Rumors spread faster than stone could rise.
Caravans carried tales of the Twin Flames across trade routes like wildfire through dry grass. Some told stories of salvation—of light that healed and silence that revealed. Others whispered of heresy, of a temple built on dangerous power.
By the time the third moon passed since the beams pierced the heavens, the Foundation of the Veil was no longer a hidden gathering in a misty valley. It had become a name whispered in distant marketplaces, prayed to in hidden corners, and cursed from foreign altars.
The crowds at the valley swelled.
Tents dotted the hillsides, smoke from twin fires curled skyward like mirrored serpents. Pilgrims came with offerings—gold, obsidian, grain, song. Children played between stone pillars as if beneath ancient trees.
But with the crowds came something new: divergence.
The Dawnkeepers rose first.
They were loud, radiant, and fervent. Clad in white and gold cloth, they gathered at noon, when the sunlight struck the half-built walls. They sang praises to the Golden Flame, raising their hands skyward.
Their leader was a former priest named Malreth—a man with a commanding voice and sharp eyes. "The Flame of Day is the truth," he declared. "It burned away the night. It split the sky and gave us hope. It is Seravyn who watches over us. Her light alone shall guide mankind."
Around him, hundreds echoed his cry.
The Veilspeakers answered silently.
They gathered at night, cloaked in gray and black, sitting in perfect stillness as the valley fell silent. They did not speak prayers—they listened.
Their matriarch was an elderly woman named Sera, whose eyes were clouded but whose voice, when she used it, could freeze an argument mid-breath. "In silence, truth is revealed," she said softly one evening. "The light blinds. The Veil unveils."
They dreamed vividly. They carved runes no one else could understand. They waited for the night's breath to move their hands.
The two sects occupied opposite sides of the same foundation. By day, songs echoed through golden stone. By night, whispers curled through the dark like smoke.
At first, their differences felt like balance. But balance is fragile.
Erynd's POV
I walked through the temple grounds at dusk, the hour between gold and silence. Pilgrims brushed past me in both directions—those lighting fires for the day, and those snuffing them out for the night.
I felt their eyes on me. Some sought guidance. Others weighed me, wondering which side I'd choose.
But there was no "side" for me to take. I'd felt both of them—the warmth of Seravyn's gaze and the chilling clarity of Nyxara's silence. Both were real. Both were divine.
Yet mortals were not built to hold two truths without breaking them apart.
Interlude — The Stonemason
He had laid stones since the temple's first day. His hands were cracked, his back bent.
At noon, he paused as Dawnkeepers sang around him. "She burns away the dark," they cried.
At midnight, Veilspeakers sat beside him, silent as the grave, listening to the walls breathe.
He turned to his apprentice and asked, "Which one's right?"
The boy shrugged. "Whichever one wins."
The stonemason stared at the half-built wall, unsettled.
It was the fifth day of growing tensions when they arrived.
Three emissaries, cloaked in deep red, bearing a sigil I recognized—the Church of the Old Flame. They worshiped a human-born god, a god of law and judgment. A god who tolerated no rivals.
They came on horseback, banners fluttering, their presence breaking the valley's rhythm like iron on glass.
They were greeted at the edge of the foundation by Dawnkeepers eager to prove themselves. Veilspeakers watched in silence from afar, their presence like a shadow behind the crowd.
The lead emissary dismounted. His voice boomed.
"We bring word from the High Flame," he declared. "This temple rises without sanction. This worship grows without covenant. You call to gods not named in the Book of Law. We call this heresy."
A hush spread.
The Dawnkeepers bristled. The Veilspeakers did not move.
I stepped forward from the half-built sanctuary, robes marked with the twin sigil burned into the stone floor. My staff struck once against the earth.
"This place is not built by decree," I said calmly. "It is built by memory."
The emissary's lip curled. "Memory fades. The Law remains."
He gestured toward the structure. "Tear it down. Bring your followers to the High Flame. Serve the true god, or face judgment."
Interlude — A Dawnkeeper Zealot
He had burned his old clothes the day he joined. He wore only white and gold now, and his eyes blazed with faith.
As the emissary spoke, rage filled him. How dare they threaten Seravyn's temple?
"Liar!" he screamed. "False tongues burn in her light!"
Others echoed him, lifting torches.
Interlude — A Veilspeaker Elder
He sat near the wall, unmoving. His eyes were closed, ears open.
As the crowd roared, the night wind whispered through the stones. He heard something the others did not: two breaths overlapping. One warm, one cold. Neither raised their voice.
He smiled faintly. "Mortals are louder than gods," he murmured.
The emissaries and zealots shouted back and forth at the edge of the temple. Tension wound tighter, like a bowstring ready to snap.
And then—
A child stepped forward. A boy no older than seven. He carried two small torches, one painted gold, the other dipped in ash.
He raised them silently toward the sky.
For a single heartbeat, everyone stopped.
Both flames reflected against the temple walls, casting twin shadows that twisted and merged like rivers meeting in the sea.
The emissary's expression hardened. "You've been warned," he said. "We will return with the authority of the High Flame."
They mounted their horses and rode out as the valley watched in silence.
The Dawnkeepers shouted after them, vowing to defend the temple. The Veilspeakers said nothing, but their silence carried a weight of its own.
That night, the valley divided.
Dawnkeepers gathered on the temple's eastern side, fortifying their tents and singing louder than ever. Veilspeakers withdrew into the western shadows, whispering their dreams and refusing to share them.
The foundation remained between them, a silent witness.
I walked alone through the half-built sanctuary, the stone cool beneath my hands. I could feel both presences—one like a sun against my skin, the other like breath against my neck.
I whispered into the darkness, "They're choosing sides… but there are no sides to choose."
Silence answered.
And then, faint as a breath against a candle, Kaelíth's voice reached me through the stone:
"Flame divides to reveal what cannot burn."
The meaning settled slowly, like ash after a fire. This division wasn't a failure. It was a test. A necessary fracture to reveal what was enduring beneath.
By morning, two altars had been erected within the temple. One draped in gold, the other in black cloth.
Two prayers rose to the sky.
The first schism had begun.
And the gods remained silent.