The sound of the roaring arena varnished behind like a tide pulled back. Damien entered through one of the smaller doors that had been carved into the wooden barriers surrounding the arena. Then a small archway, and a sharp right, leading him to a large space, brimming with golden light coming from its every corner.
The walls of that room depicted the Four Archangels in their most monumental forms, descending from the heavens in radiant fury. Gabriel stood amongst them with a trumpet in hand, lifting fallen warriors to safety. Raphael, his palm upon mother Earth, stitched back the broken rifts with threads of light. Uriel casted divine fire into the gaping maw where the infernal serpents withered. And in the center, there was Michael.
The divine warrior loomed over the rest, arms wide, swords raised. He shone the brightest, with crimson paint leathered across his chest. His white wings forced justice upon the Fallen, and in his hand was a gold flame that never dimmed to darkness.
Placed beyond the divine murals and celestial statues, Damien noticed a throne, empty and untouched, as though awaiting its rightful heir. Hovering above it, nine luminous halos glowed with reverence. The highest amongst them held a sigil depicting the Cherubim, and past them, the ceiling gave way to curling carvings of clouds, as if Heaven itself was emerging from stone.
"May the flame of Solence burn falsehood from your soul."
An ancient script, uttered today by the most ordinary of men, shone softly from within the stellar fog.
He had no time to admire it.
Four figures in robes of white and gold emerged from behind the pillar-lined shadows. They each wore the insignia of the Holy Inquisition: a burning eye surrounded by thorns.
The middle one, older and sharp-featured, spoke first. "State your name. Your origin. Your allegiance."
"I hail from the southern stretch of Erwyn, a village in the far woods. My allegiance lies with Solence." The boy said without hesitation. His eyes didn't blink.
An alibi for him had been seeded carefully into the church records months prior, planted by hands that knew how to rewrite truth. It clearly showed news of a child awakening suddenly in the far south. There was no reason they'd question it.
The second inquisitor, younger and hawk-eyed, stepped forward.
"Then explain this." She raised her hand, floating upon it a second circle glyph of projection—an echo pulled from within one of the trials of the chamber.
It showed the demon of the Seventh Circle, its stitched mouth parting as it hissed out an acknowledgement of Damien's origin.
Damien's breath halted in place, but he didn't flinch.
"What did it mean?" the fourth inquisitor demanded. "Why would an infernal beast sense Witherflow in one chosen by Solence?"
Instead of answering, Damien looked up to meet their prying gaze.
His Sanctiglyph danced across his eye. The Veiled Light swirling in layered geometry, its circles cascading like raised flags of victory caught in wind. One of the inquisitors— the third, the silent one—stepped back involuntarily, awe flickering across her face.
"Before boarding the caravan, I was briefly stranded in the Southern Plateau. There, I came face to face with an Infernal being I never hoped to witness."
He sighed, his breath trembling.
"I didn't know what to do. None of my attempts to seal it worked. When I was at the brink of collapse and ready to surrender my life to the high heavens," he glanced up, "I met this man."
Damien continued slowly, "He wore the old garb of Veyrants—red with black lining, marked by the twin-coil emblem."
The inquisitors exchanged glances.
"I didn't catch his name," Damien added, eyes narrowing slightly. Perhaps in confusion and self doubt over this narrative.
"But he muttered something before vanishing. A phrase, or maybe a chant."
He paused—then spoke it, slowly.
"Blood is the seal. Memory, the oath. And silence, the sanctuary."
The room froze.
The first inquisitor's eyes widened. "That chant…"
The second inhaled sharply. "Lucien."
The name cracked across the sanctum like thunder.
The third inquisitor finally spoke, with a dry and cold shudder,
"But Archbishop, that's impossible!"
Damien said nothing. He watched their reaction.
"Is he finally making a move?," the second, who Damien finally recognised as the Archbishop of the Holy Cathedral, snapped.
"It's not possible," said the first, more softly. "He was exiled, branded with wounds he couldn't have possibly recovered from."
The atmosphere had shifted. Damien could feel it—the heat of inquiry had turned. He was no longer prey. He was the messenger.
"Where?" asked the first inquisitor. "Where exactly did you see him?"
"The area seemed like it was on the West of the Misty Cliffs. I saw him alone. After his fight with the one that pierced the boundary, he disappeared into the smoke and shadow." Upon finishing the sentence, Damien looked around nervously. Knowing that the attention had shifted from him, he asked with a quivering voice,
"Uh—Am I in trouble? Can I leave?"
Ignoring his plea with only an annoyed glance thrown, the third inquisitor stepped forward again, urgency now replacing suspicion. "We must inform the Circle. If Lucien lives strong—"
"Damnation might follow," the second uttered. The first then added further,
"If we don't go after him right now, it WILL follow."
Amidst their arguments over jurisdiction, Damien remained still, watching.
———————————————————————
Whilst patiently judging their frenzy, Damien remembered last week's commune, in the outpost, when the wind would scream as it passed from within the pine trees, and the fire in Lucien's quarters would burn bright.
Lucien had summoned him often during those final weeks before his departure. Not always to speak. Sometimes the Warden would simply stare out the tower window, eyes scanning the night-broken horizon, waiting for nothing in particular. On rare occasions, he would choose to talk. He spoke as if Damien's future had already been decided. As if he'd known this moment would come.
One night, Damien had finally asked him the question that had been gnawing away at his thoughts for days:
What would happen if they sensed the Wither in him? What if even a sliver of it somehow bled into his glyphwork?
Upon hearing it, Lucien only turned from the frost-bitten window, the half-burned cigar still glowing between two fingers. There was weariness in his face then—more than age, more than exile. It was the weight of someone who'd already lived out the war the world hadn't even begun to witness.
Then, almost too lightly, Lucien suggested,
"Blame me."
His response felt practiced as well.
He said those words with a tired grin, as if he was offering an unsatisfying solution to an otherwise unsolvable riddle to Damien.
"If the inquisitors caught a trace of your Wither, just mention me. Tell them you came across me on a stroll, or on a deserted isle, and had infernal dust placed upon accidentally."
He blew out a puff of smoke.
"The empire fears me more than they will ever feel threatened by you, an anonymous boy from the outer edges. Chasing you instead of me would be like waking up to a shattered window and running after a strong breeze while the real thief loomed in the alley.
And with that one line, he'd checkmated Damien.
Not through threat. Through foresight. Through a strange, unbearable form of care.
———————————————————————
When the memory faded, the smell of incense returned. The present came back with a cold clarity.
A few moments later, the robed inquisitors returned. Their mood had changed once more—this time, formal again, clinical.
One of them brought out a delicate prism of blessed crystal, traced with the spiral sigils of detection. It hovered above Damien's chest, glowed faintly, then spun as if caught in silent wind. No corruption erupted from it. But a faint residue shimmered across his collar and left sleeve—dust-like motes the crystal clung to.
The youngest inquisitor stepped forward, narrowing her eyes.
"Not Witherflow," she said at last. "But… remnants."
The older one clarified. "Traces of Fractured Twilight. A glyph that's been banned since Lucien's exile. It seems to have clung to your outerwear. Possibly… a side effect of close contact."
Damien did not speak. He didn't need to.
They exchanged nods, came to a decision.
"This does not count as a violation. The glyph is unstable, but dormant. So long as you are not found attempting to invoke or replicate its structure, you are… cleared. For now."
The third added, "A formal investigation into Lucien's whereabouts will proceed immediately. Should we require further testimony, you will be summoned."
The door behind them opened with a low groan.
Damien bowed his head—not in reverence, but in exit.
And with that, the trial was over.
He was free.
At least until the next board was set.
———————————————————————
And with that, the curtains rose!
A deep gush of ecstasy rose from all sides of the arena, and the wind—buzzing with songs of jubilance—lifted the banners high in front of the setting sun. They streamed down from the watchtowers above like rivers of silk, each bearing its own crest and color, each tethered to a balcony carved into the very bones of the arena wall. There were five in total—five guilds whose names shaped the future of this holy realm, whose reach extended far beyond even the capital's high walls.
From the lowest seats to the furthest edge of the stone coliseum, silence took hold.
Damien stepped out onto the stone dais along with the remaining candidates. Shadows pooled underfoot, cast by the torchlight lining the inner walls. High above, the guild leaders began to rise.
The first banner shimmered like liquid sapphire under the orange horizon.
The Azure Lances.
Known for choosing only the most tactical minds, they were a guild of scholars as much as warriors. Seated behind it was a man bearing sky-blue hair that curled and fell in tidy strands over the right side of his face, half-concealing a pair of narrow, crystalline spectacles. His robes were modest, but his eyes whispered of arcane brilliance.
Next to it hung the red banner, almost aflame in the wind.
The Radiant Choir.
A name that once struck terror into the infernal hordes. Rumours suggested to Damien that it was a guild as flamboyant as it was feared, their battles were often accompanied by loud hymns and fanfare. Standing tall atop the banner stood their unmistakable leader—a man whose eyes glinted with mischief and divine madness, framed in bold red shadow and golden mane that flowed like molten sunlight. There was a constant mirth to him, the kind that mocked death and kissed danger on the cheek.
To the right, a green banner moved with the grace of leaves in a timeless forest.
The Elven Ivy.
A guild shrouded in nature's oldest laws, open only to those of elven blood flowing through them. Behind it, half-consumed by the shadows of her accompanying attendances, sat a woman drowning herself in self-imposed silence. Damien couldn't make out her face—hidden behind a veil of platinum hair, so long it spilled over the edge of the confines of her seat like a waterfall under moonlight. There was something ancient about her posture. She did not make purposeless moves. Every action was accounted for.
Next came a golden banner, vibrant and armored with glossy accessories announcing the importance of their presence.
Its surface bore the name: The Nobles of Grace.
On the resplendent throne featuring their crowns, sat a knightly figure, unmoving and regal. She was wearing ceremonial armor engraved with her house's crest, a white sash cinched with medals of Solence, and a sword resting upon her lap—not as a threat, but as proof. This was a woman born into war, yet bound by dignity.
And then—a gap. An empty balcony, its seat vacant. Yet in front of it, hung the purest of the banners. White, with flecks of gold carefully spun through its borders like threads of light.
It was the only one Damien recognised personally. Not out of instinct, but hatred.
This was The Celestial Accord, the holy sword of the empire and the hand of the Grand Warden himself. Though its leader was not present, his shadow loomed long enough to command respect in absence. Damien felt the weight of that banner more than any other. It was clean. Immaculate. But so painfully sterile it almost hurt to look at for long.
The remaining two banners were not yet unfurled.
Before Damien could study them, a voice cracked across the arena like a whip of flame.
"LET THE CEREMONY COMMENCE!"
The echo snapped the air in half. Curious heads turned to the circular platform above the arena's center, where a single figure now posed—arms wide, face alight.
There stood a girl with hair done in twin fiery pigtails that flared like torches. Her crimson coat danced with every motion, and her voice carried all the voltage of a war drum.
"In accordance with Imperial Edict and by the will of the Holy Guild Conclave," she bellowed, "the assigning of the new initiates shall begin! May the banners rise, and the fates fall where destiny calls them!"
She paused to look around the select few students that had all finally made it past the entrance exam.
"And with that, may the flame of Solence bless you all!"