*Amelia Amberhart remembers…*
A gentle swirl of burnt-orange light danced above the grand obsidian desk as Lady Amelia Amberhart rose, brushing aside scribbled parchments. The wildfire of logs in the brazier cast elongated shadows across the marble floor, while the distant hum of palace life faded into the quiet sanctuary of her private office.
She took an unfaltering breath, fingers drifting over the brass inlays on her desk. Though her schedule remained ever-busy, this moment of stillness was hers to reflect… and remember.
A Week Ago – The Holy Rose Church
The white coach pulled up; Amelia descended, elegance wrapped around her like her tailored coat. The vehicle was exquisite—pearly white with golden stripes running along its fenders, bearing the symbol of the Phoenix: a fiery bird poised mid-rebirth—house Amberhart's symbol of inheritance.
She paused at the foot of the steps, her gaze sweeping the ornate façade of the Rose Church. Gothic arches scraped the sky; stained glass windows glowed like embers in holy twilight. A chill wind carried incense and prayer, moss and centuries of incense-laden worship.
Inside, the vaulted hall smelled of beeswax candles and old oak. Light refracted through the rose-hued windows, cutting warm splashes across marble floors. Choir singers murmured hymns in ancient tongues—an ancient ritual suspended in time.
Standing near the entrance was **Sister Selestina**—her blonde hair bound in sacred braids, long and radiant as she carried a simple air of compassion. Her flowing white robes embroidered in silver motifs of lilies and doves—symbols of faith and sacrifice—greeted Amelia with a gracious bow.
"Lady Amberhart," she intoned softly, voice like honey balm. "Thank you for coming. Your presence honors us."
Amelia inclined her head gracefully. "Sister. It is my duty… my privilege."
She paused, scanning the congregation of nobles already gathering: Arcanists, merchants, minor lords, and church elders—many eyes curious, calculating.
Sister Selestina guided her toward a carved mahogany pew near the front. As they passed, Amelia's dark-gold eyes swept over faces, sensing a ripple among the elites. Rumors traveled fast—rumors of engagement, alliances… plots.
But only one mattered.
Though the church hush enveloped her, she sensed him first. A presence. Like a faint tremor in the air, a subtle shift in incensed atmosphere. A ripple of mana. A power akin to flame—but sharp, disciplined, precise.
Calm, she inhaled the mingled scents of frankincense and rosewater. The Phoenix blood pulsed in her veins; the power that had blessed her burned, but she controlled it—like a candle in her soul. She would not tremble.
Sister Selestina whispered, "My Lady?"
Amelia's gaze flicked clear. "I see her."
Further down the aisle, sunlight glinted golden in the church's shadowed interior; her heart steadied.
Approaching the pew now was **Naoko Rothchy**—tall, statuesque, radiant as cold moonlight. Her snowy silver hair framed her flawless face, and eyes of steely silver scanned the interior with quiet command. She wore a sculpted black dress that clung to her form—drawn tight over curves honed by power and discipline.
She moved with confidence and control, gliding past attendants with her usual purpose. It was the pose of a killer—and a god.
Yet Amelia only smiled—ever regal, ever calm.
The service began. Hymns floated; prayers echoed. Amelia offered a quiet reverence but kept watch, as attenders murmured among themselves—some in awe, some wary.
Her fingers tightened on the pew's edge. Tension and history swirled between them—Amberheart and Rothchy—two bloodlines of fire and ice, forged in rivalry and bound for collision.
Sister Selestina leaned in: "I pray peace comes to both houses today."
Amelia inclined her head. "As do I."