"There's not a man, woman, or child in Barlovia who hasn't heard the old stories of Saint Æthelberaht. How he singlehandedly repelled the demonic hordes invading our world at the Battle of Heaven's Breach. How the gods themselves blessed him to rule the land and gave him the Divine Mark as proof of his sovereignty, passed down to each rightful heir as they ascend the throne."

Justin slowly shook his head and stared at the Ouranic script seared into his flesh in a circle around an eight-petaled flower. "... there's a few hundred generations between him and me, though, and I think the Mark got a bit confused when it landed on the back of my hand. I'm no warrior, certainly not a leader - just a junior monk who only recently progressed from Copyist to Healer-in-training. If I'm the best candidate left for the throne ... then perhaps it's a good thing Raitoria attacked when it did, eh?"