A perfumed breeze chased the amused women gossiping beneath canopies of red silk, their laughter mingled with the voices of children running past dazzling stores selling the most precious garment. The tiredness in the eyes of the men walking to their work wasn't hollowed by hunger or sickness but instead dulled by the weight of comfort. Everyone seemed painfully unaware that their privileged serenity was built atop betrayal.
Damien kept at pace, his footsteps echoing against cobblestone too clean for anyone born in exile.
He arrived here in a caravan, disguised as a fortunate vagrant, one of those rare few who awakened to Solence far from the empire's gaze. The road behind him had been long, passing through landscapes that shed their forgotten skin and bloomed anew with monuments of saints, their faces polished by ritual hands.
"The divine folks sure love to leave their mark on the lands they still smile upon," he thought to himself, winding by yet another glinting shrine.
His mission here was simple. Firstly, he was to enter the Académie de l'Aube Sanctifiée, an institution designed to separate the faithful from the unworthy. There, he was to observe their every move, and shine just brightly enough to slip past the veil of divinity and into the empire's sacred walls, where the truth hid beneath polished marble and golden scripture.
Upon turning a corner near a shrine gate, distracted by the strange, low hum in the air, he collided shoulder-first into a man cloaked in heavy linen.
They shared a brief, wordless moment. The man seemed to study Damien, not his face, but something beneath it. Then, with quiet reverence, he placed the wooden cross wrapped around his hand against his chest.
"Be careful, young man." the man murmured, his voice coarse like ancient parchment, "may the Light of Solence guide your steps."
He offered a brief nod, and disappeared into the crowd before Damien even had a chance to respond.
Something about the man stuck with him, a wheel carved into the flesh of his hands, faintly pulsing with light. Damien had seen it before, but he couldn't quite figure out where.
As he approached the plaza, he noticed a seemingly large group of people crowding around something, or rather someone. They were walking next to a boy.
A boy no older than his own age.
His hair was as white as woven snow, falling gently over his long lashes. There was a glyph etched below it, floating in his cortex, too complicated for any ordinary man to decipher. He was draped in ceremonial silks that shimmered like water under moonlight in the quietest of mountains. People parted like waves before him, basking in his unnatural grace. Damien stared from afar, unsettled.
To him, it was obvious who this was. The one the prophecy foretold.
The only one who could stand up to the Fallen. The one his presumed destiny was tied to.
An angel among men. A mirror of light.
The Sainted.
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"Even now, his presence shifts the balance. Solence answers him without prayer. The people love him. They will never question him."
"And what of me?" Damien had asked.
Lucien didn't speak for a long time.
"You… are the knife behind the veil. A child of both lights, yet heir to none. Not the prophecy—but its overseer."
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The building where the registration hall was situated was shaped like a colossal cathedral, embedded with sacred runes and letterings swirling in soft humming light. The front desk inside was occupied by a man robed in garment drawn from the finest of cloth found in the highest of cities.
Upon noticing Damien staring, the man glanced above his glasses and queried,
"And… you are?"
"I came to meet a man named Fragon. Could you tell him that 'Blind-Eye' sent word?"
"I am Fragon." His eyebrows twitched a little.
"And I do not wish to call him by that silly moniker of his."
The man looked visibly annoyed as he approached Damien hurriedly. Grabbing onto his shoulder, he said,
"And do not throw around that title hastily."
Damien swept away his hand in equal frustration.
"It's not like I want to refer to that old man by anything other than a geezer."
After sharing a smile reflecting their shared dislike for the old soul, he stamped a form and handed him a thin, glowing band. It looked like a branded sigil.
"Oh yes, I still need to write down your glyph. What is it that you've hidden underneath there?", the old man queried with curiosity.
His eyes widened when he saw the symbol flicker beneath his hood. From a distance, the glyph looked like a faint shimmer in his iris, but up close, it's unmistakably divine, ancient, watching.
Even a child could decipher what those spirals represented.
The Sanctiglyph of Veiled Light.
The man regained some composure and continued, "Ah, right. I see it, don't worry. Enter the grand hall. The rest will be explained to you there."
There were murmurs behind him as other students filed in, most clad in radiant robes and bearing the crest of noble houses. Their words rang hollow in Damien's ears as he chose to ignore them. Likewise, despite a few casting curious glances his way, none dared to approach the stranger without a banner.
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At the stairs of the grand hall, Damien found himself in a crowd surrounding a man of grandeur comparable to Lucien himself.
Between his fingers, a chess piece—the Bishop—twisted back and forth with a silent rhythm of restless thought. At his hip hung a tome bound in chain and waxen seal— the Lex Vitae, a record of all those who had entered, failed, or ascended through the gates of this academy. Whispers followed him like a shadow. A few of the rumours across the room claimed that he once led the Ninth Choir into a battle against a fractured Abyss, coming out victorious, but alone. No one knew for certain what lies were hidden behind his calm demeanor.
But everyone, regardless of House, creed, or heritage, knew one truth:
When the Magister speaks, one must be listening with unfaltering attention.
"Welcome, Aspirants. I am Magister Legolas Alexander, Senior Administrator of Académie de l'Aube Sanctifiée. I will be invigilating the finest batch of this year's examinees."
With a slight pause and a quick look around the crowd, he continued,
"Today might be the day you realise your true purpose, witness where you stand in the sea of talent that will one day lead our nation in the near future."
He spread his arms as a sense of catharsis appeared in his face. Proudly, he proclaimed,
"Over a century ago, in the wake of the Second Calamity, when the Infernal Gates breached the Weeping Horizon, it was this academy, its Exorcists, its visionaries, its Saints, who forged the Nine-Seal Doctrine that preserved our empire. Many of you wear the blood of those saviors. You might not have felt it just yet, but your noble crests, the banners and accessories that grace shoulders show more than just mere monetary merrit. They are tradition objectified."
After taking a glance at the list of names, his gaze broke from the crowd—settling, pointed and silent, on Damien.
"Others… arrive by less traditional means."
Damien's gaze lowered, feigning honour.
A curious hand raised from within the crowd. A girl, no older than Damien himself, with golden hair reaching barely the end of her ears, looked at the Magister with unparalleled reverence.
"Yes, child, what is it that your spirit seeks to know?"
Her voice, gentler than the winter wind, rose in quiet calm:
"What dangers might we expect from these trials, Lord Magister?
"If you've made it this far in your pampered lives, cared for by the very people you wish to be, you already know the rites, the scriptures, and the weight of your glyph. If you don't, then your ignorance shall be your tutor—and likely your executioner."
The Magister took a few long paces toward the girl, his presence cloaked in a stillness that made the air feel heavier. Her spine stiffened, lips parting as if to speak again, but no sound came. Instead, she could only look down in fear.
"Three trials," the magister put his fingers up, "In these three trials, you will be tested on your ability, your belifs and your will. Prove your worth to the Guild Leaders tonight and you might just get lucky enough to join their entourage."
Finally looking at her, he graces the crowd with a smile and speaks again,
"Threat not, should you choose to forfeit your trial, you need only summon a Circle upon the sigil embedded in your wrist. The seal shall bear your withdrawal in silence."
Walking back to the podium, he declares with slight frustration, "But don't let cowardice dictate your life!"
"You will be watched. You will be judged. The Sanctified Flame that once crowned the Blessed Grand Warden will burn just as mercilessly beneath your feet."
"Now… the chambers await. May the Light of Solence guide your steps."
The atmosphere wasn't exactly the most pleasant to endure. No-one knew for sure, despite months and even years of preparation, what truly awaited them inside the chambers, not even the examiners himself. Yet, the heaviness shifted swiftly when the first name was called out with a rather unexpected title.
"The crystal declares: Our Sainted Light, Valen Seraphiel, shall step into Chamber One."
Murmurs spread throughout the hall.
"Everyone here probably already knows of the announcement declared by the holy empire when the public witnessed him firsthand, but if I must repeat, standing before us is someone truly special."
Like before, expressionlessly, he ascended the steps to the podium in silent grace. His white robes catched the cathedral light as if woven from sanctified dawn. His golden eyes held no fear or hesitation. Everyone present looked to him in awe, but not a word was said. Perhaps not to disturb his lack of urgency, or maybe out of fear of being judged by the one titled 'The Saviour of Mankind'.
"And Damien, the Outlander, to Chamber Nine"