In Ophilanna's study.

  ---

  Sunlight, fractured by the leaded panes of the Baroness' mansion, spilled across the open pages of *Der ?ther*, the book she received as a commemorational gift by Queen Asria herself.

  Ophilanna, now formally known across vast stretches of lands beyond even the great kingdom of Silvale as Lady Fia of Soriam, sat nestled in a plush armchair, the ancient tome resting heavily in her lap. The book was an enigma, bound in its dark, polished leather, clasped shut with intricate silver- and goldwork. A single, luminous gemstone, of curious nature, pulsed softly at its heart, casting a gentle, ethereal glow across the room.

  Alive and with latent knowledge, the air around it seemed to shimmer, albeit faintly.

  She traced the silver filigree on the cover, her fingers lingering on the cool gemstone. Hesitantly, she opened the book. Everywhere within, pages were filled with elegant script, diagrams seemingly shifting and breathing, and symbols that resonated deep within her very being. It was a language both foreign, yet intimately familiar; tongue forgotten, whispering such secrets, as those that could reveal the inner workings of the universe.

  All its writing was purely Eldarion, the language used by all the descendants of the Fae - be it elves, dwarves, fairies or gnomes - as their speech, thousands upon thousands of years ago.

  Nowadays, however, its use has been reduced greatly, only being of ritualistic importance.

  But, since her mother held a position akin to a shaman in their tribe, she was taught Eldarion from a rather young age. Now, Ophilanna, upon adjusting to the letters and speech, is able to read it without a hitch.

  What presents itself an issue for her, though, is the mathematics used to describe magic in the book.

  Not only does it require such things as the concept of rate of change, nay, something like a tensor and a tensor product, but it speaks of magical units, constants, and a fundamental force of nature, that is, magic.

  With unquenching thirst for knowledge, the young prophet began to read, her brow furrowing in deep concentration, deciphering the flowing script and notation.

  While the initial pages were solely devoted to introducing the mathematics, in a not-so-dry, mundane arithmetic-like manner that she had encountered before, it still presented itself a challenging task to follow through for her.

  It was mathematics, as a language of creation; one to explain the underlying structure of reality itself.

  Not mathematics, to count money and do finance, taxes, and other work she was familiar with around the mansion.

  She murmured a passage aloud, her voice barely a whisper, tracing the path with her finger.

  *"From the dawn of creation and ever since, even the creator deity, Enia, relied on such mathematics. Be it as a tool for calculation, or one to derive all physical laws as a consequence; this changes little in the fact it is an insurmountable task to learn magic without learning the required toolkit."*

  Such words resonated well with Ophilanna, a strange understanding blossoming in her mind.

  *Ah, this was it*, she thought. *I relied on intuition instead of the logic of mathematics*.

  The book continued, launching into a paragraph with no end.

  *"Through the void, numbers rose; the first echoes of creation's song. One, the singular point, the seed of all that is, followed by duality, in a dance of existence: Light and shadow, being and nothingness. Three, the trinity, a weaving of forces, made the foundation upon which such worlds are built."

  She turned the page, her eyes falling upon a passage speaking of magic. Not as spells or incantations, but as a fundamental force deeply woven into the fabric of existence, governed by these very mathematical principles.

  *"Magic is not as separate from this world as we might think. Its very essence, the breath of creation made manifest, speaks otherwise. It flows through any and all things, acting as a current guided by intention, shaped by will, and bound only by the immutable laws of mathematics and the axioms of reality. To understand magic is to understand the mathematics of existence, that is, reality, and its elegant equations underpinning our material, and immaterial, world."*

  A shiver ran down Ophilanna's spine. She felt a pull, a yearning, to delve deeper into the book's secrets; it was to unravel the mysteries it so fiercely held within its ancient writing.

  But even as her fascination bloomed like blossoms in spring, what lingered was a sense of vague unease. This knowledge... its power, it felt even more vast than she could graps at this point.

  Almost overwhelming, even. The aspiring magician could feel a sense of responsibility within her grow, a weight settling upon her young shoulders.

  Far away, in the Holy Tyrian Empire of Rans.

  The Council of Saints is convening.

  All around a precious table fabricated of dark ebonwood, far removed from the quiet study of the Baroness' mansion, sat an array of men and women, the Council of Saints, currently holding a meeting.

  It was high in the treacherous peaks of the Weser Mountains, inside the Sanctum Liminis, a bastion of unwavering faith bound to worshipping Aria, the holy goddess of Light in Rans.

  As a country southeast to Silvale, they had numerous border incursions, but eventually retreated after signing a peace agreement lasting decades.

  In the meantime, the upper echelon proposed the creation and testing of God-Machines, aptly named for the power they hold - and represent.

  Among them, the Novum Divinum, two models, stood out:

  They were practically mobile fortresses. One, the small one, called Novum Divinum Hexapodes, had two modes to switch from; one which kept it flying, and the other turned it into a six-legged walking church suspended on a small man-made island.

  On the other hand, the larger of the two models, the Novum Divinum Octapodes Aegis, was a flying Fortress Cathedral of unimaginable size, nearly as large as Silvale's royal palace.

  With its size comes fire power, magic and armament of varying degrees; it can support, defend and even provide offensive capabilities.

  The air in grand hall, a cavernous space sculpted from obsidian and illuminated by the ethereal glow of countless candles and will'o'wisps, seemed to vibrate with solemnity, heavy with unspoken anxieties of the Church of Aria's highest authority, as the Council of Saints convened in urgent.

  Around the massive, rune-etched Gerellarine table, a precious, blue-coloured magic material known for its hardness and beautiful, crystal-like appearance, with Gerellarine in-laid and surrounded by the even rarer metal, Chasmalite; dark grey by itself, though excellent at conducting mana, all of the nation's Saints assembled, their faces chiseled with concern.

  Cardinal Morian, the Council's patriarch, was a man whose age was to be measured not just in years, but decades of devout service, as he sat at the head of the luxurious table formation.

  In descending order of importance and seniority, the Saints sat to the right and left of his.

  Morian's face, a tapestry of deep wrinkles from old age, spoke of countless trials and of unwavering faith, in the eye of death and beyond. His eyes, though aged past his prime, still held a piercing intensity, only reflecting the authority he commanded, and required.

  To his right sat his most trusted, Sister Saintess Agnes; her features were sharp and angular, a divine beauty, one might call it; and she had the eyes of a fanatical zealot burning with deep, unquestioning faith.

  Agnes' robes were a beautiful, silken white; immaculately crafted by hand and starched to such rigid perfection, the clothing's quality mirrored the rigidity of her own beliefs quite well.

  Across from Saintess Agnes sat Saint Theron van Filis-Grim, a man of strategic intellect. He leaned forward, wielding a gaze as sharp as a knife, and quite calculatingly, with controlled demeanor and measured voice betraying little of his emotion, command, through his very presence alone, the attention of all others in the room.

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  Brother Saint Kilian McGregori, a face flushed with indignation, restlessly sat at the table, fingers drumming a rhythm on the Gerellarine and metallic surface. His pronouncements, often laced with fiery rhetoric, were quite uncommon, while his faith bordered on aggressive intolerance of heretics.

  Next to him, Sister Saintess Magdalena Arliese, known for her gentle nature and compassionate heart, sat beside him, willfully engulfing her thoughts in worry, brow furrowed. It was a stark contrast to her usual, serene expression.

  Brother Saint Remans Ezekiel hid, under cool demeanor, the worries plagueing his mind. As he was responsible for overseeing the special operation at the border to Silvale, he would be reprimanded the most out of all.

  Archbishop Elias, from the clergy's upper echelon, attended as well at the opposite end of the table. With world-class military strategism, he became an important asset to Rans. He was a man hardened by years of overseeing the Church's vast armies and soldiers; so his presence stood slightly apart, radiating quiet power and frustration, intimidating the Saints and Saintesses.

  With Cardinal Morian's aged voice, everyone's attention snapped back, amplified by the hall's great acoustics. It broke the tense silence: "Brothers, Sisters, Archbishop", he began, "we are gathered here today in a shadow's kind embrace.. The tidings from Silvale, and the rest of the world, are... grave, that cannot be denied."

  Making an extended pause, Morian let out a sigh. "Our righteous campaign will stumble if things stay as they are. The weapon tests... were formidable, but not up to par; our expectations were too high. We faltered against such unexpected resistance.. and variables. Factors beyond our control."

  Sister Agnes' sharp intake of breath echoed throughout the hall. It was almost piercing, a scream that persistently echoes and will haunt these halls. "Faltered? Cardinal... with all due respect, it was an outright humiliation. Our precious Seraphines, the most veteran of them, vanquished! Our Goliaths, reduced to rubble! By such puny sorcery and magic as theirs; the whispers of mere pagan spirits!" Her voice rose in pitch, trembling with barely suppressed fury. "And the cardinal... he died. His sacrifice could not even be off-set by a thousand Seraphines! It wasn't enough... to kill that damned Swordsman..."

  Theron held up a calming hand. "Sister, by all means.. righteous anger is understandable, but clarity is paramount, do remember. Hysteria never served Aria. We must dissect the events that transpired in Silvale with cold logic.. and find out where to strike them. Their defenses, however formidable, exceeded our intelligence, that is all. Yet, the true anomaly, the crux of our concern, is.. and will be.. this new Prophetess, Fia."

  The word, "Prophet", quietly resonated through the hall, marking a chilling echo in the hearts of the saints. Prophets, their power ranging from that of a human to that of a god's, were extremely unpredictable vessels of magnificient power, often challenging the established doctrines and hierarchies arround them.

  And there she was - a Prophet of Gaia, a deity who couldn't be more alien to Aria's teachings, and one considered longlost, even deceased, by most scholars of this age and time, she wasn't a theological anomaly, but a direct challenge and threat to the Church's authority as a whole.

  It was a declaration of war.

  McGregori slammed his fist on the Chasmalite of the table, a resounding sharp noise emitted. "Gaia? A soil-bound earthen spirit? Such elven treachery! Pure and simple. It was a desperate gambit to embolden their heresy, the kingdom built on such... vile teachings. This so-called "Prophet" is nothing but a charlatan, I say! A witch wielding daemonic arts, cloaked in a divine pretense!"

  Gnarled with age, Cardinal Morian's hand rose slowly, being a silent command for restraint. "Brother McGregori.. such fervor is indeed commendable, but rash judgement is not. In these trying times, we must tread carefully, as Brother Theron had already mentioned. The seraphines' fragmented report spoke of a power undeniable, and unsettingly pure at that... nothing like the chaotic taint of a daemonic influence, but... something entirely different. Fundamentally. Dismissing it as mere illusion.. I consider that most unwise."

  Sister Magdalena's soft voice, while usually a balm, now carried tremors of doubt. "But.. a Prophetess of Gaia..", she spoke, "would contradict everything we know.. everything we preach. Isn't it Aria, the singular source, the fountain of all divinity? How can such a pagan entity.. dare, no, even attempt to manifest such power? How can it choose a Prophet?"

  Brother Theron, again, leaned forward, this time with intense gaze. His voice, composed, cut through the theological debate.

  "Those are truly the questions we must answer."

  "Is this a genuine divine intervention - however unorthodox?...", he paused and turned to the other saints, "or a masterful deception, a weapon forged and employed by the mischievous kingdom of Silvale, intending to shatter our Crusade? Either way... one thing is clear. Its impact is undeniable, Silvalean morale is surging into realms previously unknown. Their defenses are heavily fortified, and our initial advance, our weapon testing, seemed unsatisfactory, to say the least. We were greatly repelled."

  Magdalena jumped in. "The casualities, as well, were... rather high. Many of the cherubines, whom I healt and attended to, had grotesque wounds.. it was a gruelling sight."

  Theron unrolled the map laying in front of them, and with a snap of his fingers, magic projected it to a size enough for all to see. It showed a world map; complete with all the known continents, in order: Jylia, Binus, Somi, Falen, Arcania, and Demonia.

  The demon continent, Demonia, loomed, a dark and ominous stain on the map, and ultimately, the objective of their holy war. "This... Prophetess.. will complicate our grand strategy immensely. The Great Crusade into Demonia, that we know of as our sacred duty to cleanse this world, must not be jeopardized any longer by such.. distraction."

  The Archbishop, Elias, with a low, steady rumble, offered reassurance. "The Crusade's preparations are proceeding apace, brothers, sisters, and cardinal. The Royal Maylen Empire's legions will muster on the western plains; Isrule's warfleets are most poised to sail and attack the north; while the Alliance of Man, our coalition, gathers its banners. This Crusade will commence, as divinely ordained, regardless of such pesky.. silvalean aberration."

  However, Sister Agnes remained unconvinced, with zealotry bordering on alarm. "Can we truly afford.. such complacency, Archbishop?", she questioned his authority. "If this 'Prophet' wields true power, or somehow attains it, however profane that is.. could it not became a thorn, a heavy obstacle, in our side? I see it as a festering wound that has potential to weaken, nay, make our Crusade crumble to dust. Gaia, herself, could intervene directly against us."

  Cardinal Morian steepled his fingers, gaze distant and lost in contemplation. "Gaia.. is an ancient power, undeniably. She is a force of nature, akin to the very concept of death itself, potent within her own dominion, I digress. But Aria's Light... encompasses all creation. While we must proceed with caution... yes, with vigilance!, there is no room for fear in our hearts. The gods, as we do, are bound to rules and are dictated not to directly meddle too much. Our Crusade is blessed by Aria herself. Her divine will.. shall ultimately prevail against this foe."

  Brother Theron's voice cut through the lingering unease; in a decivise, commanding tone. "We shall dispatch the Divinas Inquisitorium to Silvale. Inquisitor Hebraim and her contingent shall investigate this Prophetess swiftly. Only then shall we discern the truth of her power, expose the deception, and assess how much of a threat she poses. We must understand.. Gaia's influence, and possibly formulate a countermeasure."

  Just then, a collective murmur of assent rippled through the Council. The Saints, while shaken by the unexpected emergence of a Prophet of Gaia, remained unyielding in their resolve still. Their Great Crusade, the culmination of decades and generations of planning and faith, would not be derailed this easily. In turn, they will adapt, strategize, and then confront this challenge with the iron will and fervent devotion that was, and still is, a defining trait of the Church of Aria.

  Cardinal Morian slowly rose, his aged body radiating an inner strength that only belied his years.

  "Let us kneel, brothers, sisters, archbishop, and beseech Aria, for her divine guidance," he intoned, his voice but resonating with ancient authority. "For her light to illuminate our path through this darkness, and for strength in the face of this pagan challenge, for ultimate victory in the coming Great Crusade, to cleanse this filthy, pest-ridden world.. of the daemon taint. And.. for wisdom, her divine answers, in discerning the true nature of this so-called Prophet of Gaia."

  The Council of Saints then knelt, their heads bowed in such fervent prayer, with the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows on the obsidian walls. The Sanctum Luminis, a beacon of their faith, admist the treacherous Weser's peaks, prepared for war both earthly and spiritual.

  With the Crusade set to begin some time soon, and the rise of a Prophet, however unexpected and unsettling, Rans faced yet another problem to overcome; it would be met with the full might of the Church of Aria.