Chapter 1 — The Festival of Lights
The city of Durelin glittered like a jewel in the fading light of dusk, its narrow streets draped in silk banners of white and gold. High above the cobblestone avenues, the symbols of the Radiant Church fluttered in the evening breeze — the sunburst sigil, a burnished halo encircling a downward sword, catching the glow of hundreds of lanterns strung between rooftops.
Tonight was the Festival of Lights, a holy celebration said to mark the goddess' victory over the "Shadow Tyrants" centuries ago. But to Lucian, the light felt more like a cage.
From his perch on the edge of the upper market's stone balustrade, he watched the crowds swell. Merchants hawked honeyed bread, roast fowl, and spiced wine while children darted between stalls clutching paper lanterns. Pilgrims in white robes knelt before street shrines, murmuring prayers in the old tongue. Everywhere, the voice of the Church was present — in the sermons booming from crystal amplifiers, in the watchful eyes of the armored Sunblades patrolling the streets, and in the gilded statues of the goddess towering above it all.
Lucian pulled his cloak tighter. The scent of burning incense mixed with roasting meat made his stomach twist. The mask of celebration hid something darker — he could feel it in the stiffness of the guards, in the way some merchants kept their heads low when the Church's soldiers passed.
It was impossible not to see the propaganda.
Along the main avenue, enormous silk tapestries told the "holy" story: the goddess descending in radiant fire, slaying the monstrous foes of man, bringing "order" to the world. Each panel ended the same way — with kneeling kings and queens placing their crowns at her feet.
Lucian knew better. His father had told him the parts of the story the Church didn't print — of lands burned, gods slain, and faiths erased until only the goddess' light remained.
The sound of bells rolled through the streets, clear and commanding. People turned toward the great cathedral at the city's heart, its spire stabbing at the heavens. The High Inquisitor would soon speak.
Lucian stayed in the shadows as the crowd began to move. He didn't want to be seen — not tonight. Not with the kind of thoughts burning in his mind.
A group of Sunblades marched past, their armor engraved with holy scripture, each bearing a heavy glaive. At their head, a tall man with silver-threaded hair and eyes like molten gold — Inquisitor Kaelen Veyra, the Church's iron hand in Durelin. His mere presence made the crowd bow.
Lucian didn't bow. He turned away, slipping into a narrow side street.
The noise of the festival dimmed, replaced by the soft hiss of oil lamps and the distant hum of cathedral bells.
The Festival of Lights was supposed to honor salvation. But for Lucian, it was a reminder: the light could blind just as easily as it could illuminate.
And somewhere in that light, a shadow was waiting to be born.