In the Holy Hall of the, there was no architecture.
No walls. No ceiling. No floor. Only light — primal, unborn, the white-gold radiance that existed before creation learned the word shadow. It was not illumination. It was essence. The raw, searing marrow of purity itself, so absolute and infinite that even beings like ARIA and Senithe would dissolve into ecstatic ash merely by existing within its presence.
Nothing lived here.
Nothing could.
Except her.
At the absolute center of this furnace of holiness — if a thing without dimension could have a center — knelt a being.
Golden wings folded tight against her spine, tucked like a fortress around herself, the tips of her primaries curving upward past her shoulders like divine blades. They were vast — each wing spanning what would be fifteen feet if measurement had meaning in this place — and they burned.
Not with heat but with purpose.
