Just before she turned to leave, she paused beside Zeera.
She leaned in.
Soft. Controlled.
“Do take care, Zeera. The more beautiful one is, the more one should fear a lasting scar.”
With that said, Auryn left the balcony, box clutched in one hand.
Within her breast, the fire of survival blazed, as did the fever in her blood.
But the Sokâr would not fall. Not yet.
20
On Grace
From the Private Journal of Lamari Dross, Archivist General of Krystopolis
Entry 871, 19thAshday – Cycle of Growth, 19th Veil Season
Doctrine is said to flow where the Sovereign Flame bids it. Yet today, it turned of its own accord, simply to bear witness.
The Sokâr—long relegated to whispers and shadows—entered the Pouring of Grace not as ornament, nor offering, but as celestial decree.
Conversation faltered mid-syllable. Even Zeera, the highest of the Companions, forgot to smile. Cups trembled. Postures straightened. A hush settled over the gathering—like the first shadow of the Cycle of Dark.
She did not walk. She descended—wrought of astral silk and veiled purpose.
Every eye turned. Every breath stilled. In that moment, the pageantry of Krystopolis bowed to something older. Purer. A star among reflections.
I recall nothing of the conversations that followed. Only that we—all of us—left changed.
21
The Blow Beneath Doctrine
The Prismatum loomed before Auryn like a frozen fortress, its carved crystal spires rising into the golden mist of the Shields above the city, its walls veined with lines of white, gray, and indigo. Every inch of blue marble was etched with the Doctrine’s ancient breath; a history not told, butcarvedinto stone and flesh, much like Runesgrams into the Reskala.
No one greeted them. No Attendants in thick linen robes. No Priests with their palms raised in supplication to the Sokâr. Not a single sign of acknowledgment or respect. Only the Doctrine etched into every wall, reminding Auryn—with finality, rigidity—thatto beadorned in light within the Polis was not a right. It waspermission.
This place was the heart of the Selen District — its breath, its limbs, its epicenter.
Priests filed in and out of its Auralex, the wing reserved for clergy and rituals. Worshipers were welcomed in the Oranthal, the central hall for gatherings and ceremonies. And, of course, the Virelay housed Zeera and Thalune—the two Companions of Selen—when they did not reside at the Jade Lattice in preparation of Estâr.
The Prismatum was fully equipped: a mess hall, an Aquivale with bathing pools, and healing halls overseen by the most talented mages. The Noctris had his own quarters here, traveling between his duties ashealer of the royal bloodlines and mentor to the acolyte mages in the Hallowrest.
Auryn walked these radiant halls in silence, her boots muffled against the white-veined floor. Lu’ma followed a pace behind, her cloak whispering with each step, eyes flicking from one crouched Destroyer effigy to the next. They hunched in the alcoves above like scornful guardians, wings folded, fangs bared—watchingalways.
The Ascensory's pale glow shimmered to their left, rising through the center of the compound in lattices to grant access to each warded floor. To their right, the arch of the Auralex echoed with the quiet shuffling of pages. Priests. Some studying, others rushing about in preparation of the coming Grand Festival of Growth.
Ahead, the carved sigils of the Lustrate pulsed with wards and webs, tucked into a recessed alcove of ceremonial arches. A set of double doors guarded entry to its inner halls. Massive, reaching beyond the second story of the building itself. Around their center pulsed a colossal ward. Gold and amber in hue, tied with intricate ley lines and interfaced with three separate webs of sealing.
Auryn paused to glance at the words carved into the marble.
Through Order—freedom.
Through sacrifice—power.
