The name of the Caelora Empire comes from the ancient language—"Caelum," meaning heaven and "Ora"—coast. Heavens Coast. Founded two thousand years ago by Marcel, a legendary warrior, and Saint Aurelia, the bearer of divine light. Their union marked a bond between earth and sky.
Under Emperor Marcel the First, Caelora became a land of justice, fairness, and enduring prosperity, marking the bright empire's history.
Years passed, and even in idyllic times, dark legends emerged. Among the many whispered in taverns was the tale of the Justice Bearer, Saint Seraphina's so-called "blade." A mysterious figure, the divine hand of justice, sent to punish wrongs and restore balance where corruption emerged. Whether this figure was real or myth remained debated—some dismissed it as bedtime stories told to noble children, while others claimed to have witnessed its aftermath.
It was 2135 after the Caelora era. Beginning of autumn.
In a modest room, the morning sun crept through the small, round window glasses, shedding soft lines across the floor. The room filled with the gentle chirping of birds and the distant hum of the busy streets outside.
In bed, a young girl named Verina, no older than sixteen. Verina's body shook as she slept, her fear clear in every tremor. She awoke with a loud gasp. Her heart racing from a vivid dream that had left her disoriented.
"Again…"
The dream was always the same. Shadowy silhouette, dagger, pools of blood, and a sense of cold she could not grasp.
Verina, rubbing her eyes, sat up and glided through her simple room: plain walls, a small window overlooking the busy street, and a modest wooden table with nothing but dust on it.
She wore work clothes. It was a plain grey dress with elbow-length sleeves. Some patches here and there, yet clean. In the mirror stood a slender body with wavy chestnut hair. On her bony face, emerald eyes, and a mole under her left eyebrow. Full but cracked lips.
Her green eyes Verina liked the most, it reminded her of her mother who passed away two years ago. However, she couldn't stand her hair, because it was from her so-called father. She does not know who he is. All she knew—he was a noble. Does she want to know more? She denied with a frown.
"I am indifferent about his whereabouts…. Ah, it's time to go!"
To earn for a living alone, Verina works in the local bakery where she kneads dough and serves customers. Work there was hard, but it was necessary to survive.
While going to the bakery, she always enjoys the bustle in the village. She likes it when the streets are alive - children's voices, merchants' shouts, horses' hooves clattering on the pavement. She loves it. This is the only thing that brings pleasure in her routine-filled life. After her mother's death, she hardly ever has such feelings.
Finally, on the other end of the village, was the bakery, tucked within the noble district, stood with its tall windows and polished stone exterior. Inside, rich wooden floors and burgundy flowered walls added warmth, while glass cases displayed delicate pastries—flaky tarts, almond croissants, and intricately decorated cakes. The air was fragrant with cinnamon and honey, while nobles savoured their treats, seated on velvet chairs.
Behind the lavish storefront, the reality was far grimmer. The kitchen, cramped and dimly lit, smelled less of cinnamon and more of smoke. Flour and grease coated the worn stone floors, while the heat from the ovens made the air stifling. The workers, including Verina, moved in a rush, their hands blistered from constant labour. There was no elegance here—just the clang of pots, barked orders, and the pressure to meet the demands of nobles who never saw the hard work behind their perfect pastries.
The biggest problem for the owner of the bakery was with Verina. Mrs. Voundenbaum always scolded the girl for spilt flour or dropped bowl. The reason was always there. Today was no exception.
With a loud blow at the back of Verina's head, Mrs. Voundenbaum shouted.
"Ahhh! This orphan never learns!"
Another blow.
"How many times should I repeat not to give leftover bread to the poor? Uh?!"
At such moments, Verina felt great humility. With her teeth gritted in pain, she said.
"Please forgive me, Lady-"
"Then those animals stand stinking at the windows, scaring my customers away, and you dare to seek forgiveness??!!" The woman said with another slap, now in the face.
[This selfish witch! The remains of bread get burned either way! Employees don't even get a bite… I am doing this purely for money.]
She thought, kneeling with her hair on her face. She bent her head as low as possible. Verina pleaded.
"Please…. Please! Forgive me for the last time! I will never do this again, Mrs. Voundenbaum!"
"It's going to be your last time." The furious woman said coldly.
After that, Verina sighed. She knew that no one else would take her. Only as a slave. Her friend Sofia set her up in the bakery. She works there as well.
"That crazy goat… Verina! Are you all right? Maybe I can bring something cool from the basement to put on your head?" Sofia asked.
"No, I am okay. I will just go out there for a bit. The fresh air will help." Verina said.
Sofia smiled and nodded.
Meanwhile, she took a moment to rest as she sat on the stoned stairs at the workers' entrance, her gaze glancing at the remote church with a luxury tower built in the name of Saint Seraphine. The sight of the church stirred something in Verina. Was it a sense of connection? Yes. It was a sense of connection she could not fully comprehend. Subconsciously, dreams, dark figures and this church seemed intertwined.
"Maybe I just have a strong sense of justice?"
She muttered to herself, shrugged her shoulders as she went back to work.