The Sanctum Does Not Forgive
The Sanctum of Veils was quiet in the way graves were quiet.
Not empty—watchful.
Lumi learned that within the first hour.
The pain did not recede. It settled, coiling beneath her skin like something patient and cruel. Every truth she so much as brushed against flared hot and sharp, unbuffered by shadow, unsoftened by presence. The Sanctum drank restraint and returned suffering.
At twenty-two, Lumi had endured prisons before.
None had felt so personal.
The walls were etched with runes meant to redirect truth—forcing it inward instead of outward. Each time she breathed, the markings pulsed faintly, responding to her heartbeat.
They want me to consume myself.
She pressed a shaking hand to the stone and nearly screamed as pain lanced up her arm. Blood bloomed instantly.
"Not yet," she whispered to herself, sinking back to the floor. "I won't break yet."
Time became unreliable.
The Sanctum allowed no shadows, only pale light that never shifted. Sleep came in fragments, broken by visions that were not quite dreams—memories of past Truth Bearers screaming themselves hoarse, begging for lies that never came.
Lumi woke from one such vision choking on blood.
Footsteps echoed.
She froze.
The door opened without ceremony.
An elder entered alone, robes unmarked, expression calm to the point of reverence. His presence sent an immediate spike of pain through Lumi's skull.
He believes every word he speaks.
"Truth Bearer," he said gently. "You are suffering."
"That's not a question," Lumi rasped.
"No," he agreed. "It's an observation."
He crouched a careful distance away, as though approaching a wounded animal.
"This place was built to correct deviations," he continued. "To return Truth Bearers to their intended purpose."
The truth screamed.
"You mean obedience," Lumi said.
He smiled faintly. "Peace."
Pain tore through her.
"You feel it, don't you?" the elder said softly. "The absence. The distance. You have bound yourself to the prince, and now the realm reminds you what you are without him."
Lumi dragged herself upright, vision swimming. "I am not his shadow."
"No," the elder said. "You are his weakness."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
He intends to make you choose.
"I came to offer mercy," the elder continued. "Submit. Let the truth burn as it was meant to. We will ease the pain. In time, you will forget what softness felt like."
Lumi laughed weakly. "You mistake me for someone who wants to survive at any cost."
His gaze sharpened. "Then you will die."
The lie flickered.
Not yet.
Lumi's vision blurred as truth surged violently—but something was different now. Instead of lashing outward, the power folded inward, compressing, reshaping.
The pain… focused.
She felt it then—a change wrought by isolation.
Truth was hardening.
"No," Lumi said hoarsely. "I will live."
The elder recoiled as the runes along the walls flared—then cracked.
"What have you done?" he whispered.
Lumi rose unsteadily to her feet, blood dripping freely now, but her eyes were clear.
"You taught me what truth becomes when it has nowhere to go," she said. "It stops breaking."
"It endures."
The Sanctum shuddered.
Far away, Blake gasped as the night convulsed, shadows screaming through the city as if struck by lightning.
"She's changing," he whispered. "And they don't understand what they're creating."
Back in the tower, the elder stumbled backward, fear finally cracking his composure.
"This place does not forgive," he warned.
Lumi met his gaze, steady and unafraid despite the blood and pain.
"Neither do I."
And for the first time since her imprisonment, the truth did not hurt her.
It obeyed her.