The god who stands above all things—the one every soul knows, loves, fears, and desires—is called the Holy Truth. To all, it is both beginning and end, the force that shapes the world and judges it. Every human, and even creatures that walk beyond human lands, bow to its presence, seeking protection, guidance, power, or forgiveness.
Across every kingdom and region, hidden sanctuaries exist, devoted entirely to the Holy Truth. These places remain secret from the common world, yet all who need to kneel before the divine know of them. Humans, warriors, even beings not entirely human, make pilgrimages in silence, hoping to gain favor or wisdom. Each sanctuary is watched over by the purest, most disciplined souls—the chosen of the Holy Truth, tasked with protecting humanity, dispelling evil, and reminding the world that the god's gaze is unending.
Among all these sacred places, one rises above the rest. Sancthorn—the oldest, grandest, and purest sanctuary of the entire region—stands hidden in the jagged peaks of the northern mountains. Its spires pierce the clouds, each tower etched with runes older than memory. Stairways wind in impossible spirals, courtyards open to gardens where glowing flora pulses with latent magic, and crystal-clear pools mirror the strange energy that fills the air. Few eyes have seen Sancthorn, and fewer still have felt its full weight. Every surface hums with restrained power; the place itself seems alive, as if aware of every visitor, every thought, every secret desire. It is a place where only the strongest, most disciplined souls rise, and from its halls, the greatest guardians of humanity emerge.
And within this sanctuary, Sister Elizabeth sits alone.
Her reflection in the tall, narrow mirror shows a figure sculpted by discipline and duty. Broad shoulders, thick, commanding hips, and a chest restrained by the tight folds of her habit mark her as a woman who bears the weight of authority effortlessly. Each curve, each line of her body hints at strength and control, a living testament to her rank within Sancthorn—Litmadien, one of the highest among the chosen, tasked with shaping and enforcing the discipline that keeps the sanctuary untainted. Her sharp eyes, usually cold and commanding, scan her own reflection now with a rare pause. She notices how the habit clings, how the light plays across the contours of her form, how the air of control she always exudes only deepens her presence.
The room is quiet, save for the faint hum of Sancthorn itself seeping through the walls. Outside, a storm gathers in the mountains. The wind presses against the stone walls, carrying the scent of rain and the wild, untamed power that seems to swirl around Sancthorn. Elizabeth adjusts her posture instinctively, hands smoothing the folds of her habit, body tense with awareness—not for any threat, but for the perfection she must always uphold. Every nerve in her body is alive, not in want, but in command, disciplined yet aware of the subtle pull of her own presence within these ancient halls.
Even alone, she senses it—the subtle, inexplicable tension in the air today. A strange shadow brushes the edges of her thoughts, as if something unseen is approaching, something unfamiliar, yet compelling. Her pulse quickens—not in fear, but in recognition of a new, dangerous energy touching the sanctity of her world. She pushes the feeling away, focusing on her reflection, on the discipline, on the eternal vigilance she owes to Sancthorn and the Holy Truth.
Hours pass in silence. Candles flicker, wind moans against the high windows, and still, the sensation persists. Somewhere beyond the mountains, a boy moves through the storm, guided by instinct rather than knowledge.
Elias awakens to the cold bite of the northern wind on his face, dust clinging to his robes, the trees around him twisted and dark in the storm. He is fragile, small, almost childlike in appearance, yet there is a subtle intensity in his gaze—curiosity laced with a trembling fear. The Soul Shields, guardians of Sancthorn, find him lying unconscious on the narrow path leading to the mountains, robes torn, hair matted with mud. He is clearly out of place, yet they sense no ill will, only vulnerability, innocence, and the faint aura of something dangerous lying dormant within him.
The guardians exchange a wordless agreement. He is a student, yes, perhaps one delayed or lost, but the signs are clear: he is a chosen soul, unwittingly drawn to Sancthorn. How he arrived alone, in the dead of the storm, remains a mystery.
When he stirs, blinking against the harsh light, the guardians step aside. He rises unsteadily, brushing dirt from his robes, every movement hesitant, timid—shy, almost reverent. He approaches the massive gates of Sancthorn, each step hesitant yet unavoidably deliberate. The doors tower above him, carved with ancient symbols, and as he passes beneath them, a strange sensation presses against his mind: the weight of history, discipline, and the pure, raw energy of the sanctuary itself.
Inside, the air feels alive, thick with power. Every corridor stretches in impossible angles, lit by shifting lights that seem almost sentient. Shadows curl and twist along the walls, brushing against him like unseen fingers. His heart races, both from fear and awe, and every instinct screams caution—but curiosity, fascination, and a deep, inexplicable pull drives him forward. Each step carries him deeper into the heart of Sancthorn, the tension mounting with every echoing footfall. Magic thrums in the air, faint but insistent, brushing against his consciousness like a storm waiting to break.
And for the first time, fully conscious and fully aware, Elias realizes that he has entered a place unlike any other. The sanctuary's energy presses against him, alive, aware, judging, and promising transformation. He feels it in every fiber of his being—the weight of disciplined souls, the gaze of the Holy Truth, and the latent power humming through the stone walls. The boy steps into the inner courtyard, eyes wide, chest tight with anticipation and tension. He is here. Sancthorn is alive around him. And nothing will ever be the same again.
The great gates close silently behind him, leaving the storm of energy, secrets, and unspoken power to wrap him in its heavy embrace as the first chapter comes to a tense, breathless close.