The ceilings here were different.
White, polished, with fine carvings of the Empire's halos etched between hanging chandeliers. Damien watched them disappear in and out of focus, partly from the drifting sunlight, partly from the haze in his thoughts. His bed was soft. Too soft. Like it had never once belonged to a soldier. The stillness here wasn't the same as the one found in exile—it was too curated, crafted for purpose. Even the stillness wore a robe.
He turned his head.
The walls were stained glass mosaics of saints, lips parted in prayer. Outside, through the balcony doors, the hum of life wandered in on the wings of wind. Merchants argued over the price of goods.Children cried over trinkets their mothers refused to buy. A pack of well-dressed girls laughed behind the fold of their fans. The city had awakened without him, and somehow, it was a relief
The sound of last night's ceremony clung to the city like a fever dream. From his balcony, Damien watched the glittered individuals dance on the streets. Streamers fluttered like broken feathers. A parade below sang songs of triumph. But all he could hear was a single question, crashing in his ears like surf:
His mind drifted off to when he stepped off the center stage.
Students parted from in front of him like the tide around a stain. Their voices whispered behind sleeves:
"Do you think it was because of that Third Circle glyph?" someone whispered near the back, just loud enough to be heard over the dispersing applause.
Another voice, older, chimed in,
"Then why didn't the other captains bother to stand?"
From further down the hall, a girl murmured to her friend,
"Do you think it's a similar situation to the Sainted one?"
Her companion scoffed, "But the announcer didn't even say anything. No decree. Nothing."
A group huddling near the stairs exchanged looks—speculating what secrets this boy held for the holiest to be interested in him. Each glance Damien passed through felt heavier than the last, and they were layered with silent judgment. As if they were trying to fit him into a story that hadn't yet been written.
He said nothing and walked quietly. Ignored the glances. The boy from earlier, the one who scoffed before the trial, now wore the Nobles of Grace's crest on his cloak. He held disdain on his face. Damien met his judging gaze briefly, without blinking.
Then, from beside the marble path, Valen Seraphiel spoke—without even looking his way.
"Which cathedral do you hail from?"
Damien was a bit taken aback by this sudden greeting. Carefully, he replied,
"Not a cathedral, a village, actually. To the far south."
That earned him a sideways glance.
"Strange," Valen said,
"You summon as if you've been taught the same way I was."
He finally shared a complete look towards Damien.
Smiling, he continued,
"It is as if Solence has taught you herself."
Damien didn't answer that.
"I'm Valen Seraphiel," the boy said, offering nothing more than his name, "Though… I imagine you already know that."
"I'm Damien Everwinter," he returned softly. "Nice to meet you, Valen."
Valen's smile grew fainter, then he turned his eyes back to the evening clouds.
As Valen turned away and returned to his quiet, distant gaze, Damien let out a slow sigh of relief. The moment it escaped his lips, however, he caught himself.
Was this scenario truly something to be relieved about?
He glanced down at his hands. No tremble, no glyph stirred. Just skin, calloused and still.
Yet inside, the question lingered like a splinter in thought.
Why him?
He found himself looking up at Orion, unsure whether or not it was with contempt or admiration.
The church likely made that decision out of caution. His secrecy was now bannered with eyes from all around the academy.
Yet, at the same time, it gave him the closest look possible at their greatest weapon. The Sainted child, Valen Seraphiel.
Damien couldn't decide whether this was fortune draped in gold or a leash he had found himself wrapped in. Part of him wanted to believe it was a gift. Another part, older and colder, reminded him: not all blessings come from the light.
And even fewer are offered freely.
———————————————————————
The spiraling staircase stretched longer than logic allowed, its marble steps gleaming with untainted polish. Damien's boots made no sound against the stone, his steps swallowed by the stillness of the Celestial Accord's sanctum. Unlike the trial chambers or the Academy's ceremonial halls, this place exuded radiance quietly, without any sort of grandeur.
He passed the glassed doors housing relics: wings in flight frozen mid-flame, an elven blade too perfect to be called mortal, and ancient paintings depicting history he never thought existed—many of them. It portrayed Seraphims with hollow halos. Sainted warriors cleaving through legions of abyssal beasts. One portrait in particular showed the Grand Warden himself in his youth, standing besides someone with a smile that felt unfamiliar.
This was no mere residence.
It was a shrine of legacies.
Damien eventually arrived at the dining hall, a long chamber draped in silken whites and pale gold. Only three chairs were occupied. Two of them by a pair of ginger haired boys.
Twins, perhaps?
Identical in face, opposite in posture. One lounged across his seat with a grin and the chaos of someone who didn't know silence if it punched him. The other was upright, holding an unreadable expression. In his hand was a book, balanced effortlessly on one knee while his tea steeped with ceremonial care.
"Rise and shine," one of them exclaimed.
"I am Dain," the first one declared, raising both arms as if entering a bout in the colosseum.
"And I am Cain," the second one said without glancing up.
Damien blinked twice.
They spoke again, this time simultaneously—eerily in sync, but with vividly different energies.
"Welcome to the House of Wings," said Dain, throwing a spoon in the air and catching it behind his back.
"We wish you a lovely orientation," added Cain, turning a page.
"I…uhm," Damien cleared his throat, forcing a smile. "Thanks. I'll try not to."
"Good lad!" Dain slapped the table. "You've got that twitchy look. Like a bird who accidentally wandered into a basilisk's nest."
"Dain." Cain's tone was almost a sigh. "Let the boy eat."
"I'm not even—" Damien hesitated. "I haven't had breakfast yet."
Dain stood immediately, nearly knocking his chair over. "Then you'll have a first meal of legend! We've got six types of bread. None of them are warm per se. But it's the thought that counts."
"I—I'm okay with just water, really."
Cain, without looking up, handed him a glass. "Filtered. Not poisoned."
Dain narrowed his eyes. "Cain, you're killing the mood."
"You're killing our food budget."
Damien chuckled nervously. "You two get along nicely."
"We have to," they said in perfect harmony, one with glee, the other with scorn.
Before Damien could ask anything else, the heavy doors leading to the Grand Hall creaked open.
Valen stormed through them.
His hair, usually pristine in its silver curtain, was tousled. His eyes, golden and unreadable, flashed irritation as they briefly flicked toward the trio. His boots struck the marble with purpose, then softened into silence as he disappeared down the corridor.
The air seemed to stand still behind him.
Dain whistled low. "Guess his session with the Warden didn't go like always today."
Cain closed his book. "That's new."
They just watched the corridor where Valen vanished, until Dain leaned in with a smirk.
"You're rooming with that one, aren't you?"
Damien blinked. "...I am?"
"Oh, definitely," Cain replied flatly. "He's the only one left with a free bed."
Dain grinned. "Hope you don't snore."
Damien lowered his glass. "I hope he doesn't stab."
Both twins raised their brows in unison.
And for the first time that day, Damien laughed—nervously, but genuinely.
Damien leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished edge of the table as he pushed the last remnants of dried fruit around his plate. "By the way, would you guys happen to know when the orientation might be?" he asked without looking up.
"In two days, no?" the twins answered in unison.
He blinked at them, then offered a crooked smile as they continued—one speaking over the other with sharp contrasts.
"Probably best you rest until then," Dain, the louder of the two, declared as he leaned back with his chair slightly tipped. "Get a lay of the land, figure out which stairs creak and which ones scream when you step on them. Some of them do that."
"Don't be absurd," Cain, the quieter twin, muttered without missing a beat as he skimmed through a thin black ledger. "Only the bookshelves do that, Damien, and only after midnight. I doubt a combatant like you would be spending much time there."
"Combatant? Me?" Damien queried.
"Well, of course," Dain exclaimed, "It was pretty obvious from the way you summoned."
Damien gave a chuckle that wasn't quite genuine. "Charming place," he said, without paying much mind to claims.
"House of the Celestial Accord," Dain said with a theatrical flourish of his hand. "Where peace is preached, angels are stitched into your pillowcases and— ."
"And a guild leader who's unfortunately caging me here with your shenanigans until he returns," Cain interrupted.
"Don't be a downer," said Dain. He noticed the curious look on Damien's face and added, "He leaves to visit the Empire's council often. Being in his position isn't very easy, after all, the world doesn't revolve around our school."
"Oh. That makes me feel a bit relieved," Damien muttered.
"Why? Planning a rebellion?" Dain asked with a wide grin.
"No," Damien said quickly. Maybe too quickly.
The twins didn't press further, and instead busied themselves to more food laying around the table.
Still, the words sat with him longer than they should have. With the guild leader absent and orientation days away, it meant his path forward was—at least briefly—unchallenged.
Damien exhaled, letting the moment settle.
———————————————————————
Towering windows had cascading through them a golden light that caused the most elegant shadows to bloom. The older students, ones who had left school during the break, began to slowly trickle through the golden gates. Some carried books, others had with them bags full of magical trinkets. New initiates clustered around the fountain near the north gates. Their nervous but excited whispers echoed in superimposed harmony.
Every corridor shimmered faintly with Solence. Its presence was woven into the very architecture. From the statues lining the basilica to the floating lanterns above the dining halls, all seemed dipped in divine quietude.
Among the newcomers some eyes watched carefully. There were mouths that smiled too wide. Some students, dressed in garb too expensive for comfort, walked as if being chased by expectations. Others, dressed in muted cloth, bore hardened expressions like soldiers returning to the front.
It was said the academia accepted all, whether it be the richest noble's fawn or a frail peasant's child. All judgment was set aside if they were deemed worthy by their beliefs. Morality was not its compass. Holiness was.
Above the east wing, the stained glass let in very little sunlight. Upon its arched pane was carved mementos of the first war—Lucifer's descent and fall, the celestial blades, the rise of the Archangel Michael standing triumphant over ash. The angels surrounding him sang from mouths held open in frozen devotion, their wings burning with Solence.
A single man stood before the glass.
His fingers were folded across his chest, drawing a symbol slowly. It was a pattern older than any language still uttered, older than the glyphs practiced by the most knowledgeable scholars. The air thickened around him like nauseating incense, head bowed low beneath the flickering glass saints.
Under his breath, he muttered,
"Peace be upon the righteous. Our time is nigh, my Lord."
Organ music coming from the Orientation hall shattered the silence lingering around him.
Then the silence returned, deeper than before.
And somewhere beyond the holy halls, behind parchment doors and secret floors, the world prepared to move again.