The Page quivered in Seth Virell's hands, weightless yet crushing. Its surface was not paper but a skin of pale light, rippling, waiting. He remembered the words of the mysterious figure — the Tensionwright, cloaked in riddles and defiance.
A Pillar. A stage where you can do anything. A temple for a god no one believes exists. You can turn it into sanctuary, weapon, or cult.
Seth's jaw tightened.
"Dangerous? Certainly. Precious?" Without question. And yet the thought of leaving it untouched was unbearable. The hunger in his chest pushed him forward.
He let his fingers trace the Page. At once, he felt pulled inward. A tug not on his body, but on the seams of his mind, as if his own thoughts were the invitation.
The void opened.
He stepped through.
At first there was nothing but silence. Black, endless, without stars. A void that wasn't space but a place outside of it. Then the black folded back, peeling like curtains, revealing a chamber that stretched in all directions yet felt circular, contained.
Walls rose high but were unfinished, like sketches of stone. Shelves lined them, filled with blank books whose spines bore no titles.
And in the middle of that impossible hall stood a single object: a throne.
It was vast, carved from material he could not name — part stone, part shadow, part the suggestion of bone. Yet it leaned, cracked, as though waiting for repair… or for an occupant.
Seth stared. His lips parted.
"So this is what it meant," he muttered, voice echoing in the emptiness. "A place where anything can be."
The throne beckoned.
He walked forward, each footstep reverberating far louder than it should have. When he reached the dais, he hesitated. Sitting felt like a choice. A test.
He swallowed and lowered himself into the throne.
At once the space shifted.
The blank walls stretched higher. The shelves multiplied outward, impossibly far, like mirrors inside mirrors. Above him, the ceiling dissolved into void. Stars flickered briefly, then bled away, leaving only an absence.
Seth gripped the arms of the throne.
"I can do anything here…" he whispered.
He tested it. He thought of a hall — not these half-formed shelves, but something grand, something fit for authority.
And the Page obeyed.
The shelves folded back, their shapes liquefying into pillars of dark marble veined with crimson light. Vast arches rose overhead, but stopped short of forming a ceiling, leaving only an infinite sky of black above. The floor gleamed as though polished, reflecting his seated form like a mirror of ink.
A hall. A temple. And he its center.
Seth laughed once under his breath, sharp, disbelieving. "Like a god."
He shifted on the throne, leaning back, fingers tapping. The stone felt cold but alive beneath his hands, humming faintly as though acknowledging his weight.
Should he?
The thought came unbidden, like a whisper crawling up the back of his skull."Should I start a cult?"
The idea repelled and fascinated him all at once. He imagined disciples kneeling before this throne, hearing a voice that came not from heaven, but from Seth Virell. He could shape this place into doctrine, mystery, power.
But then doubt surged.
"…or maybe I'd just be a madman talking to himself," he muttered.
His voice echoed back, softer, warped, as though something unseen was repeating it from behind the walls.
Seth's fingers curled. "No. If the Tensionwright was right, I summoned him here once. I can summon others. I could… test it."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, brow furrowing.
"Summon…" His throat tightened on the word. "Summon… someone."
Silence.
Nothing changed.
The throne was heavy beneath him, the hall grand but empty.
He exhaled, a laugh breaking through his tension. "Of course. It isn't that simple. No words, no ritual. It needs…"
He trailed off, eyes narrowing.
It needs will. It needs me to decide.
He straightened, gripping the throne's arms again. His voice grew firmer, louder.
"I could summon someone. Drag them here like I did that cloaked figure. But… do I dare?"
His own words pressed against him like a test. He pictured faces he knew: an Archivist from the Library, a fellow initiate, even one of the cloistered gods that were whispered about in fearful tones.
What if he succeeded?
He could confront them here, in his own hall. He could play the almighty. He could build a following without ever revealing the truth.
His stomach knotted. His mind itched with defiance.
"This is absurd," he hissed. "This is—"
He cut off.
Because part of him wanted it. Desperately.
The chamber responded not with words, not with will, but with stillness. The silence here was not empty — it was waiting.
Seth rose from the throne and walked a few paces across the polished floor. His reflection wavered like liquid beneath him. He spoke aloud, as if the Page could hear, though he knew it was only his own thoughts given stage.
"If I start a cult," he said, "what would it mean? Lies, surely. Deception. But power too. Influence. No one suspects a Closurist would hold a Pillar — even the Tensionwright admitted that. If I play it well, no one would know until it's too late."
He turned back to the throne, studying it as though it might answer.
"But what if the cult believes? What if I start believing?"
The question sat in the air like a poison.
He closed his eyes, inhaled, and forced the doubt down.
"No. I won't lose myself to it. Not yet."
Seth sat again, posture straight, and raised one hand.
A test. Something small. Not summoning a person. Just… presence.
He imagined a candle.
Instantly, it appeared before him on the dais — waxless, formed of black ink, its flame a trembling tongue of white. It burned without heat, without smoke, yet lit the throne room with a pale and trembling radiance.
His lips parted. He stared.
"It listens," he whispered. "But only when I decide. Not the Page. Not the Pillar. Me."
He laughed softly, half in triumph, half in fear.
"So then… if I think of people…"
His gaze shifted upward into the void where a ceiling should be.
"Could I drag them here? Could I build an entire stage of worshippers? A false god among Archivists? A liar on a throne?"
The candle's flame quivered, as though reflecting his unease.
Seth pressed his palms together, leaning back in the throne, thinking. His voice grew low, intimate, as if speaking to himself in confession.
"I could create a hall of believers. I could speak doctrine in riddles. I could act as though this throne was the anchor of some greater law. No one would know it was just… me. Seth Virell. A man clutching at scraps of power in a city of ghosts."
The silence pressed harder now.
His thoughts turned darker.
"What if I summon the wrong person? What if someone stronger comes and claims this Pillar as theirs? What if I lose it the moment I reveal it exists?"
The doubts twisted his chest, but he forced his hand closed into a fist.
"No. That won't happen. This is mine. Given to me. Chosen. The Tensionwright saw it — defiance in my soul. And if he saw it, then I'll make sure the whole world sees it."
His eyes narrowed. A grin spread slowly across his lips.
"Yes," he whispered. "A cult. A god. Why not? If gods already fight for these Pillars, then let them fight me too. I'll show them what defiance really means."
The hall's shadows deepened. The candle guttered but did not die.
Seth leaned back in the throne, the thought repeating itself in his skull like a heartbeat.
"Should I start a cult?"
The throne offered no answer. The silence was his only congregation. Yet in that silence, he heard something more terrible than response — he heard permission.