Alexander was still standing in the middle of that circular hall, his hands bound, his heart pounding with a strange rhythm he hadn’t known even in his fiercest moments back in the old boxing ring — that rhythm that comes right before a result is announced, when the referee stands there raising one fighter’s hand while the other waits for his fate in unbearable silence.
*All this talk of Blessings and religions and thrones... I feel like I’m back on those old nights, standing in the middle of the ring waiting for the judges’ decision, except this time the bet isn’t money — it’s my head. How many times did I stand there, waiting for the announcer’s voice to call a name that wasn’t mine? At least this time, I won’t be let down in silence. I’ll know my fate clearly, no matter how brutal.*
He noticed the nobles’ eyes fixed on him from every side — some curious, some openly hostile, others completely indifferent, as though he were just extra entertainment on an eventful day. He felt something like nausea creep into his stomach, not just fear of death, but the feeling of being nothing more than a game piece, his fate decided by hands whose true intentions he couldn’t know. The smell of melting wax from the many candles hanging on the circular hall’s walls mixed with the cold sweat pouring down his forehead, while his bindings bit into his wrists every time he tried to move them out of nervous habit.
He looked up at the high ceiling above him, where old religious carvings were etched into the stone, faces of saints whose names he didn’t know staring down at him with cold stone eyes, as though they were silent witnesses to a fate about to be decided in moments. He felt that strange weight that accompanies sacred places, even though he didn’t truly believe in any of it — that feeling planted by thousands of years of ritual in stones like these.
The prince rose from above, from that impossibly high level that seemed to separate him from the rest of the crowd by more than just a difference in stone height, but he chose to speak anyway, and his voice carried down through the circular hall with a strange clarity, as though the stone itself had been designed to carry his words without distortion.
*"So you’re saying, William... that your son is the Great Priest?"*
A total silence fell for a moment, the kind where one feels the breathing of others more than hears their words, before Maximian’s voice cut through it from a distance.
*"That’s absolute nonsense... someone with the Evolution Blessing cannot be the Great Priest."*
Prince Gabriel raised his hand, his large rings clinking against each other in the dim light filtering through the hall’s high windows, a thin metallic sound cutting through that charged silence.
*"Don’t you dare speak, Governor, while I haven’t finished... William."*
William bowed with reverence.
*"Yes, my lord."*
*"Are you certain of what you’re saying? This is a big claim."*
*"My lord, Prince Gabriel... everyone here can attest that I don’t speak idly. But we have to test it. I ask the church priest to confirm it, and to grant my son a Blessing."*
Those words echoed through the hall, and Alexander felt new stares directed at him, heavier than anything before, as though his father weren’t just requesting a confirmation, but putting the entire family name on the line before all the powers of the kingdom gathered together.
*Why is he doing this? Why risk everything he’s built his whole life for a claim that isn’t even confirmed yet? Does he trust me this much, or is he desperate enough to gamble everything? My father, who no one’s ever seen hesitate on a battlefield, looks more tense right now than I’ve ever seen him under rain or beneath enemy swords.*
Maximian rose from behind his rows of followers, his voice rising with an anger he no longer bothered to hide.
*"This won’t happen... we won’t grant a Blessing to someone who’s violated our laws. Are we here to punish him, or to honor him?"*
William took an additional step forward, without waiting for permission, his eyes fixed directly on the prince this time, his voice more resolute than moments earlier, as though weighing every word carefully before speaking it in front of that assembly.
*"My lord, if you’ll allow me one more word. I have served this kingdom, and served the Church, for many long years, in battles no one remembers now except those who fought beside me. I never once asked for reward, never asked for recognition. But I’m asking for it now — as recognition of that loyalty, not as a free favor. Give my son one chance for everyone to confirm the truth of him, rather than judging him based on assumption or fear."*
A new silence fell, heavier than the last, as though those words had brought back a long history no one in that hall could easily deny, no matter how much they resented this request. Alexander noticed some of the older nobles exchanging silent glances, memories of old battles his father may have fought in, leaving a mark still alive in that hall despite the passing years. Even Maximian himself seemed, for a moment, to retreat inwardly, his face losing some of its sharpness before he recovered his scowl.
The prince gestured toward someone standing behind him, in a shadow that never revealed itself, his face unclear to everyone in the hall.
*"If Maximian speaks again... do as you please, Toronto. Understood!"*
Maximian sat down immediately, having understood that as an unmistakable threat from the prince directed at him, and Alexander felt a wave of collective tension ripple through the rows — held breaths, eyes darting quickly between that mysterious shadow and the prince, as though everyone knew exactly who that "Toronto" was, and feared him more than any drawn sword in the hall.
*Who is that man, whose name alone is enough to silence an entire region’s ruler? Even Maximian, with all his anger, doesn’t dare risk it. What kind of terror must that shadow have planted in this kingdom to silence everyone this fast? I’ll remember that name, Toronto. I might need to find out who he really is someday.*
The prince wasn’t smiling as usual — he was looking everywhere, searching for the truth of whether this boy was really the Great Priest, his eyes moving between the faces of the judges and nobles with that same cold curiosity Alexander had known from him since the competition, that curiosity that had seemed like simple entertainment back then, but now carried an entirely different weight.
*"Edward, you may continue... it’s your night."*
Judge Edward bowed and said:
*"Thank you, my lord... and in fact, I have an idea to settle this. We’ll vote on whether it’s necessary to grant Alexander a Blessing. I don’t want any more talk, flattery, or shouting — we’ll give every senior person present the right to vote."*
He looked around for a moment, then added:
*"Is everyone in agreement?"*
No one answered.
*"Alright, everyone’s in agreement then. Let’s start from the top of the hierarchy — our lord the prince."*
*"Agreed."*
*"Father priest."*
*"Neutral."*
*"I don’t know if you can be neutral at a time like this, Father. Perhaps you should choose."*
*"I won’t choose while my mind hasn’t thought it through properly."*
Edward shrugged and said:
*"Let’s move to the regional rulers... the south."*
*"Agreed."*
*"The east."*
*"Agreed."*
*"And the west."*
Maximian looked around at everyone with anger, but found his voice meant nothing now that everyone else’s voices were against him — voices that had, hours ago, stood beside him in this same political hall, now abandoning him without hesitation before the prince’s clear will. Alexander felt something closer to pity for that man, suddenly alone amid a gathering he’d thought he was part of just hours earlier.
*"Agreed."*
*"Then it’s settled... we’ll grant this boy a Blessing... Father priest, if you’d come down and carry out the ritual, with your permission?"*
Alexander stood there, unaware of how fast things were moving, sitting in the middle of that heavy silence following the vote, while his heart pounded with a rhythm unlike anything he’d felt before, even in the fiercest moments of his duel. Here he was, about to confirm what he’d wanted his entire week — to be the Great Priest, master of Blessings, the greatest power in this world.
*This is happening too fast... fast enough to scare me more than it excites me. I thought I’d wait days, maybe weeks, to know my fate, but they’re deciding it with a vote that feels more like a children’s game — raised hands and cold voices, as though my life were just one more line item on their day’s agenda. And my father... he bet everything in front of all of them for this moment. I can’t let him down now, no matter what the truth turns out to be, no matter what price I might pay later for this honor I never even asked for. That old man’s words in the prison, Roger’s, come back to my mind suddenly: more of a slave than ’great.’*
He watched the church priest slowly rise from his seat, trying to walk down the stairs, his steps heavy and measured, as though every step carried the weight of centuries of the religious history he represented, while the entire circular hall held its breath waiting for that moment — even the creak of feet on stone seemed strangely audible amid that thick silence. Alexander noticed the candle shadows tremble faintly on the stone walls with every step, as though the room itself were breathing with a tension matching his own.
Among the noble rows, Alexander caught a glimpse of his brother Daron standing in silence, his gloved left hand clenched behind his back, his face carrying an expression Alexander couldn’t quite read, a mix of worry and cautious anticipation, as though he knew something about the nature of Blessings he didn’t want anyone to discover in this exact moment.
The priest finally reached the center of the hall, where Alexander still stood, his hands bound, his body trembling faintly, whether from cold or anticipation he couldn’t tell. The priest looked at him for a long moment, his green eyes carrying a mix of doubt and cold scientific curiosity, then slowly extended his hand toward him.
Alexander felt the priest’s cold fingers grip his right hand, then a sudden faint pain as the priest’s sharp fingernail split the surface of his finger, a small drop of blood immediately beginning to form.
The priest dipped his thumb into that red drop, then raised it toward Alexander’s forehead, drawing two crossing lines across it with slow, ritual precision — a cross made of his own blood, cold to the touch against his skin, hot from tension.
A silence heavier than any before it fell over that hall, even the breathing seemed to have collectively stopped, every eye fixed on that small red cross drawn on the forehead of a boy whose entire fate might be completely rewritten in a matter of seconds.
The priest closed his eyes, murmuring a few words that no one but God himself might have understood, then opened them again.
He looked first toward William, standing a short distance away, his green eyes carrying something closer to sorrow than any other feeling, as though he were apologizing in advance for what he was about to say, or giving that father one final chance to withdraw his request before it was too late.
He said nothing for a moment, the silence stretching longer than anyone in that hall could bear, until some of the nobles began shifting uneasily in their seats, as though that hesitation alone carried an answer no one had yet dared to speak aloud.
Then he closed his eyes again, and returned his hand to Alexander’s forehead, feeling that bloody cross with his fingertips, as though giving that moment a second chance, one last attempt to confirm something his mind had refused to believe the first time.
Seconds passed, heavy as lead, then he finally opened his eyes, and looked directly at Alexander this time, not at his father.
*"This boy has no Blessing at all."*