Chapter 35: Ch35 Songs Of Praises
"Huh?"
A figure sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. A small cold seemed to be coming on. His grey hair was tied neatly into a long ponytail, black eyes framed by glasses that slid low on his nose. He groaned softly and rubbed his temple.
"Hey, Harold!"
Another voice cut through the quiet corridor. A man stepped in, wearing the ceremonial robe of the temple. His black hair fell across his forehead, and a faint scar ran along his left eye.
"You okay?" the man asked, raising a brow.
Harold glanced up, his expression bored as ever. "Yeah, I’m fine. Just the wind getting to me."
Though he was dressed in the same white ceremonial robes as the other apprentices, the black badge pinned to his right side marked him as one of the higher apprentices—those a step closer to the inner circle.
"Oooh, hold on there," the man teased, sidling closer. "Don’t tell me you’re gonna fall sick on such an important day."
Harold shoved his hand off his shoulder with a sharp push. Without missing a beat, he tucked a blue book beneath his arm and started down the hall.
"Ha-ha. Very funny," Harold muttered over his shoulder. "Why don’t you go and tease Kiera instead?" His lips curled into the faintest smirk. "I’m sure... she’d love your company, Hans."
Hans froze in place, horror flashing across his face. "Oi! Don’t you dare—"
But Harold was already striding ahead, smirk widening.
"Harold, please," Hans hissed, rushing after him. "By the Gods, do you want me to die? If Kiera finds out I was playing around again, she’ll kill me!"
His lips quivered like a child begging for mercy.
Harold stopped and turned slightly, his smirk sharp as a blade, ready to tease him further—but then he paused.
From somewhere beyond the walls came a different sound.
Laughter.
Clapping.
The rise of voices in joyous song.
Harold tilted his head, turning toward the tall windows lining the hallway. Through the glass, flower petals fluttered like confetti, caught in the breeze. The street below was alive—people dancing, musicians playing, banners fluttering with the seal of Asmethan, a white dove stitched in every corner.
Children skipped through the crowd, their shrill voices carrying over the noise as they sang in unison:
"The day of salvation is here!
Oh Lord of Asmethan, the God of our land,
Bless us with good lives and dreams.
He picked this day as the day of His grace,
The time of His coming is here!"
Their voices rang higher, filled with joy.
"Oh sing of joy, our Father is here!
Our Lord Asmethan!
His chosen one is coming!
We hear the bells of virtue—
He shall come to the land as a beacon of hope!
Our savior, our king, our righteous hero!"
Harold’s grip on his book tightened. The air felt thick with the people’s blind faith.
The children’s voices rose again, this time stronger, almost triumphant.
"The one to take us out of our sorrows,
The one to save us from our doom,
Our savior clad in gold and black!"
Hans leaned in close to the window, eyes wide. "That’s new."
Harold blinked. "What?"
Hans pressed closer, pushing Harold aside just enough to see better. "That part—I don’t remember it being in the old rhyme."
The song swelled again, echoing down the streets:
"He will shout ’Hasa!’ and the enemies shall fall.
He will raise his sword and the ground shall quake.
The demons and tyrants shall crumble to dust.
The angels shall sing of his victory!"
Harold frowned. His lips pressed into a line.
Hans chuckled nervously. "See? They must’ve added new verses. never knew i would hear a song about the proclaimed child of Asmethan"
"What did you except?"
"Now that the world has heard the full prophecy, it’s shouldn’t be surprising"
"They have always waited so patiently for the chosen one and now with the prophecy now set in stone, they would soon see their saviors" Harold smirked and moved.
The next chorus rang like a thunderclap.
"Our savior in blue, with crystal eyes,
His cloak of ash and grey,
The sword of the ancients by his side.
He comes swift as the storm,
To strike them all down!
Oh, Savior—come, oh come!"
The song repeated, rolling over itself in waves. Every voice outside sang as though heaven itself had parted.
Hans’ grin faded. He looked sideways at Harold. "What do you think? Do you... actually believe it?"
Harold’s steps slowed. He stood motionless, clutching the blue book so tightly his knuckles turned white. His eyes lowered, shadowed by his glasses.
"Prophecy, oh prophecy..." Harold whispered, his tone dry. "As apprentices of Asmethan, servants of the Father... do we even have the right to reject what is spoken?"
Hans blinked. The words sounded like doctrine, but Harold’s voice dripped with bitterness.
"No," Harold continued, his voice low. "We’re told to listen and obey, even if it’s not what we want." His lips tightened, eyes dark. "But between you and me? I don’t believe it. I never did."
Hans stiffened.
Harold turned, his smirk gone, replaced with something colder. "For years, they sang these rhymes. A savior who never came. And now we’re meant to swallow a prophecy written in gold ink and pretend it means salvation?"
He gestured toward the crowd outside, their laughter reaching the sky. "Their joy is heavenly—but not everlasting. Sooner or later, when this so-called chosen fails to appear... their faith will be crushed like an insect. As if it never existed."
Hans fell silent, lips pressed thin.
Then—
Clap.
Both apprentices spun around.
A man leaned casually against the glass pillar at the end of the hall, his hands slowly coming together in measured applause. His coat was a deep midnight blue trimmed in black, the seal of the Empire stitched onto the breast. His eyes gleamed with amusement.
Aithur, the Grand Duke.
"Well," Aithur drawled, pushing off the pillar with deliberate grace. "Wasn’t that a fun little discussion?" His smirk deepened. "I thought I was the only one skeptical of the prophecy... but it seems I’ve found a friend."
Hans immediately stiffened, bowing deeply. "The children of Asmethan greet the Grand Duke!" Harold followed, though more reluctantly.
"Get up," Aithur ordered, his voice sharp. His lips curled in distaste. "I hate that greeting."
Hans straightened at once. "Forgive us, your highness. But... what brings you here? We weren’t told you would be attending."
Aithur shrugged as if it were nothing. "Because I didn’t want to come." His tone was almost mocking. He strolled forward, hands folded behind his back. "But the Emperor insisted. Word is there may be an attack today. I was ordered to remain vigilant."
Hans froze, his body tense. "An... attack?"
"You aren’t shaken?" Aithur asked, his gaze settling on Harold like a hawk.
Harold’s face was unreadable. He placed a steady hand on Hans’ trembling shoulder.
"My lack of reaction may disappoint you, Grand Duke," he said flatly. "But we’ve been trained not to be easily shaken. Those who are... are unfit to serve as holy apprentices."
Hans’ body stiffened at the jab, shame written on his face.
Aithur’s smirk widened. He raised a hand in mock surrender. "Fine. I won’t press further." He turned back toward the window, eyes scanning the distant streets.
Harold noticed.
"Are you looking for someone Grand Duke" asked Harold who now had a sickly smile.
Aithur giggled, amused. Turning back to the window.
"Not really... just waiting for that blasted knight-" he stopped.
"I meant... Count Fiorie and her party of fluffy knights"
"Oh... Miss Liliana?" Harold asked slyly, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter.
Aithur shot him a sharp glance. "What’s so funny?"
"You call her as though she were your mortal enemy."
Aithur gave no answer, only looked away, his jaw tightening.
The bells tolled.
Hans flinched. "Oh no—the prayers are about to begin. Harold, we need to go."
They bowed once more before turning to leave. Their footsteps echoed down the hall.
But Aithur lingered, his gaze locked on Harold’s retreating figure. Slowly, a sly smile curved his lips.
"What an interesting fellow," he murmured.
Harold walked stiffly beside Hans, his face betraying nothing. But once they were far enough down the corridor, his lips parted just enough for a whisper to escape.
"Damn it..."
His grip tightened on the blue book.
"They know."