The First Age

The busyness of the Red Square had diminished in recent weeks. Autumn was shifting into winter soon, and the wind promised its imminent arrival. The tourists had decreased in numbers, but Moscovites remained aplenty. He set up shop near the entrance to St. Basil’s cathedral. A small table displayed holographic information about the location, hours, and times that Seekers were welcome to explore the Sanctuary of the Ascendant Flame. The spire was only a few miles to the north, and while it was overwhelmingly tall, it could not be seen from present location.

Quillon wore his long purple robe, the collar high and curled around the back of his neck, with the symbol of the Veilwardens sewn upon the breast. Beneath were simple clothing, black trousers and a scoop-neck shirt. The robe kept him warm, but he was born and raised in Moscow, the temperature would need to plummet before needing adding a coat and scarf.

He began his oration, imploring to those passing to turn to the Ascendancy, a modern day god in flesh form, and of course, to join the Brotherhood in their acknowledgment of such a being. Several people stopped to scan their information, no too few because the current speaker was so intense about his oration.

After a short time, a Red Devil approached, one of the armed security who monitored the Red Square’s safety. Quillon frowned, saying as the Guard approached: “Now hold on, I have a permit to be here,” which he promptly showed. The Devil, in his orange, red and black uniform shook his head. “Permit is only good for coded areas. This isn’t one of them. You’ll have to move on.” He pointed.

Quillon guffawed, “Not according to your own damn website. This is perfectly legal.”

The Devil folded his arms, growing impatient. “Look, we’ve been lenient with the Brotherhood plenty of times in the past. Coded areas change frequently. Move on or you’ll be issued a citation. I hate to ban another one of you.”

Quillon begrudgingly packed up his stuff, casting a jealous look at the red walls of the Kremlin before ducking off toward a side street. Finally, he found a decent corner outside an artist’ gallery and began again.

A cold wind signaled the shift into winter, and with it, the chill invigorating his very essence. This was his time of year when Sámiel was ecstatic, manically so, and today, like the wind itself, he roamed the streets, restless and aimless. Though dressed loudly in patterned bellbottoms, a ruffled shirt wide open at the throat and a heavy wool overcoat, he moved with a quiet presence.

He was absorbing the busyness and tourists filling the Red Square, savoring the energy of the place, when a strange yet captivating sight caught his attention near St. Basil’s. A man in a long purple robe, with a high collar curling around the back of his neck and the symbol of the Brotherhood sewn upon the back, was passionately orating to the onlookers.

He was drawn to man’s intense features—the sharp lines of his face, the fervor in his eyes, and the strong call of a voice that seemed to match Sámiel’s own presence in an inexplicable way. The physical attraction was immediate and profound, a spark that ignited within him as he watched the man speak with such intensity and conviction.

The Brother argued with one of the Red Devils, the city's armed security, and Sámiel observed the exchange from a distance. He noted the frustration in the man’s voice, the determination etched into his expression as he was forced to move on. There was something undeniably magnetic as a shadow draws darkness.

He followed until the man relocated to a corner outside an artist's gallery and witnessed the same impassioned speech once more, his words infused with the same fervor despite the change in location. Those passing offered a mixed reaction, some nodding in agreement, others slithering past without acknowledgement.

Satisfied that he had seen enough, Sámiel made his way to a nearby café. He ordered a cup of hot tea, the steam rising from the cup as a reminder of the warmth it held, and carried it out in a to-go cup. With the tea in hand, he approached.

"With all that speaking you are doing," Sámiel said in his characteristic eerie, melodic tone, "your throat must be dry.” He offered the cup of hot tea towards the Brotherhood, eyes roaming the symbols on clothing.

Quillon stood tall, exuding confidence and authority in his long purple robe, the high collar curled around the back of his neck, and the symbol of the Veilwardens prominently displayed on his breast. His attire was not just clothing; it was a uniform of one of the highest ranks in the Brotherhood, a visible testament to his status and power, and those in the know, knew.

He had managed to attract an attentive crowd, their eyes fixed on him as he passionately spoke of the Ascendancy and the modern-day god in flesh form. Quillon's voice carried a fervor that demanded attention, and he basked in the validation that the gathered listeners provided. This was his element, where he felt most alive and significant, each word he uttered reinforcing his sense of purpose and self-importance.

As he continued his oration and the crowd dispersed, Quillon noticed a figure approaching from the corner of his eye. The man was striking in appearance, dressed in an eccentric yet perfectly fitting outfit that blended seamlessly with the city's daytime fashion, but there was something otherworldly about him, an aura that swept ahead of his approach like wind heralding the arrival of autumn.

The stranger extended a cup of hot tea. "With all that speaking you are doing," the man said, "your throat must be quite parched."

Quillon's eyes met the stranger's, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The tea felt like an offering to a sacred altar, a gesture imbued with significance. Quillon accepted the cup with a gracious nod, his fingers brushing against the man's briefly in the handoff. As sure as the spark within his own body spread from the touch, the warmth of the tea spread through him, contrasting sharply with the cold air on his lips.

"Thank you,” Quillon murmured, strained voice carrying a mix of expectant authority and curiosity. He sipped the tea, feeling the warmth and the almost ritualistic nature of the moment. He straightened, his posture that of a priest accepting an offering on behalf of his god.

Quillon nodded, feeling both validated and intrigued. "The Ascendancy is a cause worth every breath," he replied, his conviction unwavering. He couldn't deny the allure of this strange man, nor the significance of his offering. "Belief,” he said simply, his voice filled with self-assuredness. "Belief in something greater than ourselves, in a power that can transform our world.”

He glimpsed the man’s gaze wandering his chest, presumably studying the symbol emblazoned there, but for the directness in his stare, Quillon wondered what else he spied. He seemed to see straight through him. He held his voice strong, reawakened by the warm liquid. “My name is Quillon Hawke, Veilwarden of the Brotherhood of Ascension. Are you aware of our work? The temple is near if you would like to see?” 

Sámiel allowed a slow, knowing smile to play on his lips as he observed Quillon's reaction. The man was so certain, so fervent in his beliefs, and it was precisely that intensity that drew him in.

His eyes flicked to the symbol on Quillon’s chest, recognizing it as a mark of authority, a badge worn by those who believed themselves to be shepherds of a divine truth. Sámiel could feel the weight of it, not just in its physical form, but in the way Quillon carried himself—an embodiment of conviction, of self-importance.

The name—Quillon Hawke—echoed in Sámiel’s mind, marked by the kind of gravity that often accompanied those who were used to being followed, listened to, obeyed. Sámiel found it almost amusing, how seriously men like Quillon took their roles, how they built structures and titles around themselves to feel powerful.

And yet, there was something about Quillon’s invitation that piqued Sámiel’s curiosity. Not the temple itself, nor really the rituals or the supposed divine that the Brotherhood proclaimed, but rather the spectacle of it all—the performance of belief, the intricate dance of power and submission. It was something that fascinated Sámiel, though he played it by different rules, rules that eschewed any worship except for the natural, chaotic forces of the primal world that had shaped him.

He tilted his head slightly, letting the silence stretch between them just long enough to create a sense of expectation, of tension. Then, with a voice as smooth as silk and as dark as midnight, he replied, “I’ve heard of your Brotherhood, of the temple you speak of. And yes, I think I would like to see it.”

He let the words hang in the cold air, a promise and a challenge all at once. His emerald eyes held Quillon’s gaze, probing, assessing, as if searching for the truth behind the man's grand proclamations. “Belief is a curious thing,” he mused, his tone almost teasing, “it binds and blinds, lifts and limits. I have always been drawn to see where it leads those who claim it so strongly.”

Sámiel took a step closer, not enough to invade Quillon’s space, but enough to let the Veilwarden feel his presence, his aura of quiet, unsettling power. “Lead the way, Veilwarden,” he said, the title rolling off his tongue with a hint of mockery that was almost imperceptible. “I’m curious to see what lies beyond the veil you guard so zealously.”

The tea quickly chilled during the walk. Quillon spent the majority of their time describing the main tenants of the Brotherhood, including their origins. His companion was a rapt listener, and when he glanced, he found Samiel fixed upon him with an intensity of focus that stirred flickers of fear in his heart.

Soon, the spire of their temple peeked through the buildings. The open space in its periphery filled an entire city block. The gardens were various shades of brown and orange, entombed in their hibernation for the winter. Yet still, to Quillon’s eyes, it was a beautiful scene that filled him with pride. Sculptures and statues loomed on tall pedestals lining the concourse to main entrance— the many faces of the Ascendancy peering down upon them.

Those stationed at the front of the Sanctuary entrance were volunteers, denoted by the symbol of Embers sewn upon their shirts. They nodded at him reverently, recognizing not only the purple robe he wore but the face of one whose ascension to Veilwarden rank was still discussed behind whispered hands.

“This is the Hall of Stars,” he explained as they were swallowed by an enormous hall used for gatherings and ceremonies. The original Soviet design, featuring space exploration themes, has been preserved and integrated into the Brotherhood’s narrative.

A sense of wonder filled him as he peered overhead. The holographic system projected celestial images upon the domed ceiling that immersed the visitor into the sense of their own smallness compared to the greatness of the Ascendancy.

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice greeting him by name.

“Veilwarden Quillon.”

He turned, recognizing the airy accent. A woman approached, wearing one her signature dresses of floating creams and whites. She appeared young, though once Quillon spent time around her, he realized they were likely near to the same age. She adorned herself with eccentric, yet fashionable styles like the gold leaf on the ear with eyes lined in mandarin orange meant to reflect the CCD’s colors.

It was Seraphis, the only female Veilwarden in the Brotherhood. Despite her status as such, she smiled demurely as she approached, hands cusped in front of her. She turned her attention quickly toward Samiel, whose handsome features and stately height certainly stood out from the ritualistic otherworld culture that dwelt in the Sanctuary.

“Have you brought a Seeker before us?”

Quillon should have stood taller, proud to present such a recruit, but the way that Seraphis studied him, like a bug caught in a jar, Quillon was suddenly feeling protective. If Seekers eventually rose through the ranks, the one that recruited them earned the prestige. Poaching recruits was a common practice.

“Samiel, this is Veilwarden Seraphis.” He made the introduction grimly, subtly moving closer to Samiel’s side as Seraphis attempted to slip into his shadow to greet him properly.

Sámiel took in the grandeur of the temple. He found the entire structure intriguing, not for its religious significance, but for the sheer spectacle of it all. The Brotherhood's temple was a place built on the bones of another era, repurposed for a different kind of worship, and he could feel the layers of human ambition embedded in its walls, each detail carefully designed to humble and inspire awe. He took in the celestial projections above, the towering statues along the entrance, and the reverent gazes of those around him as if they were actors on a stage. To him, it was all theater, and he was but an amused spectator.

As Quillon guided him through the Hall of Stars, Sámiel listened with a rapt, almost unnerving focus, his gaze transitioning between Quillon as the man spoke of the Brotherhood’s tenets and the others in view. Though he appeared to be listening intently, the intensity of his gaze had a quality that seemed to cut deeper than the words being spoken, as though he were looking past Quillon's explanations, peeling back layers to observe the very essence of what lay beneath. There was a flicker of something in Quillon’s eyes—uncertainty, perhaps even fear—and Sámiel’s lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile, as if greeting an old friend.

The arrival of Seraphis, however, brought a new energy to the room, a disruption that Sámiel found instantly captivating. Her dress flowed like cream, her presence an ethereal contrast to the dark grandeur around them. Sámiel’s eyes flicked over her with an assessing, almost predatory curiosity, noting the meticulous way she had adorned herself to embody both elegance and authority. She was a creature of her environment, crafted to command respect, yet restrained in her gestures, her demeanor calculated and controlled. He liked it.

When she addressed him as a "Seeker," he couldn't suppress the flicker of amusement that hovered in his gaze. The term held a certain poetry, yet it rang hollow to him. He was no "Seeker" in the way she imagined; his presence here was one of curiosity and amusement, a cat wandering into a house of birds.

But Sámiel sensed the subtle shift in Quillon as Seraphis approached. He watched as Quillon’s posture stiffened, the flicker of protectiveness crossing his expression, as if he felt the need to stake his claim on Sámiel in front of the other Veilwarden. This, more than anything, amused him. Authority figures jostling over territory, marking lines in the sand.

"Veilwarden Seraphis,” he murmured, letting her title roll off his tongue with a velvety warmth that belied a subtle challenge. He inclined his head, the gesture both deferential and flirtatious, his eyes lingering on hers with a playful glint. “I must say, I wonder if all those aligned with this Brotherhood are as… singularly impressive as Veilwarden Quillon here.”

His tone was light, teasing, the words straddling the line between sincerity and mischief. He held her gaze, the intensity in his emerald eyes unmistakable as he slowly extended his hand, gesturing toward her ear with the gold leaf.

“Your adornments,” he continued, his hand drawn to her cheek where it hovered without touching, “are exquisite. It’s rare to see someone blend beauty with authority so… effortlessly, and to find two talented souls in the same place, perhaps the Brotherhood draws you to it.”

Seraphis studied him with a slight narrowing of her eyes, as if trying to discern his intent, but Sámiel simply smiled, holding his ground with that same unflinching confidence. He leaned in slightly, close enough for her to catch his scent—something subtle, earthy, with a hint of smoke—before he straightened, letting his gaze wander up to the domed ceiling of the Hall of Stars.

“This temple of yours is quite a spectacle. I must confess, I have a soft spot for the grandeur of devotion. Such passion, such artistry.” His gaze flicked between them, his lips curving into a roguish grin.

The flirtation hung in the air, a daring spark left for Seraphis to catch if she wished. Sámiel watched her, the gleam in his eye daring her to engage, to respond, to let down her guard even slightly. His stance was casual, as if he belonged in this place despite being an outsider. There was no supplication in him, no desire for their approval; he was simply there, intriguing and out of place, but enjoying the game of testing boundaries.