What a fine morning it is. Toast, jam, and tea to supply me with caffeine for the rest of the day—ah yes, the air even smells faintly like fresh croissants. I might not be free, but at least I can pretend I'm living the soft commoner life—
"My lady? You have a meeting with the High Scrollkeeper of Divine Records at nine, a prayer transcription at ten, blessings for the city council at eleven, and a purification rite at noon in the new villa of Count Griche" Lucien chirped.
…Never mind. I take it all back. This world is a prison.
I stared blankly at the toast in my hand. I hadn't even spread the jam yet. My day was already over before it began.
"Lucien," I said, hollowly, "if you don't give me five uninterrupted minutes of silence, I'm going to swallow this plate whole and die. And I'll make sure the scene looks like you did it."
He didn't even flinch. Just smiled with that gentle, weaponized serenity saints and cult leaders probably practiced in the mirror.
"Make sure to chew thoroughly, Your Holiness."
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
The Sanctum of Radiant Harmony was exactly as obnoxious as it sounded.
A marble monstrosity the size of a small city, filled with six-story-tall stained glass windows, angelic choir harmonics on loop, and glowing runes that floated just to prove they could. The paperwork wing alone had six floors.
Six.
Floors.
Of divine documentation. Anyone sane would've snapped by floor two. I considered throwing myself off the archives balcony when I first heard about it. Unfortunately, Lucien was quick and strong enough to intercept mid-dive.
He was currently leading me down a long hallway lined with statues of past saints—each gazing wistfully into the distance like they knew what filing quarterly miracle reports felt like.
"This is the Hall of Celestial Documentation," he said with a pride that felt deeply misplaced. "Here we store divine decrees, written prayer logs, miracle manifests, and the holy census."
"They really named it that?"
"Oh yes. The Goddess of Order personally oversaw the filing system."
We passed a robed priest aggressively whisper-chanting at a jammed copy spell. "Come forth, ye replica," he hissed. The parchment exploded into glitter and reassembled as confetti.
I squinted at a glowing plaque over a door: Clerical Miracles & Magical Metadata Processing.
"This isn't sainthood" I muttered. "This is divine middle management."
"Well," Lucien said, "before one can glow with the light of the heavens, one must first document all instances of authorized radiance."
I stared at him. "I'm going to run away."
"That's fair," he replied smoothly. "Please submit Form C-13: 'Intent to Commit Dereliction of Divine Duty' before you do."
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
After twenty soul-draining minutes, we emerged from the archives into the upper terraces, where the cathedral overlooked the capital: Virellia, shining jewel of the Izedreontis Empire.
From up here, I could see the warm, sun-drenched rooftops, people crowding the market squares, airships lazily drifting between spires, and somewhere far to the east—just visible through the magical fog and border wards—stood the jagged silhouette of the Demonlands.
"I thought Izedreontis was just a generic fantasy empire," I said, leaning against the railing. "You know. Noble royalty, romantic bread-based dates, zero consequences for petty theft if you're charming."
Lucien gave me a sidelong glance. "Have you… stolen something, Your Holiness?"
"Don't worry about it."
He cleared his throat. "Well, Izedreontis was once five warring duchies, united under Queen Eleanora the Blessed two centuries ago. Since then, we've had peace—externally, at least."
"And our neighbors?"
"To the south, the nomadic Lashari Tribes. To the west, the squabbling Fractured Princedoms. And to the east…"
"The murder continent."
He clasped his hands. "Yes. Relations with the Demonlands have been… strained since the last envoy came back as only a head. With the eyes sewn shut."
"Charming."
⋆⁺₊✧༚˚. ᗢ .˚༚✧₊⁺⋆
The highlight of my day—if you can call anything here that—came when Lucien led me to the Chamber of Magical Affinities, which sounded like a matchmaking service but was actually where they tested awakened mana users for magical alignment.
The walls pulsed with soft, opalescent light. Floating runes drifted lazily above a circular platform, and the air smelled like lavender and electroshock therapy.
"Magic in Izedreontis," Lucien explained, "isn't elemental, but resonant. It draws from abstract concepts—ideas, emotions, beliefs. Not fire or wind, but what those things mean."
"So not casting fireballs," I said, eyeing a glowing crystal suspiciously. "But like... invoking the idea of a fireball?"
"More like invoking Destruction in a heated and outward form. It's all about intent and resonance."
I crossed my arms. "So poetic nonsense."
"Structured poetic nonsense. There's a difference."
Practitioners were attuned to concepts—Grief, Shelter, Judgement, Hunger, Boundaries, Lies, Memory. The deeper your understanding, the stronger your magic. A starving man invoking Hunger could drain a banquet hall. A paranoid mage could weaponize Boundaries into an impenetrable wall.
And saints?
Saints were attuned to Truth.
Which, frankly, was a cosmic joke. Because at my core, I am a liar, a procrastinator, and a certified gaslighter of my own schedule. Every time I tried to fib, my body glowed. I couldn't even fake a smile without manifesting a minor halo.
I glared at the glowing crystal on the pedestal.
"I'm going to punch it."
"It'll break your knuckles," Lucien said gently, "and possibly initiate a divine audit."