The city glowed like a dream on fire, a vast, luminous tapestry woven from alabaster and light, stretching to horizons Andre couldn't possibly comprehend. He followed the robed woman, whose name he still didn't know, up a grand staircase carved from pure white stone. It was polished so perfectly it felt wrong underfoot — smooth, cool, almost slick, like walking on bone, or perhaps, on solidified moonlight. Each step seemed to absorb the sound of his worn shoes, leaving only a faint, almost imperceptible whisper, as if even sound itself was muted by the pervasive perfection. The air here, unlike the gritty, exhaust-laden breath of Chicago, was sweet, impossibly clean, devoid of any grit or imperfection, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of unknown blossoms and something else, something pure and ancient, like ozone after a cosmic storm.
Behind them, the golden plains rolled into eternity, a vast, undulating landscape of shimmering emerald and amber, stretching out beneath the vast, peach-colored sky. The sky itself was a masterpiece of shifting hues, from soft rose to a deeper apricot, with streaks of lavender and gold that bled into each other without harsh lines, a celestial canvas that seemed to cradle the world. Above, twin suns, or perhaps, twin sources of the ubiquitous light, shimmered in the heavens, not as fiery orbs, but as diffused, radiant presences, casting no shadows, only an even, pervasive illumination that left no corner untouched, no secret hidden.
Too perfect.
Too bright.
Where was the wind that tore through Chicago, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust, the distant wail of sirens, the cacophony of human struggle? Where was the smell of dirt, of concrete, of the raw, undeniable hum of human life and decay that defined his existence? Here, the air was sweet, impossibly clean, devoid of any grit or imperfection. It was suffocating in its purity, a sensory deprivation that left him feeling unmoored, disconnected, as if a vital part of his perception had been severed. His eyes ached from the constant, unwavering brilliance, and his mind yearned for the comforting embrace of shade, of darkness, of anything that wasn't this relentless, blinding perfection.
"Where am I?" he asked for what felt like the fifth time, his voice still rough, still a jarring contrast to the melodic silence of this new world. Each time he spoke, the sound seemed to dissipate quickly, swallowed by the vast, open spaces, absorbed by the very light itself, leaving him feeling unheard, insignificant.
The woman, who moved with an effortless grace that suggested she floated more than walked, her silver robes shimmering with an inner light, turned her head slightly, giving him that same serene, unreadable smile. Her star-like eyes held an ancient patience, a profound understanding that seemed to encompass eons, as if she had answered this question a thousand times before, and would a thousand times more, never tiring. "You are in Lumenia, Lightbearer. The Kingdom of Light. It is the last sanctuary, the heart of all that is. You have been chosen. Your arrival fulfills prophecy." Her voice, a melodic current that flowed directly into his mind, was devoid of any inflection that might betray emotion, yet it carried an undeniable weight, a certainty that brooked no argument.
Andre scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound that felt out of place in this pristine world. "Chosen? You keep saying that. I didn't choose anything. I was trying to save a kid from getting hit by a train. That's not a choice, that's a reflex. A desperate, stupid reflex born from years of trying to do the right thing when no one else would." He felt a surge of indignation, a familiar anger at being manipulated, at having his agency stripped away. He was a history teacher, a man who believed in cause and effect, in the tangible realities of human action, in the messy, unpredictable nature of free will. Not in prophecy or cosmic destiny, especially not one forced upon him.
She paused atop the steps, her silver robes shimmering as if catching an internal breeze, a subtle ripple of light across the fabric. She turned fully to him, her gaze unwavering, those star-like eyes boring into him, seeing past his worn coat and his cynicism, into something deeper. "You jumped in front of death for another. Without hesitation. Without thought for your own preservation. That choice echoes across worlds, Lightbearer. It resonated through the Veil, a pure, unadulterated act of selfless intent. The Light heard you. It recognized its own spark within you." Her voice was soft, yet it carried an undeniable weight, a certainty that brooked no argument. It was a statement of fact, not a plea for belief, a truth that resonated with the golden pulse still thrumming in his chest.
Andre narrowed his eyes, a familiar defensive posture, his mind churning, trying to find a loophole, a logical flaw in her ethereal pronouncements. "The girl—on the tracks. Where is she? If she's an 'emissary,' then she should be here, shouldn't she? I need to see her. I need to understand the mechanism of my abduction, to confront the smiling face that had ushered him into this impossible reality." He needed a tangible link to the world he had lost, a familiar face, however unsettling, to anchor him in this bewildering new existence. He needed answers, not riddles.
But the woman only walked on, silent now, her earlier patience seemingly exhausted by his questions, or perhaps, finding them irrelevant. Her silence was not dismissive, but rather, final, as if the topic was closed, beyond discussion, a matter already settled by forces far beyond his comprehension. Andre felt a familiar frustration building, the kind he usually reserved for particularly stubborn teenagers in his classroom, the ones who refused to engage with the material. Only here, the stakes were infinitely higher. He was in a world where the very rules of existence seemed to have been rewritten, and he was completely at the mercy of beings who spoke in riddles and prophecies, who treated his life, his very being, as a mere component in some grand, cosmic design.
They continued their ascent, the staircase seeming to stretch endlessly upwards, each step bringing them closer to the heart of Lumenia. The city unfolded beneath them, a sprawling panorama of luminous architecture. Spires of crystal and gold pierced the peach-colored sky, connected by shimmering bridges that seemed woven from pure light. Gardens of glowing flora pulsed with soft, internal luminescence, and rivers of liquid light flowed through crystalline channels, their currents silent and swift. He saw other robed figures, moving with the same serene grace, their forms indistinct in the pervasive glow, going about their inscrutable tasks. There was no bustling, no noise, no hurried movements – only a profound, almost unnerving tranquility. It was a city of pure energy, pure light, and Andre, a creature of shadow and grit, felt profoundly out of place.
They entered a vast structure that dwarfed anything Andre had ever conceived, a scale that defied human engineering. The Hall of Ascension, as the woman had called it, was a cathedral sculpted from crystal and gold, impossibly vast, its ceiling arching into a distant, luminous haze that seemed to merge with the sky itself. The walls seemed to be made of pure, translucent light, refracting the ambient glow into a thousand shimmering rainbows that danced across the polished floor, painting the space with ethereal colors. Seven colossal statues — each a faceless humanoid figure, carved from what appeared to be solidified starlight, their forms radiating a soft, internal luminescence — loomed over a central, circular marble altar. Each statue held a different, intricate symbol: a blazing sun, a coiled serpent, an open book, a balanced scale, a single tear, a blooming flower, and finally, a ring of thorns entwined with chains. The air within the hall hummed with a quiet, resonant energy, a deep, almost spiritual vibration that seemed to settle in his bones, a hum that felt both ancient and alive.
Andre's footsteps, usually so loud and heavy, echoed strangely as he entered, the sound swallowed and then gently released by the vast space, like a stone dropped into a deep well, the ripples of sound expanding outwards before fading into the pervasive quiet. He felt dwarfed, insignificant, a tiny, fragile human in a place designed for gods, or beings of pure light. The sheer magnitude of the hall was overwhelming, a testament to power he couldn't begin to fathom.
Before he could speak, before he could even fully process the overwhelming grandeur of the hall and the unsettling presence of the statues, a circle of robed figures emerged from the edges of the hall, gliding forward with silent, synchronized movements. Their robes, unlike the woman's silver, shimmered with the deep, shifting colors of starlight, each marked by a different, glowing rune across the chest, echoing the symbols held by the statues. Seven in all, mirroring the statues, completing the circle. They moved with an unnerving grace, their faces obscured by deep hoods, making them appear less like individuals and more like extensions of the light itself, a unified, powerful entity.
The center figure, taller than the rest, stopped directly opposite Andre, across the vast altar. Her hood was deeper, her presence more commanding. It was the same woman who had guided him, he realized, though her voice now held a new, formidable authority. Her voice, deep and commanding, yet still imbued with that same melodic quality, resonated through the hall, seemingly from everywhere at once, a pure vibration of sound and meaning. It was the voice of ultimate authority, of ancient power, of a will that shaped worlds.
"We are the Order of the Seven Stars. The Keepers of Lumenia. The Guardians of the Veil," the voice boomed, though it was not a harsh sound, but a powerful, resonant declaration that filled the vast space without echo. "You are the Lightbearer — born from another world to cleanse this one. The darkness rises beyond the Veil. It encroaches upon the Outer Reaches, consuming all. It seeks to extinguish the Light, to plunge all existence into eternal void. We have foreseen this. We have prepared. We will train you. Arm you. And when the time comes… you will lead."
"Lead what?" Andre asked, stepping back instinctively, his hands clenching into fists, a desperate attempt to ground himself in a reality that was rapidly dissolving. The words were too grand, too heavy, too far removed from his mundane existence. He was a teacher, not a general. He taught history, he didn't make it. He was a man who struggled to pay his rent, not a savior. "I'm not your messiah. I'm not a warrior. I'm just… Andre. A human being. And I don't want any part of this." He felt a desperate need to cling to his identity, however mundane it seemed in this impossible place, however insignificant it might be to these beings of light.
The commanding woman raised a hand, her gesture slow and deliberate, a silent command that seemed to ripple through the very air, bending the light around her. "The Light does not ask permission, Lightbearer. It merely shines. And in its shining, it illuminates the path for those destined to walk it, whether they wish to or not. Your will is now bound to a greater purpose."
As she spoke, Andre's body stiffened, a strange, internal tremor beginning deep within his chest, a sensation that was both exhilarating and terrifying. A profound heat pulsed there, golden, wrong, yet undeniably alive, like a star had ignited within his ribcage, radiating outwards. It wasn't pain, but an intense, unfamiliar energy, a burning core of pure light. Something inside him stirred, like a second heartbeat beneath his skin, a powerful, rhythmic thudding that seemed to synchronize with the resonant hum of the hall itself, with the pulse of the glowing orb he had seen in his room, and with the ancient heart of the statue. It felt as if something ancient, something dormant for eons, was awakening within him, stretching its limbs after a long slumber, asserting its presence. He gasped, a small, involuntary sound, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe, his breath catching in his throat.
Then, one of the colossal statues behind the altar began to glow with an even greater intensity. Not just reflect the ambient light, but to emit its own, a deep, internal luminescence that pulsed and swelled, growing brighter with each beat of his own accelerated heart. It wasn't the first statue, the one closest to them, holding the blazing sun. Nor the second, with the coiled serpent.
It was the seventh. The one furthest from him, at the very end of the line, the one crowned with thorns and wrapped in chains.
A collective murmur, like the rustling of a thousand silk leaves, rippled through the circle of robed figures. It was a sound of surprise, of quiet astonishment, perhaps even of reverence, but also a hint of something else – a subtle tension, a flicker of concern. This was not the expected resonance, Andre realized, even in his bewildered state.
The commanding woman lowered her hand, her earlier sternness replaced by a look of profound wonder, a hint of something akin to apprehension in her luminous eyes. She approached Andre slowly, her steps measured, her eyes fixed on him, or perhaps, on the golden light emanating from his chest, which now pulsed visibly through his threadbare shirt.
"You resonate with Thuriel," she murmured, her voice softer now, almost reverent, yet still carrying that deep, resonant power, a note of surprise underlying the ancient calm. "The Star of Binding. It is an ancient and powerful resonance, Lightbearer. One rarely seen. You were born to chain the dark. To control chaos. To bring obedience to rebellion." Her gaze was intense, analytical, as if she were seeing not just Andre, but the vast, untamed power that now stirred within him.
Andre stared at the glowing statue, its faceless head crowned with a ring of thorns, intricately carved from the same light-infused stone, each thorn sharp and defined in the pervasive glow. Chains, impossibly delicate yet undeniably strong, coiled down its arms like veins, wrapping around its torso, hinting at immense, restrained power, a force held in check. And from behind its chest, from the very core of the statue, he could feel it — a dull, endless thudding, a rhythmic pulse that echoed the new, strange beat within his own chest, a profound, ancient rhythm that resonated with the golden light now burning within him. It was the sound of a heart, ancient and vast, beating in perfect synchronicity with his own, a heart that had known endless struggle and endless restraint. The thorns, the chains, the binding… it all felt profoundly unsettling, a premonition of a burden he was not prepared to carry.
"I didn't ask for this," he muttered, the words barely a whisper, lost in the vastness of the hall, yet somehow heard by all, a defiant spark against the overwhelming tide of destiny. He didn't want to chain anything. He just wanted to pay his rent and teach history, to live a quiet, unremarkable life.
The woman's smile returned, a faint, almost wistful expression, as if she understood the futility of his protest. "Neither did the Light, Lightbearer. But it shines nonetheless. And sometimes, its purpose requires a hand to guide it, a will to shape it. You are that will."
Later that night, Andre was led to a high room overlooking the city. It was not a cell, not a prison, but it felt like one in its inescapable perfection, a gilded cage. There were no doors, no visible means of entry or exit, only seamless, luminous walls that curved gently, making the room feel like the inside of a vast, polished shell. No guards stood watch; none were needed. The pervasive light itself was the ultimate barrier, a silent, unyielding presence. Just endless, pervasive light pouring through the vast, arched windows that comprised one entire wall, offering an unparalleled, breathtaking view of Lumenia, a glittering expanse of spires and ethereal glow that stretched to the horizon, a boundless ocean of light.
Food was laid out on a low, polished table, seemingly carved from a single piece of glowing crystal: fruits of impossible colors – deep violet, shimmering silver, vibrant emerald – their flesh pulsing with soft light; shimmering liquids in crystal goblets that tasted like liquid starlight and honey; bread that seemed to glow from within, warm and fragrant. Clean robes, softer than anything he had ever worn, lay folded neatly on a pedestal, waiting for him to shed the last vestiges of his old life. In the center of the room, on a small, circular plinth, rested a glowing orb that pulsed softly, its light subtly mirroring the rhythm of his own breath, a constant, gentle reminder of his new, unwelcome vitality, a connection he couldn't sever.
But he couldn't sleep.
Not because of fear, not in the conventional sense. The warmth was too comforting, the air too pure, the silence too profound, almost oppressive. It was because there were no shadows in the room. Not one. He walked from wall to wall, from window to table, moving his hands, his body, trying to cast a silhouette, a dark shape against the pervasive light. The light bent around him, flowed over him, but nothing fell into darkness. Not even his own silhouette. He raised his hand to his face, and even there, where his fingers should have created shade, there was only a subtle diffusion of light, a gentle glow. It was unsettling, profoundly unnatural. Everything was exposed, nothing hidden, no place for secrets, no place for respite from the relentless, all-encompassing brilliance. It was a world without nuance, without the comforting depths of shade, a world where every flaw, every thought, every movement felt utterly exposed. He yearned for the comforting gloom of his Chicago apartment, the deep, dark corners where he could simply be, unseen, unjudged.
He tried to distract himself, picking up one of the impossibly colored fruits. Its skin was smooth, cool, and when he bit into it, a burst of flavor, unlike anything he'd ever tasted, exploded on his tongue – sweet, tangy, with an underlying current of something electric. He drank from a goblet, the liquid cool and invigorating, making the golden pulse in his chest thrum with renewed vigor. Yet, even as his body felt nourished and revitalized, his mind remained restless, agitated.
He walked to the vast window, pressing his hand against the cool, seamless surface. The city below stretched out, a silent symphony of light. He saw figures moving, graceful and slow, like dancers in an eternal ballet. He saw structures that defied physics, floating islands of light, and shimmering pathways that seemed to lead nowhere and everywhere. It was magnificent, truly. But it wasn't home. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure the image of his old life – the cracked pavement, the flickering streetlights, the distant rumble of the L train, even the smell of stale beer from the bar down the street. He missed the grit, the imperfection, the messy, undeniable reality of it all. Here, there was no mess, no dirt, no struggle. And in its absence, he felt a profound emptiness.
He thought of the girl on the tracks again, her unsettling smile. She had known. She had known exactly what she was doing. He was a tool, a means to an end. The thought chafed, igniting a slow burn of resentment. He was Andre Bennett, a man who taught history, who believed in free will, in the power of individual choices. Not a prophesied weapon.
He turned from the window, his gaze sweeping the room, searching for something, anything, that felt familiar, that offered a hint of his old world, or a way out. His eyes landed on the large, reflective surface that served as a mirror in the far corner of the room. It was flawless, reflecting the endless light, showing him his own bewildered face, the golden glow now faintly visible around his chest, a spectral aura. He looked at his reflection, a stranger in a strange land.
And then, softly, from behind the mirror, he heard a whisper. It was faint, almost imperceptible, a breath against the profound silence, yet it cut through the pervasive calm like a razor, a human sound in a world of melodic light. It was a voice, human, weary, and filled with a profound, bitter knowledge, a voice that carried the weight of ages.
"You're not the first."
The words echoed in the shadowless room, a stark contrast to the melodic pronouncements of the Lightbearers, a dissonant chord in their perfect symphony. They were a seed of doubt, a crack in the perfect facade of Lumenia, a chilling confirmation of his deepest fears. Andre spun around, his heart pounding, a sudden, familiar fear finally breaking through the ethereal calm, replacing it with a surge of adrenaline. He rushed to the mirror, pressing his ear against the cool, smooth surface, his breath held. He could feel a faint vibration, a residual hum, but the whisper was gone. Only the soft hum of the room, the gentle pulse of the orb, and the unending, shadowless light remained. He ran his hand over the surface, searching for a seam, a hidden latch, anything that might reveal the source of the voice. But the mirror was seamless, solid, an impenetrable barrier.
He was not the first. The words repeated in his mind, a chilling mantra. Others had come before him. Others had been Lightbearers. What had happened to them? Were they still here, trapped in this gilded cage? Or had they, too, been consumed by the 'darkness beyond the Veil'? The perfect, shadowless world suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a carefully constructed illusion, a beautiful prison. The whisper, brief and fleeting, had shattered the illusion of his unique destiny, replacing it with the terrifying realization that he was merely one in a long line of unwilling participants. And the bitter knowledge in that voice… it spoke of suffering, of a struggle far older and more profound than he could have imagined. He was not a savior; he was a link in a chain, a tool to be used.
He spent the rest of the night pacing, the golden pulse in his chest a constant reminder of his new, unwelcome power, the shadowless light a constant torment. He was a prisoner in paradise, haunted by a whisper that promised a truth far darker than the light that surrounded him.