The stairwell arched into a dome-shaped chamber suspended high above the main atrium—a glass pavilion held by nothing but latticework beams of iridescent mineral and concentric rings of floating script. From the transparent walls, Lynchie could see the whole of Caelorum Spire below: a city built upon layered petals of sky, where aqueducts flowed like rivers of light and creatures of dream roamed freely. No place she had ever glimpsed, even in her visions, held such woven majesty.
A dozen initiates stood around the circular floor of the chamber, each separated by a glowing ring. Every ring bore distinct sigils pulsing in rhythm to the individual within. Lynchie stepped toward hers, and the moment her foot crossed the threshold, her breath caught—as if something unseen recognized her.
"Let not the silence within this circle be mistaken for ignorance," came a voice from above.
Descending like a falling veil, a tall figure in robes of mirrored stars and midnight silver emerged from the upper air. No wings, yet they glided downward without a ripple of resistance. The figure bore no face, only a mask shaped like a crescent moon, its edges dripping faint golden tears.
"I am Scriptor Lumen, Keeper of the Unvoiced Vow."
Every student bowed instinctively. Lynchie remained still, eyes locked on the mask. Something within her stirred, as if her soul had read those golden tears before.
"Before you lies your first vow," the Scriptor intoned. "Each ring responds not to voice, nor gesture, nor intent—but to truth. Here, names matter. Here, silence is sacred."
A soft hum began to rise from the floor beneath each initiate's feet—not sound, but resonance. Words that had not been spoken began to surface in the minds of each candidate. Phrases they'd never confessed. Wishes unvoiced. Fears tucked away.
"Your circles shall reveal what you have never told another soul. That is your offering."
The humming grew. The rings flared.
One by one, students stumbled. A girl wept as a ghostly projection of a lost sibling hovered over her head. Another boy fell to his knees as an image of blood-soaked hands clutched a broken sword before him. Secrets became oaths. Grief, confessions.
Lynchie stood still within her ring. Her hands trembled.
Nothing emerged.
Only silence. Perfect and unshattered.
The mask turned toward her.
"Yours," the Scriptor whispered, "is the vow that even silence fears to hold."
Lynchie's ring turned black for an instant—a void, starless, bottomless—before it erupted in a prism of color not yet named. Her body seized, eyes wide, her breath drawn out of her as if it had forgotten how to return. Visions cascaded in a flash: a tree of gold burning in reverse, a spiral glyph forming from shattered bone, and a bell tolling across the void with no sound at all.
Then it stopped.
Her knees struck the floor.
And the bell above them, silent until now, rang once.
Not in air.
But in soul.
Everyone heard it. Everyone froze.
The vow had been accepted.
"She carries a splinter," whispered the masked Scriptor.
And then—the chamber shuddered.
Far below, something ancient stirred beneath the observatory.
A watching eye. A sealed name. A forgotten glyph...
And Lynchie, still gasping, could feel something in her blood begin to move.
Not awaken. Remember.