The sun rose over Radiance like a golden hammer, striking the city with light so bright it hurt even through closed eyelids.
Brother Matthias stood in the courtyard of the Hospital of Divine Mercy, his face turned toward the dawn, and felt the familiar warmth wash over his blind eyes. He could not see the sun—he had not seen anything in four years, not since the ritual that had taken his sight—but he could feel it. The heat on his skin, the weight of its presence, the way it seemed to press down on the world like the hand of God.
The Radiant Faith taught that the sun was God made visible, the divine light that gave life to all things. To stare into that light was to commune with the divine, to burn away the impurities of the flesh and reveal the purity of the soul. Matthias had stared into that light until his eyes had turned white and blind, until the world had become darkness. And the Church had called it a blessing.
He was not certain, anymore, that it was.
The courtyard was filling with the sick and the dying, as it did every morning. They came from all over Radiance, from the Shadowed districts and the Darkened slums, seeking healing or at least comfort. The Hospital of Divine Mercy was one of the few places in the city where the poor were welcome, where they could receive care without payment. It was a work of charity, funded by the Church and staffed by priests like Matthias.
He moved among them now, his hands outstretched, feeling his way from person to person. His blindness had taught him to navigate by touch and sound, by the subtle shifts in air and temperature that told him where walls and people were. He had become adept at it, so much so that most people forgot he could not see.
But lately, he had begun to see things anyway.
Not with his eyes. Those were dead, useless. But with something else, something he did not understand. He saw shapes in the darkness, outlines of light and shadow that moved and shifted. He saw colors that had no names, patterns that hurt to perceive. And sometimes, when he touched a person, he saw more—their pain, their fear, their sins and secrets laid bare like open wounds.
The Church taught that such visions were gifts from God, signs of divine favor. But Matthias was beginning to suspect they were something else. Something the Church did not speak of. Something forbidden.
He knelt beside an old woman who was coughing blood into a rag. Her aura—that was what he had started calling the shapes he saw—was dim and flickering, like a candle about to go out. He placed his hand on her forehead and felt the fever burning beneath her skin.
"Peace, grandmother," he said softly. "God sees your suffering."
"Will He end it?" the woman rasped.
Matthias hesitated. The Church taught that suffering was a test, that God allowed pain to strengthen the faithful. But looking at this woman, feeling the agony that radiated from her like heat from a forge, he could not bring himself to repeat those words.
"I will do what I can," he said instead.
He reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew a small vial of tincture, a mixture of herbs and oils that eased pain. It was not much, but it was something. He helped the woman drink, then moved on to the next patient, and the next.
The work was endless. There were always more sick, more dying, more desperate. And Matthias could help so few of them. The medicines were expensive, the supplies limited, and the Church's charity only extended so far. Those who could not be saved were given last rites and sent home to die.
It was not enough. It had never been enough.
As the morning wore on, Matthias became aware of a presence watching him. He could not see the person, but he could feel them—a weight in the air, a disturbance in the patterns of light and shadow that he perceived. He turned toward the presence and felt a flicker of unease.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"Perhaps," said a woman's voice, soft and melodious. "Or perhaps I can help you."
Matthias frowned. "I don't understand."
"You see things," the woman said. "Things others cannot. You feel things. You know things. And it frightens you."
Matthias's heart began to race. How did she know? He had told no one about his visions, had kept them secret for fear of what the Church might say. Or do.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"Yes, you do," the woman said. She moved closer, and Matthias felt the air shift around her. Her aura was different from the others—brighter, more complex, like a tapestry woven from threads of light. "You're awakening, Brother Matthias. And you need guidance, or you will lose yourself."
"Awakening to what?" Matthias asked, though part of him already knew the answer.
"To the truth," the woman said. "To the reality that lies beneath the world you see. Or rather, the world you don't see."
Matthias took a step back. "You're a heretic."
"I'm a healer," the woman said. "Like you. My name is Lyra. And I've come a long way to find you."
"Why?"
"Because you have potential," Lyra said. "Because you're beginning to perceive the Metaxy, the space between the material world and the divine realm. And because if you continue without guidance, the Archons will find you. And they will destroy you."
Matthias felt a chill run down his spine. The Archons. He had heard the word before, in forbidden texts he had glimpsed in the Church's restricted archives. They were demons, servants of darkness, enemies of God. Or so the Church taught.
"I should report you to the Inquisition," Matthias said.
"You could," Lyra agreed. "But you won't. Because you know, deep down, that something is wrong. That the visions you're having, the things you're seeing, don't match what the Church has taught you. And you want answers."
She was right. Matthias hated that she was right, but he could not deny it. He had been having doubts for months, questions that gnawed at him in the quiet hours of the night. Why did God allow so much suffering? Why did the Church hoard wealth while the poor starved? Why did the High Luminary preach love while ordering executions?
And why, if his visions were gifts from God, did they show him things that contradicted the Church's teachings?
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
"Nothing," Lyra said. "I'm offering you a choice. You can continue as you are, blind and stumbling, until the Archons or the Inquisition find you. Or you can come with me, and I will teach you to see. Truly see."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I will leave," Lyra said. "And you will never see me again. But the visions will not stop, Brother Matthias. They will only grow stronger. And eventually, they will consume you."
Matthias stood in silence, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He thought of his vows, of his duty to the Church and to God. He thought of the sick and dying who depended on him, who came to the hospital seeking comfort and hope.
But he also thought of the visions, of the things he had seen that made no sense, of the growing certainty that the world was not what the Church claimed it to be.
"I need time," he said finally.
"You have until sunset," Lyra said. "Meet me at the old aqueduct, outside the western wall. If you come, I will teach you. If you don't, I will understand."
She turned and walked away, her footsteps soft on the stone. Matthias stood alone in the courtyard, surrounded by the sick and the dying, and wondered if he had just made the greatest mistake of his life.
Or the first step toward salvation.
....
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Matthias went through the motions of his duties—tending to patients, administering medicines, offering prayers—but his mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking about Lyra, about her words, about the choice she had given him.
He wanted to dismiss her as a heretic, a deceiver sent to lead him astray. But he could not. There had been something in her voice, in her presence, that felt... true. As if she had spoken words he had been waiting his entire life to hear.
In the afternoon, he was summoned to the Grand Temple for the daily prayer service. The Temple was the heart of Radiance, a massive pyramid of white marble that rose above the city like a mountain. Its golden dome gleamed in the sunlight, visible for miles, a beacon of the Radiant Faith's power and glory.
Matthias made his way through the crowded streets, guided by his staff and the sounds of the city. Radiance was a city of noise—vendors hawking their wares, children playing, the constant murmur of prayer from the faithful. The air smelled of incense and sweat, of spices and smoke.
The Temple's interior was cool and dim, a relief from the oppressive heat outside. Matthias joined the other priests in the central chamber, where the High Luminary would lead the service. He could feel the presence of hundreds of people around him, their auras flickering like candles in the darkness.
The High Luminary, Solarius IX, stood at the altar, his voice booming through the chamber. Matthias could not see him, but he could feel the man's presence—a blazing light, almost painful in its intensity. The High Luminary was Sunblind, like Matthias, his eyes burned white by staring at the sun. But unlike Matthias, Solarius radiated absolute certainty, absolute faith.
"Brothers and sisters," Solarius intoned, "we gather in the light of God, the sun that gives life to all things. We are blessed to live in this age, to serve in His holy Church, to spread His light to the darkened corners of the world."
The congregation murmured in agreement, their voices rising in a wave of devotion. Matthias joined them, reciting the familiar prayers, but his heart was not in it. His mind kept drifting back to Lyra, to her offer, to the choice he had to make.
"But there are those who would extinguish that light," Solarius continued, his voice growing harder. "Heretics. Blasphemers. Those who practice the forbidden arts, who consort with demons, who seek to undermine the Church and lead the faithful astray. These enemies of God must be rooted out and destroyed, for the sake of all humanity."
Matthias felt a chill. He knew what came next. The High Luminary was about to announce another purge, another round of arrests and executions. It happened every few months, whenever the Church needed to remind the people of its power.
"Tomorrow," Solarius said, "we will hold a cleansing. Five heretics have been captured, practitioners of the forbidden Pneumatic arts. They will be brought to the Pyre of Purification, where they will burn for their sins. Let this be a lesson to all who would defy God's will."
The congregation erupted in cheers, their voices echoing through the chamber. Matthias stood in silence, feeling sick. He had attended burnings before, had watched as men and women were tied to stakes and set aflame, their screams rising into the sky. The Church called it justice, called it necessary. But Matthias had never been able to reconcile the screams with the teachings of a loving God.
And now, knowing what he knew, seeing what he saw, he wondered if the people being burned were truly heretics. Or if they were simply people like him, people who had begun to awaken, who had seen the truth and been punished for it.
After the service, Matthias made his way back to the hospital. His mind was in turmoil, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of doubt and fear. He wanted to believe in the Church, in the teachings he had devoted his life to. But he could not ignore the evidence of his own senses, the visions that showed him a world far more complex and terrible than the Church admitted.
He thought of the five heretics who would burn tomorrow. He thought of their screams, their agony. And he thought of Lyra's words: If you continue without guidance, the Archons will find you. And they will destroy you.
Was that his fate? To be burned alive, condemned as a heretic, his name erased from history?
Or could he escape it, if he accepted Lyra's offer?
As the sun began to set, Matthias made his decision. He gathered a few belongings—a change of clothes, some food, a small purse of coins—and slipped out of the hospital. He moved through the streets with practiced ease, his staff tapping against the cobblestones, his other senses guiding him.
The western wall loomed ahead, a massive barrier of white stone that separated the city from the wilderness beyond. The old aqueduct ran along the base of the wall, a crumbling relic from an earlier age. Matthias made his way to it, his heart pounding in his chest.
Lyra was waiting for him. He could feel her presence, that bright, complex aura that set her apart from everyone else.
"I wasn't sure you would come," she said.
"Neither was I," Matthias admitted.
"Are you ready?"
Matthias hesitated. He thought of the hospital, of the patients who depended on him. He thought of his vows, of the life he was leaving behind. And he thought of the five heretics who would burn tomorrow, and the possibility that he might be next.
"Yes," he said. "I'm ready."
Lyra took his hand, and together they walked into the darkness beyond the wall. And for the first time in four years, Matthias felt something he had almost forgotten.
Hope.