Chapter 6 –The Fracture of Light
The Hall of Illumination had never known silence.
Every hour, choirs sang. Bells breathed. The light murmured through its veins.
But now—after the Saint of First Flame had vanished into ash—the great hall stood still.
The First Radiant sat upon his throne, hands folded like a prayer carved from marble. The light bleeding from his eyes flickered—an omen of fracture.
"He devoured her," whispered the Keeper of Grace, her voice trembling behind its sweetness. "Our Saint dissolved in his shadow. He drinks the light itself."
The Archivist turned a page in their floating tome. The script bled gold. "The fragment within her was his to begin with. A rejoining was inevitable."
"Inevitable?" The Warden of Light's voice thundered through the chamber. "You call the unraveling of eternity inevitable?"
The Voice of Harmony stepped forward, veiled in gauze that shimmered with false serenity. "Calm. The faithful must not sense our unrest. Panic spreads faster than faith."
The Heir of Dawn was trembling, clutching her lilies until petals bled luminescence. "He was buried beneath continents of stone—how could he wake?"
The Silent Seraph turned their head slightly, pale lips unmoving. The faint hiss that escaped them was like silk tearing: a soundless warning.
"It was the mortal," the Archivist said at last. "The one who broke the seal. The archaeologist."
"Then he must be found," the Radiant whispered. "If he awoke the Creator, he may have been chosen—perhaps touched by the divine spark."
The Keeper's soft smile twisted. "Or worse, infected by it."
"Either way," the Warden said, "he must die."
A thin crack ran through the floor at that word, light leaking upward like molten gold.
But the Radiant shook his head. "No. Not yet. If the Creator walks again, he will seek what was taken. The heart beneath our cathedral, yes—but before that, the fragments scattered in the mortal world. He will need guidance, protection… and love."
The others looked up, startled.
The Keeper's voice sharpened. "Love? You think he can still feel that?"
"All gods crave devotion," the Radiant said softly. "Even broken ones."
He turned toward the basin of molten light. Its surface quivered, showing images faint and distant: dunes, ruins, a man standing beside another. The mortal and the god.
"They travel together," he murmured. "The human looks at him as if he were salvation."
"Then let him believe it," the Archivist suggested, tone neutral. "Belief is the easiest chain to forge."
The Warden folded his hands. "And when belief fails?"
"Then we remind him who commands the light."
The Radiant's gaze hardened. "Send the next Saint. The Mirror-Bearer."
The hall darkened at that name. Even the lilies wilted.
The Heir of Dawn whispered, "She hasn't been unbound in centuries."
"Then she will hunger," the Radiant said. "And hunger is loyalty."
From the shadows behind the thrones, a faint chime rang out—a single note, pure and wrong. Glass cracked. A figure stepped forward, barefoot, skin translucent as ice, eyes twin mirrors reflecting everyone but herself.
The Saint of Reflections bowed. "You call, and I answer."
"You will find them," the Radiant said, descending from his throne. "Track the trail of ash. Bring me the mortal alive."
The Saint tilted her head. "Alive?"
"Alive," the Radiant repeated. "He may be our key… or our end."
The Saint smiled, and it was like watching glass learn cruelty. "Then let me see what he hides."
She turned, vanishing into the shimmer of the nearest mirror. The sound of shattering glass echoed long after she was gone.
---
Far below, deep beneath the Hall of Illumination, the vault of the Covenant pulsed.
Rows upon rows of glass vessels filled the cavern—each one glowing faintly with trapped souls, the distilled "Essence of Lumina" that fed the immortals' perfection.
One vessel—buried under centuries of dust—flickered dimly.
Inside, a single drop of mortal blood burned crimson among the gold. It pulsed faster with every echo from above.
From the dark, a voice whispered—not divine, but human. Soft, trembling, familiar.
"Elian Vale."
A ripple passed through the vessel. His name again.
"Child of my blood… why do you walk beside my murderer?"
The drop of blood burst into flame, and for an instant the glass revealed an image—Elian as a child, standing before a desert shrine, sunlight gleaming on a pendant at his throat.
Then the image shattered, and the cavern fell silent once more.
---
High above, in the Radiant's hall, the light flared suddenly. The Radiant turned sharply, as if struck by something unseen. The glow in his chest dimmed, flickered, then steadied again.
The Archivist looked up. "What is it?"
The Radiant's eyes unfocused, distant. "A memory long buried," he whispered. "The mortal… he carries my blood."
The hall froze.
"You mean—" the Keeper began, voice trembling.
"Yes," the Radiant said. "He is a descendant of the first priest. The one who bound the Creator."
He looked toward the horizon, where the sun began to darken around the edges.
"Fate," he said softly, "is folding in on itself."