Helios' Chambers — Late Afternoon
Luciana and Octavius stepped into the solemn grandeur of Helios' chambers. To their surprise, Rudolph was already there—standing before the Emperor, his expression pale, almost ghostly.
"Father," Luciana greeted, offering a respectful bow.
The air was thick with tension—suffocating, motionless. Helios sat atop his elevated seat, his expression carved in stone, but there was no mistaking the fury lurking just beneath the surface. What unsettled Luciana even more was the sight of Rudolph—once proud and unwavering—now standing like a man already condemned.
"Come, Luci," Helios said. His voice was calm, yet rigid, the kind that crushed with restraint rather than volume.
Octavius bowed. "Your Majesty."
His tone was formal, but the tremble in his stance betrayed him. He had guessed the purpose of this summons.
Luciana placed her hand gently over her father's. He was trembling—something she had seen only when he faced impossible decisions.
"May we know the reason behind this urgent summons?" she asked softly.
Helios didn't answer her. His eyes remained locked on Rudolph.
"Perhaps Lord Caelus could enlighten you," he said, voice dry as dust.
Luciana turned to her uncle. Rudolph met her gaze briefly, only to lower his eyes again in shame. Then he glanced at Octavius. That fleeting exchange carried years of regret, an unspoken apology between father and son, uncle and niece, brother and fallen friend.
Octavius turned away. A quiet fury stirred beneath his skin. The man who had raised him with unflinching principles now stood stripped of them, unable to face what he had become.
"I had considered summoning the entire House of Caelus," Helios said, his tone tightening. "But the scandal would've destroyed more than just reputations. I chose mercy—for him, and for what remains of his name. After all, he was once the greatest contributor to our war effort…"
He paused, his throat constricting.
"…and the root of this catastrophe."
Luciana inhaled sharply. "Father, what are you—?"
"Isn't that right, young Lord Caelus?" Helios interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. It was the tone he reserved for moments of absolute truth. No evasion, no compromise.
Octavius flinched. Luciana saw the walls of pride collapse around him.
"The decision, however, is not mine alone," Helios continued. "It rests with you, Luci. Once you hear their truths—your judgment will be final. The fate of House Caelus lies in your hands."
Luciana stared at her uncle. She had admired him, once. So had Helios. But the man before her now—broken, remorseful—was someone else entirely.
"Speak," Helios commanded.
Rudolph obeyed. His voice was hoarse, brittle, each confession heavier than the last. And as the truth unraveled, so too did Luciana's composure.
She learned the real reason she had been sent to Wahrheit. It hadn't been a strategic move. It had been a cover for her uncle's reckless ambitions. A foolish, selfish pursuit that had left her and her sisters exposed to horrors unimaginable. Her youngest sister—sweet, innocent—had died at the hands of demonic creatures. Their world had collapsed, and all because of him.
Helios, now silent, watched her. For once, the Emperor looked like a man—flawed, grieving, and helpless before the weight of his daughter's sorrow. He took her hand gently. She didn't pull away.
When Rudolph finished, the chamber fell into a crushing silence.
Luciana turned to Octavius. Her voice trembled. "Do you… do you agree with what your father has done?"
"I… admit all of it," Octavius said, eyes closed. No defiance. Only shame.
Rudolph dropped to his knees. She noticed now—his arm, the one that once wielded divine flame, was severed. Punishment from the gods, perhaps. Or a symbol of everything lost.
Luciana's heart screamed to see him punished—truly punished. For every wound she carried, he should suffer tenfold. But then, what justice was there in letting one man's sins bury the innocent along with the guilty?
She stood. Her voice cracked. "Father… please do what you must. I can't bear to remain here any longer."
No one dared stop her. No one called after her. She left in silence, the echo of her footsteps trailing behind her like a funeral march.
When the door closed behind her, Helios looked to the men who remained.
"She will never forgive me," Octavius whispered.
Helios rose. His voice rang with finality.
"All prestige and political privileges granted to House Caelus are hereby revoked. Rudolph Patronus Caelus and Octavius will be stripped of all leadership. The House may remain a vassal to the imperial faction, but nothing more."
Rudolph looked up, stunned.
"This is mercy, Rudolph. Do not mistake it for clemency. Your betrayal devastated not just this family, but entire realms. Death would be swift. But your wife, your other sons—they'll carry the weight of your disgrace for generations. That, too, is part of your punishment."
Rudolph grimaced.
"Punishment can take the form of mercy. And you are undeserving of both," Helios said coldly. "You are exiled. Effective immediately. Octavius will be placed under house arrest for eight years for his failure to report your crimes when he had the chance. All rights of command are hereby transferred to Lucerne Patronus Caelus. House Caelus will not participate in any political or social functions for the next five years."
Octavius stood still, broken. Everything—his future, his family, Luciana—was gone.
"Do you have anything to say?" Helios asked him.
Octavius shook his head. "No, Your Majesty."
"Then you are dismissed."
Octavius bowed and turned to leave.
But when Rudolph followed, Helios raised a hand.
"You stay."
Rudolph froze.
"I'm not finished with you," Helios said, his voice low, his fists clenched at his sides.
The heavy doors closing behind Octavius with a dull thud. Helios remained still for a long moment, the silence stretching like a blade between them.
When he finally spoke, his voice was no longer sharp, but grave—almost sorrowful.
"You should have died," Helios said. "The laws, the Empire, even the gods would agree. And yet…"
He slowly descended the steps of his dais, each stride filled with the burden of his own decisions.
"…yet I spare you."
Rudolph looked up, his expression unreadable.
"I wondered why," Helios continued. "Even as I declared your exile, something in me resisted the sword. Now I understand."
He stood before Rudolph, his eyes piercing.
"During your final battle with Iblis… he whispered something, didn't he?"
Rudolph stiffened.
Helios nodded. "I thought so. Iblis said the same to Erebus before his retreat into the Void. That he would return. Reborn—not as a fiend or tyrant, but as a child."
Rudolph's breath caught.
"A child who carries his soul. A reincarnation of all his wrath… and perhaps his redemption."
The weight of Helios' gaze settled on him like iron.
"That child must not fall into the wrong hands."
"You mean… you want me to find him?" Rudolph asked, voice hushed, stunned.
"I want you to hunt him," Helios clarified. "Track every rumor, every sign, every unnatural birth across the known and hidden realms. But do not kill him—not yet. Observe. Learn. Understand what he will become."
"Why me?" Rudolph whispered.
Helios' voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "Because you are damned. Because you have nothing left. And because I know you will not fail—not in this."
He stepped closer, eyes burning.
"Failure will not be met with mercy next time. You will wear your shame as your cloak. And when the time comes… when the child's fate becomes clear—you will return."
"And if he is evil?" Rudolph asked, breath shallow.
"Then you will kill him before he becomes worse than the last," Helios replied. "But if he is not… if he is something else… then we must be ready."
Rudolph bowed his head.
"I will find him. Even if it takes the rest of my days."
Helios turned away. "You leave tonight. Alone. No servants. No contact with your family. You are dead to them now."
He paused before ascending the steps once more.
"And remember—this mission is not a pardon. It is your penance."
Rudolph said nothing. He bowed, deeper this time, not as a noble, but as a broken man given a single thread of purpose.
"Go," Helios said.
And without another word, Rudolph left—into exile, into darkness, into the great unknown… chasing the whisper of a soul not yet shaped.