The Reversed Hierophant
Chapter 75: Assyrian Rain

Waves.

The sound of rain.

A faint woman’s song.

Rafael endured the searing pain.

He had long grown accustomed to enduring pain, whether it was having his bones broken or his heart pierced. He had accepted fate’s torments almost like a martyr, before rising again from the agony, awaiting the next trial.

He knew he was sick. In his fever-ravaged brain, a cruel sliver of clarity remained. With this rationality, he pondered his current situation, cutting away the pain that raged through his body, trying his best to recall other things to distract himself.

Florence’s municipal planning, the coup in Calais, Rome’s recent movements… and Assyria, right, Assyria. Is the Queen of Assyria truly dead?

Rafael didn’t quite believe this news. It was likely a rumor spread by the Heavenly Alliance to destabilize the Southern Sargon Dynasty’s army. In an army with only the Queen as its core, this move was undoubtedly very effective. But as long as the Queen appeared before the public, this rumor would collapse on its own. The reason it could be sent to his desk as a possible conjecture was likely because the Queen couldn’t appear now.

Not necessarily death, perhaps injury, or illness.

He thought he was thinking seriously, but the indistinct singing in the dim background always disrupted his thoughts. Rafael then vaguely realized that perhaps he was dreaming.

He always had this dream.

Waves and tides, everything was hazy and swaying, rain hitting the glass window, and the ceaseless, blurred singing of a woman.

He later learned from Sancha that the song was an Assyrian folk song, and his mother, rumored to be a prostitute, was perhaps Assyrian.

Mother, such a distant word.

When that word was mentioned, Rafael always thought of the scent from Ferrante’s mother, Lia. That scent, to Rafael who had later smelled all sorts of expensive perfumes, wasn’t very captivating—a mix of cheap powder, nearly expired perfume, and the damp, musty air permeating the lower city, all formed Lia’s unique scent.

But that woman was maternal by nature. Her fingers were soft and warm, her cheeks full, her hair voluminous, and her eyes sparkled with tear-like tenderness. When she held little Rafael, she was like the Madonna herself holding her Holy Child.

Rafael had truly and sincerely envied, even hated, Lia’s child at that time.

However, that was a long, long time ago. Rafael was no longer a foolish child yearning for maternal love. His heart now carried far too many burdens, leaving little room for himself.

Rafael pulled himself out of this unpleasant dream, vaguely hearing familiar voices conversing near his ear.

“…temperature dropping…”

“…pay attention… cold water…”

His consciousness was quickly pulled back into that tranquility, but this time, he felt as if someone was gently holding his hand.

In April, Assyria entered its rainy season. This vast land was favored by the gods, abundant in rainfall year-round, and in April and May, when sea winds blew inland, they brought even more precipitation. In Assyrian mythology, these were the tears shed by the Eternal Sky for its deceased children, and the departed souls would be cleansed of all sins in this heavy rain, re-entering the cycle of reincarnation.

But Amandra didn’t like this story. It can even be said that she hated the rainy season very much.

The greatest pain in her life came from this heavy rain.

Perhaps she was simply at odds with rainy days her whole life. The sudden downpour not only disrupted her battle plans but also allowed assassins to infiltrate her guard. Her worsening injuries prevented her from fighting again, which clearly gave the Heavenly Alliance an opportunity to spread rumors.

Amandra knew that news of her death must have spread like a plague across the Assyrian continent, perhaps even reaching the Syracuse Peninsula. The only thing she could do was to put on light armor with Ashur’s support and walk around a bit to prove that she was still very much alive.

Such a defiant act caused her wounds to reopen, even leading her into a high fever and coma.

However, the Queen’s physique was excellent. Years of court life had not eroded the strength she once possessed while galloping across the grasslands. This fierce illness only delayed her for two days, after which she began to recover at a speed that left all doctors stunned.

By the third day, she could already barely move her injured shoulder.

To care for the injured Queen, the army withdrew to the city, and the Queen was settled in a manor. Ashur pushed a dining cart into the room and saw the Queen sitting by the bed again, slowly trying to exercise her right hand.

“You’re too impatient,” the lady-in-waiting sighed helplessly.

She took the food trays from the cart and placed them on the table by the window, hearing the Queen say, “No one will wait for me to recover. This war has reached a critical point—bring the map. Where are we now?”

Upon hearing this question, Ashur’s back stiffened.

Her hesitation made the Queen a bit puzzled. Amandra slightly raised her voice, “Ashur?”

The Queen wondered, was this question so difficult to answer?

When she heard the name of the manor spoken by her cousin, the familiar yet unfamiliar name struck her like lightning, tearing down all her defenses.

“The Saint-Sandrine Manor,” Ashur said with a hint of inexplicable caution and sorrow in her tone. “We are at Saint-Sandrine Manor, Your Majesty. This is the only place nearby where you can rest.”

Saint-Sandrine Manor.

This was the manor her father had gifted her, but the last time she had been here was twenty-five years ago.

“It seemed to be raining just as heavily outside that day,” Amandra said softly. “I was in such agonizing pain. In my life before then, I had never experienced such torment. I thought Delacroix’s departure was the most painful thing for me, and then I realized that was merely an insignificant little hurdle.”

Ashur placed a cup of Melada on the table and softly asked, “Do you regret it?”

Amandra seemed to let out a laugh before denying it firmly: “No. I have never regretted it. Even now, I say that giving birth to Rafael was one of the proudest moments of my life.”

As these words fell, a clap of thunder suddenly roared outside the window, as if the heavens themselves roared in fury.

These words were enough to make the hair of all who heard them stand on end, filling them with insurmountable fear.

No one knew that Princess Sancha was not Queen Amandra’s only child. Before her, Amandra, while still a princess, had given birth to a child in Assyria.

And this child had now become the monarch of Florence, controlling the faith of hundreds of millions across the continent.

This was something even Rafael himself did not know.

His mother was not some lowly prostitute; on the contrary, she possessed one of the noblest origins in the world, crowned in glory—a princess, a queen, the sapphire that illuminated all of Assyria.

As the torrential rain poured down, Amandra felt as if she had returned to more than twenty years ago. The decaying past rose before her once more. She thought she had long forgotten everything, but when Ashur uttered the name Saint-Sandrine Manor, she belatedly realized she had never truly forgotten.

This house was entirely different from twenty-five years ago. The wallpaper, paintings, and the drapes on the four-poster bed had all been replaced. This was why she hadn’t recognized it immediately. But looking closely, there was an inconspicuous scratch on the ceiling, a mark that couldn’t be concealed even with a new chandelier. Normally, no one would notice it, but she had given birth on that bed, groaning in pain, and during the long, interminable hours, she had stared at that scratch, idly imagining the child she was about to bear. Immense pain and sweetness had overwhelmed her like a tide.

Oh god, this was undoubtedly the cruelest thing in the world.

As a mother, she clearly knew her child’s fate even before she had seen him.

Amandra was only eighteen that year.

When she was fourteen, Archbishop Delacroix of Valencia was hired as the princess’s religious studies teacher, instructing her in all religious knowledge. The Syracuse Peninsula did not worship the Eternal Sky; they worshipped the Supreme Holy Lord, and the Assyrian princess had never encountered this religion before.

At that time, Delacroix was young, handsome, and remarkably intelligent. Falling in love with him was not a difficult thing. They became lovers when Amandra was seventeen, even though they both knew that Amandra was already chosen as the Queen of the Roman Empire.

They galloped through the wilderness, embracing and kissing in meadows and by streams, openly and passionately declaring their love for each other. Unlike the rigid and constraining court of Syracuse, Assyria’s winds and rains were free. Their love grew unscrupulously, spreading wildly in the moonlight and tides. This wildfire consumed the future Pope and Queen, who cast aside all identities and shackles, ultimately burning and merging into one.

They were both calmer and more clear-headed than anyone else. Even in their most infatuated moments, they never asked each other for a future. They both knew clearly that they could not have more; this love was destined to become a secret buried in the dust, unknown to anyone.

The following year, the Portia family sent a letter, hoping to form a marriage alliance with the Claudius family. Delacroix, as one of the best candidates, left Assyria.

A month after he left, Amandra discovered she was pregnant.

The young princess decided to give birth to the child without any hesitation.

Although she knew perfectly well what the best option was, perhaps it was that rare bit of tenderness that made her discard that cruel choice. She wrote to Delacroix, and he agreed to take the child after its birth, as his nephew or niece. This was not a big problem.

Illegitimate children were common in every noble family, and it was even more normal for men to have illegitimate children. If Amandra wasn’t about to become the Queen of Rome, she wouldn’t even mind keeping the child by her side.

Two months later, Amandra secretly traveled to Saint-Sandrine Manor to await the birth.

The newly married Delacroix sent a letter from the Papal States. He hoped the child would be named Rafael, the Archangel who served beside the Holy Lord, overseeing light and justice. Legend had it that this Archangel was beautiful and gentle; where He passed, spring bloomed. The Holy Lord favored Him as He loved His own Holy Son, letting the morning star of the heavens eternally illuminate His path forward.

Five months later, Princess Amandra gave birth to a boy at Saint-Sandrine Manor.

“If all goes well, he will never know who his mother is in this life,” the young princess murmured, holding the newborn infant, pressing her cheek against his pink skin. “He has the noblest lineage in the world, yet he is destined to endure the most profound torment.”

The princess gazed at her eldest son. The baby, eyes closed, huddled in his mother’s arms, babbling meaningless sounds. His fetal hair clung to his head, and his tiny fingers lovingly gripped his mother’s much larger ones, resting securely and trustingly in the embrace of the person who loved him unconditionally in this world.

He was still so small, with a round, soft face, delicate features, and pink skin, cuter than the most expensive doll.

The tiny infant did not know that his life had already been written in thorns.

He would be abandoned, tormented, hurt, used, betrayed, until he ushered in the eternal peace of death.

Amandra held the newborn in her arms. Outside the window, rain poured, thunder and lightning raged incessantly, as if the gods were condemning the birth of this sinful fruit of love.

The princess pricked her finger, and crimson blood welled up. She brought her finger close to the little infant’s mouth, which was mouthing, trying to find nourishment. The warm blood rolled into the child’s mouth, becoming his first sustenance after entering the world.

“Your life will be fraught with hardship,” Amandra looked at her oblivious eldest son with pity. “I cannot grant you flowers and honey. I can only give you the cruelest weapon.”

“The first sip you take in this life is your mother’s blood. It protects you from the harm of blades and poisons, keeping the shadow of death far from you.”

She softly hummed a lullaby, one that every Assyrian mother would sing to her child. Her mother had sung it to her, and now she sang it to hers.

“My little angel,” Amandra whispered, “My little angel.”

She reverently pressed a mother’s kiss on the child’s forehead. In the many years that followed, every time she kissed her little daughter, she would recall this unique, singular kiss given to the child she had lost.

“Goodnight, my little angel.”

She handed the child to Ashur, who had been waiting by the bed for a long time.

Delacroix’s knights were already waiting downstairs. They would take this child to his father.

However, things did not go as smoothly as they had imagined. The infant disappeared shortly after leaving the manor. The knights’ bodies were found in the meadow, and someone who had been prepared had abducted this sensitive child.

Pain gnawed at the young mother’s heart day and night. She nearly went mad trying to find her lost child, but half a year later, news of a change in the Roman’s throne arrived. The young monarch donned his crown and came to claim his Queen as promised.

Assyria lost their princess, Rome had a new Queen, and as for the missing child—

It would be many years before Amandra finally understood the truth.

Author’s Note:

This chapter is a bit heavy on information, hahaha… The reason Amandra hates the rain is finally revealed! Rafael also hates the rain, so this mother and son have a strange tacit understanding… but Rafael hates rainy days because his leg was broken on a rainy day and Amandra hates rainy days because she lost her child during a rainstorm.

Regarding Rafael’s background, it was mentioned subtly in a previous chapter. Every meeting between him and Amandra was carefully considered, with many small details. Amandra called Delacroix a “scumbag with no teacher’s ethics,” which is truly fitting… Everyone can go back to Chapter 39 to see; when Amandra and Sancha interacted, she mentioned “little angel,” which referred to Rafael. Sancha is “little sun,” I wonder if anyone noticed, hahaha.

Sancha and Rafael have such a good relationship because they are related by blood~

Knowing this, many previous clues can now be tied together!

• Click to share on X (Opens in new window) X
• Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook