purpose. The Chosen were known by their sight. As a sign of their anointment, their eyes beheld the true Light—the unseen Light. Where the rest of mankind would see only the light of the Sun at the height of Mass, the eyes of the Chosen could see the Angel’s sacred Light dance above the altar, weaving its holy tapestries.

Eadric had been one of the Chosen. He was the Chosen among the chosen. None but the Lass herself had wielded greater power. But he had abused it, making it but a tool for the furtherance of his own, earthly glory, and countless millions had died as a result.

No, the purpose of the Empire was not the glory of the Trenton state, nor even the glory of the Lassedile Church. Its purpose was to safeguard the Sword, and to ensure the Angel’s will was followed. Were the faith to falter, or the Sword to be abused once more… the consequences would be cataclysmic—not just the death of millions, but likely the end of the world itself.

That was why Verune had to stay calm. That was why he had to have faith the Templar Guard from the Hospital would be arriving soon, stealthing their way through the secret tunnels hidden beneath the city. As long as they escorted Verune to the Melted Palace before high noon, Father Agan would be unable to lay claim to the office of Lassedite, the line of Lasseditic succession would be preserved, and the Angel’s wrath placated. Neither the Emperor nor any in his circle knew of this plan. It had been decided long ago that that was not a risk worth taking. Also, it was wise to keep Eustin and his cohort in a state of fear. Anything less, and the rebels might suspect that something was amiss.

If anything, they deserved worse.

Verune just wished that the Church’s plans had extended to include Orrin—but they could not.

Please be safe, Orrin, Verune prayed, Please, O Angel, keep him safe. Protect us, your faithful servants.

As fearful as he was for the Trenton nation, the safety of his adopted son tugged even more powerfully at the Lassedite’s heartstrings. When he looked the young man in the eyes, he saw hope. Hope for himself, hope for the future; hope for the whole of the damned human race. And it offered the most powerful testament to the Angel’s boundless love.

The sun was rising higher into the sky. Noon was approaching.

The templars will soon be here. Everything will be set right once more.

Back at the table, Empress Phila’s placed her hand-fan on the tabletop and turned her head to face an open door leading to an adjacent room.

“Madeleine!” she called, “Where are you?” Phila clapped her hands twice. “Come here at once!”

The sound of a child fussing in the other room was hushed by a soft-spoken request as a middle-aged handmaid entered the room, gently towing the young Prince Orrey, hand in hand.

The boy looked fondly at Madeleine, and her round face and kind, puffy, high-set cheeks. Verune noticed the regret in the handmaiden’s face as she had to subtly tug Orrey to follow her into the room.

“What have you two been up to?” the Empress demanded.

With a grace that belied her age, the servant curtseyed to the Empress. “I was merely reading the Prince some stories to pass the time.”

The Empress scoffed. “More fairy stories?”

“The Prince enjoys them,” Madeleine answered, without hesitation. If there was even a shred of disdain in the handmaid’s response, Verune could not discern it—a minor miracle, considering the Empress’ personality.

“They will make him soft,” Phila replied. “A soft mind does not befit the Throne.” The Empress beckoned her son with a wave of her hand. Clasping her hand around his jaw, Phila splayed her fingers across Orrey's cheek, smiling as she squeezed him with something approximating endearment. “Isn’t that right, Orrey?” She batted her eyelashes.

The boy pulled away, though—Verune noted—not too swiftly.

A wise choice.

Orrey walked back to Madeleine and grabbed hold of the old handmaid’s thick skirt.

“The fairy stories have use for moral education, your Highness,” Archluminer Staples said, stopping his pacing.

Eustin sipped from his wine glass once more. “They are impious lies.”

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“Silver-tongued lies, I would say,” the Archluminer added. “They do have a certain…” he gyrated his hand, “aesthetic value—superficial, though it might be.”

“Aesthetics should point to the Godhead,” the Emperor said. “And children,” he rolled his eyes over to the handmaid, “especially my children, should learn to love the Angel, and fear His wrath.” With derision, Emperor Eustin glared at one of the windows. “Certainly, the Empire would not be in dire straits right now had the hooligans out in the streets been educated properly. Madeleine,” the Emperor called, glancing back at the handmaiden, “from now on, read to Orrey from the Golden Legend. The Chronicles of the Lassedites within are quite edifying. They will build his character.”

Other than the servants, the young Prince was the only fellow worth talking to. The child was wise beyond his years. He had much of his grandfather Julian’s spirit in him, though without the stain of the former Emperor’s doubt. He was the only member of the Imperial family who, when asked for his thoughts on Hell, had given Verune an answer worth contemplating.

Hell was the most difficult teaching. Even now, standing at the apex of the faith, Verune struggled to reconcile it with the Angel’s love and justness. All the other members of the Imperial family had parroted the statements of the simplified catechism. But the boy had said something truly remarkable.

“I think it will all happen again,” he’d said. “Maybe forever ends by starting all over again. I think the Angel would want us to keep trying, again and again, until, one day, we all get it right. Wouldn’t that be beautiful?”

“Madeleine…” The Empress reached out toward her handmaid, her lavender perfumed hand droop in need. “I tire.” Phila beckoned Madeleine with a wave. “Fetch a fan and air me, would you. This heat is dreadfully stifling, and my wrist aches.”

Madeleine bowed gravely. “Yes, your Highness.”

As the woman turned to fetch a fan for the Empress, a voice boomed. “Agh! I can’t take this anymore!” The speaker was Jacob Rousas Jr.—heir to the Rousas Railroad fortune—and husband to Princess Elena, the second of the Emperor’s three children. Yesterday, he was also the Chief Executive Officer of the Rousas Trust. This morning, however, the committee had voted to strip Jacob Jr. of his seat.

The defanged monopolist bellowed. “Who do these cretins think they are!” He trembled in rage. “Do they have any respect for the law at all?” Jacob Jr.’s words echoed off the marble, as did the stamps of his boots on the floor.

Prince Gus stood beside his brother-in-law. Both in their mid-twenties, the two men had become fast friends. The two men were a match made in Moonlight, similar in appearance, taste, and many other proclivities. At the moment, their eyes were fixed on the improprieties playing out in the city streets. Knowing the men’s temperament, Verune supposed they were hard at work tallying each and every sin that caught their eye.

Mr. Rousas’ aging, bearded manservant George-Donald stood at his side, bearing a platter of hors d’oeuvres for his master to munch upon. Princess Elena sat in a chair, reading a book to pass the time. The servant bowed at her highness, his face sticking out from his beard, hair, and sideburns like an egg in a pile of snow.

Jacob Rousas picked up a deviled egg and angrily stuffed it into his mouth.

“Look at them, Rush,” Gus said, using his brother-in-law’s nickname for the Princess’ husband. “Just look at them.”

Jacob “Rush” Rousas nodded. “They think they know better than the Godhead.” Rush chewed his food as he spoke. “Democracy is the great love of the failures and cowards of life. And these people embrace it with open arms. At this rate, it won’t be long before the Church itself falls prey to the very same heresy. The Church has its decisions made by the wisdom of those whom have been chosen through the intercession of the Angel’s grace. The godless mob has no grace.”

The Prince shivered. “Quite so. I bet they’re stealing. Looting. Pillaging. Seizing fair women with one hand while pilfering fruit with the other.”

Gus had a strange fixation with theft of fruit. Verune had no idea where the idea had come from.

The Prince shook his head. “We cannot escape our sin. Only the Angel’s Light can save us. Without the Truth to guide them, they have no hope.”

“Do you think they might try to outlaw slavery?” Rush asked.

“They wouldn’t dare!” Staples boomed.

“Some people are by nature slaves,” Jacob Jr. said, “and will always be so.”

Leaning back into his chair, Emperor Eustin pressed his hand onto his forehead, shoulders slumping in frustration. “Angel willing, this madness will soon end,” Eustin said, “and the world will choose the right once more.”

There was a knock on the doors.

Everyone stopped, turning toward the sound. The door opened by a hair. Staples started to rush toward it, his arms raised to strike, but stopped when Verune stuck out his palm.

The Lassedite’s heart raced in his chest.

Has the time finally come?

A voice spoke, cold and contemptuous. “Apparently, there was a detachment of Templars headed this way from the old Hospital.”

Verune inhaled sharply, clenching his fists.

“Your Majesties, Your Holinesses, I regret to inform you that they have been intercepted. This isn’t the 13th century anymore, gentlemen—and ladies—the secret tunnels under the city have been common knowledge for years. How do you think we got Hilleman’s forces to arrive here so swiftly?”

Verune trembled in his seat.

“Anyhow,” the voice continued, “the revolution sends its regards.”

The door swung open as something was thrown into the air, only to be slammed shut right as the object landed on the floor. The object left a trail of blood in its wake as it rolled to stop on the tiles of marble and black opal.

Everyone except Verune leapt to their feet and screamed.

It was a severed head, eyes still open wide.

Madeleine shielded Orrey’s eyes. Gus covered his mouth in disgust as he tried to keep breakfast in his stomach.

“They’re going to murder us!” Staples shrieked. “They’re going to—”

Once more, the foyer shook. Bells rang in the distance, drowning shouts and songs and soldiers’ fire in tones of silver thunder.

Verune rocketed to his feet. “—Quiet, all of you!” His heart beat in synchrony with the distant bells.

Scattered shots ran out, briefly, but then tension seeped back into the air and everything stilled and then the bells rang once more, then another silence, followed by a final ring.

Now it was the Lassedite’s turn to pace. Stepping away from the bay window, he walked about in a panic, his golden cope swishing as he moved. He flexed his hands, as if to strangle the air itself.

“No…” Verune muttered. “This can’t be. Please…” He turned to one of the windows.

Oh God…

It was high noon. The cassock of the hummingbird robe glistened in the sun.

Verune pressed his hands to the sides of his head. “No! No! No!!”

All eyes in the room fell to him.

The Emperor gulped. “Your Holiness?”

“Those are the bells of the Melted Palace, Majesty,” Archluminer Staples said. He held his trembling fingers up to his mouth.

Eustin paled. “Then…?”

Verune turned to face the Emperor. He lowered his head, bearing his golden skullcap for all to see. “The Blueshirts must have had enough support among the Archluminers to convene a quorum for a vote. Father Agan is…” Verune’s breath seemed to fail him. “H-He… he is now the two-hundred fifty-first Lassedite.”

“Agan?” Archluminer Staples nearly spat. “That rebel sympathizer?”

“Heretic, you Holiness,” Rush said, correcting the Archluminer. “No man on earth is more unworthy of the priesthood than that Sunbasker heretic.”

“What shall we do, Sir?” George-Donald asked.

Ordinarily, the heir to the railroad tycoon’s throne would have beaten his manservant for speaking out of turn, but the moment must have been surreal enough that Mr. Rousas let the elder gentleman’s offense pass without rebuke.

Verune stomped his foot on the marble.

“Stop it, all of you!”

Staples froze. “Your Holiness?”

Verune’s head shook. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand! This isn’t about the Empire. It was never about the Empire!” He breathed in deep. “A sacred order dwells within all creation. But… we have defied it. The order is broken. The succession is broken. Heresy is enthroned in the Angel’s Holy House! It will be even worse than the Munine. The Church will fracture, the people will scatter. And the sky… the sky.”

The all-consuming sky…

“Mordwell…?” Emperor Eustin asked, taking a step toward the now-former Lassedite.

“Unless we take swift action,” Verune replied, “there will be no way to avoid the Angel’s wrath. If we cannot set things right, I fear our world will not survive.” Verune bowed in reverence to Emperor Eustin, and for the first time in his life, the Lassedite truly meant it. “Your Majesty,” he said, softly, “the time has come for you to fulfill the role that is your birthright. He breathed in deep. “The time has come for a true miracle.”