The First Age

Theron was the final to deliver an opening statement.

“Ascendancy, Your Holiness, and all who bear witness: the Brotherhood of Ascension stands here not to contest ancient seats nor to supplant venerable traditions, but to give language and structure to experiences that millions can no longer deny.

Far too often, those who awaken to these gifts have lived in isolation, suspicion, or silence. We maintain that such abilities are neither curse nor conquest, but responsibility, and that responsibility demands guidance, community, and moral formation offered by the Ascendancy - He who is first of us.

We do not claim perfection, nor do we ask for uncritical acceptance. We ask only that the reality before us be named honestly and engaged openly, so that those entrusted with these powers may be formed not as weapons or idols, but as servants of a world in need of light.”

Theron’s statement unsettled him far more than Brandon’s. Not because it was blasphemous. Because it was so careful.

He expected arrogance and open claims of divinity. He expected spectacle. Instead he heard: Responsibility. Moral formation. Servants. Community.

That was ecclesial church language.

He wondered who wrote the Luminar’s speech. Or worse, if he was sincere. He made a note to learn more about the background of this Luminar.

Theron did not claim godhood. He did not overtly name Ascendancy as God, nor even reject any God. He framed the Brotherhood as structure, as guidance for the gifted. That made them harder to condemn. The work of channelers was real, but if it is not demonic or illusions, then suppressing them would be injustice.

He also noticed something else: Theron did not challenge the Pope. He did not compete for spiritual supremacy. He asked only that reality be named honestly. That placed Philip in a moral quandary. Because if he denied what was evident, he became the one resisting truth.

Theron was gathering power, structure, and becoming a church. But there cannot be two Churches.

With each speaker, Seraphis felt herself drawn further into the gravity of the moment. The room itself seemed to breathe around them, vast and gilded and steeped in history, yet it was the men within it who altered the air. She could scarcely believe she stood so near to them, not hidden in some distant gallery but placed almost at the forefront, where every word landed unsoftened by distance. She had never felt more involved in the shaping of the world, nor more aware that proximity to power could feel like power itself.

When the Ascendancy rose to speak, she straightened without consciously meaning to. She had seen him countless times through screens and broadcasts, and a part of her had always suspected that some refinement of technology lent him his vitality. No man, she had reasoned, could appear so youthful and so composed beneath the weight of decades of rule without some subtle artifice. Yet here he stood, flesh and presence undeniable, at once vigorous and young and yet deeply rooted, like an ancient tree that still bore new leaves each spring.

There was something magnetic in him. She understood now why entire crowds were said to rise at his command. It was not command, precisely. When he spoke, the room seemed to lean toward him, as if instinctively acknowledging a center of gravity. She found herself wondering whether that force was something he consciously wielded, or whether it was simply the natural consequence of who he was. The distinction mattered, though she could not quite say why.

She applauded when he concluded, measured and proper, careful not to betray the awe that stirred beneath her composure.

The Pope followed.

Seraphis had not been raised in a religious household. The irony of that did not escape her, given the path she now walked. Yet she was not ignorant of what the man represented. Over a billion souls believed him to stand nearer to the divine than any other living person. That kind of devotion reshaped the world as surely as armies did.

He spoke more softly than she expected, yet his words carried weight. There was deliberateness in every syllable, an economy of movement in each turn of his head. He did not seize the space the way the Ascendancy had. He inhabited it. There was something disciplined in him, almost ascetic, as if his restraint were itself a form of authority. She understood then why he was revered. His authority did not blaze; it endured.

She applauded again, the same careful cadence as before, though inwardly she felt the tension between the two men like a thread drawn taut.

Then Theron rose.

Whatever composure she had carefully cultivated threatened to fracture.

He was magnificent. That was the only word that came to her, though she would never allow herself to speak it aloud. He stood not with the rooted permanence of the Ascendancy nor the tempered stillness of the Pope, but with something luminous that seemed uniquely his own. The dark weave of his garments caught the light subtly, threads glinting like embers beneath ash. His voice was articulate and steady, and as he spoke she felt a warmth rise within her chest that had nothing to do with ceremony.

Luminar.

The title had never seemed more fitting. There was a radiance to him, not literal, and yet nearly so that made the word feel inevitable. She had to discipline her expression, schooling her features into neutrality even as pride flared bright and fierce beneath her ribs. When she applauded, the sound of her hands striking together was sharper than before, almost eager. A glance from someone nearby reminded her where she stood, and she moderated herself, drawing her hands back into measured decorum.

The press began their questions soon after, and Seraphis listened as if committing every exchange to memory. It felt as though fate itself had arranged her presence here, as though every step she had taken since entering the Brotherhood had led to this convergence of power and proclamation. She absorbed it greedily, aware that moments such as this did not often repeat themselves.

According to the itinerary, the questioning was meant to continue for another half hour before the leaders withdrew for private deliberation. Yet she noticed the shift immediately when a man approached the Ascendancy unannounced and bent to murmur something at his ear. The interruption was subtle, but it rippled outward through the room like a stone cast into still water. The Ascendancy’s reply was brief, and then word spread that a recess would be taken.

The formal structure dissolved into motion. Conversations resumed in hushed clusters. A few priests gravitated toward the Pope, cassocks whispering against the floor. Only a small contingent followed the Ascendancy from the chamber, their departure purposeful.

Theron turned at once toward her and Lucien.

“You were spectacular,” she told him as he approached, unable to keep the warmth entirely from her voice. She meant it with every fiber of her being.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, yet there was less triumph in his expression than she had anticipated. If this moment was historic, he bore it as though it were merely necessary. Before she could study him further, he draped an arm companionably around Lucien’s shoulders and drew him aside to speak in low tones.

Seraphis felt the faintest sting of exclusion, sharp and quick as a pinprick. It was foolish, she knew. Matters of consequence required privacy, and she had no claim to every whispered word. Still, she could not entirely still the small ache that rose unbidden.

She folded her hands before her, posture immaculate, and waited.

Around her, the chamber churned with speculation. She watched, attentive, wondering what message had interrupted the proceedings and what unseen currents had begun to move beneath the surface of this carefully orchestrated summit.

Moscow had ceased to resemble a city.

Nikolai stood in the upper gallery of the Ivan the Great Bell Tower, a hand resting against the cold stone as the storm tore through the Kremlin. Snow blew through the open arches and across the ancient floor, catching in the folds of his coat and collecting along the stone beneath his shoes. The wind howled through the bell chamber above and around him, turning the tower into something that felt less like an observation post and more like a ship caught in a white sea.

Below, the Kremlin was already disappearing.

Beyond its walls, Moscow had become an indistinct expanse of white. Familiar towers had vanished. Streets had ceased to exist. Apartment buildings stood buried to higher floors, some with only upper windows visible above the snow.

Nikolai had watched earthquakes turn cities into ruins. He had seen fire consume buildings that had stood for centuries. He had watched governments fall and borders change and people who believed themselves invincible discover otherwise.

This was different. There was no enemy. Nothing to strike back against. Nothing to defend. No army to mobilize against it.

The snow simply kept falling.

His Deputy-Consul Chief of Staff stood several paces away, huddled in the stairwell door, one hand pressed against the earpiece through which the Kremlin's communications network was feeding him reports. A Barrier Praetor officer held the stairwell door and watched closely. The senior meteorologist had come up with them, though he seemed increasingly uncomfortable being exposed to the elements.

"How much?" Nikolai asked.

The meteorologist checked the data on the tablet in his hand. The wind was howling so loud, he had to lean in and raise his voice to be heard.

"At least nine meters in the central districts."

Nikolai looked toward him.

"At least?"

"We've lost reliable measurements in several locations. Instruments are buried or no longer transmitting. Based on the readings, twenty meters is possible in the surrounding region."

Twenty meters.

Nikolai turned back toward the city. A building he knew well had been visible a few hours ago. Now it was gone. Only a rounded white rise marked where it had stood.

"How did we get here?"

The meteorologist hesitated.

"The storm intensified beyond every model."

"That's not what I asked."

The man glanced down at his tablet.

"Two days ago, the forecast called for a severe winter storm. Twenty to thirty centimeters. Yesterday, the projections increased to over a meter in some districts. Then three meters. After that..." He swallowed. "The models stopped being useful."

Nikolai's eyes remained fixed on Moscow.

The meteorologist continued, almost defensively. "We've checked the Arctic systems, upper-atmosphere conditions, pressure gradients, moisture content, solar activity, industrial emissions. Everything. There isn't a combination of variables that produces this."

"And yet it is happening."

"Yes."

"Why?"

The meteorologist looked toward the storm.

"I don't know."

Nikolai waited. The man finally said, "It is snowing because it is snowing."

For several seconds, the only answer was the roar of the wind.

Victor, his chief of staff hurried from the door to gather his attention.

"A collapse in the northeast district. Multiple structures. Emergency services cannot reach them."

"How many?" Nikolai asked.

"We don't know."

"Find out."

"We're trying."

"Try faster."

Victor hurried back to the stairwell to relay the order out of the wind.

A minute later, another report followed.

Power instability. Then a hospital running on emergency generation. Then a communications relay that had gone dark. Then a district where the snow had risen high enough to bury the lower floors of residential buildings. People would be trapped inside. Carbon monoxide could become a danger. 

The reports continued.

Nikolai listened without moving. The Kremlin had survived invasions, revolutions, fires and wars. Its walls had stood while dynasties rose and disappeared. Now the city beyond those walls was being buried in a matter of hours.

He looked down at the snow swirling around their feet. The highest structure in the Kremlin was over 80 meters off the ground, but the snow churned around their legs then was swept away by the wind before it could accumulate.

"How much longer?"

The meteorologist didn't pretend to misunderstand.

"The heavy snowfall?"

"Yes."

"We can't say."

Nikolai looked at him. "You can't predict when it will stop?"

"No."

"Can you predict where it will intensify?"

"No."

"Can you explain the behavior?"

"No."

Nikolai nodded once.

"Then you have nothing useful to tell me."

The meteorologist lowered his eyes. Nikolai turned back toward the city. He could feel something building inside him.

Anger. This was his city.

His government had systems for almost every catastrophe modern civilization could imagine. War. Terrorism. Infrastructure failure. Nuclear accidents. Pandemic. Civil unrest. They had contingency plans for all of it. There was no plan for this. For weather of this magnitude.

Nikolai stepped closer to the open arch. The wind struck him hard enough that the Barrier officer instinctively moved closer.

"Stay there." 

The officer stopped.

Nikolai placed his bare hand against the stone rail. Cold bit into his palm just as the snow pelted his face. He closed his eyes, and wrenched enough power into his grasp that time seemed to stand utterly still. And with that power, he reached outward with it. The storm stopped.

Snow hung motionless in the air around the Kremlin. Every flake seemed suspended against the gray sky. The wind froze on its own trails through the air. The silence was so complete that Nikolai could hear the faint breathing of the people behind him. His eyes opened.

Beyond the Kremlin walls, the storm continued to rage across Moscow. But here, around the ancient fortress, there was nothing. No falling snow. No wind. Only stillness.

The meteorologist gasped, but Nikolai pushed harder. For one brief moment, the suspended snow began to tremble. Then a single flake fell. Another followed. The wind returned, and the snow came with it. Within seconds the storm was screaming through the arches again.

Nikolai withdrew his hand, closing his wet palm into a fist. Those who witnessed the failed attempt to intervene said nothing. Nikolai looked out over Moscow. Whatever this was, it was too large to simply command. That realization angered him almost more than the storm itself.

He turned toward the stairwell.

"KSOC. Now."

They descended.


The Kremlin Strategic Operations Center occupied a secure complex beneath the Kremlin, far removed from the historical bell tower above. The transition was almost jarring as the old Kremlin gave way to the future.

The doors opened into a vast command center whose walls were not really walls at all, but continuous displays. Moscow existed across them in layers of living information. Satellite imagery, aerial drones, atmospheric modeling, military deployments, infrastructure maps, structural sensors and emergency-service feeds all moved simultaneously across the room.

Every available source of information flowed into the KSOC and was integrated into a single constantly changing representation of the city. A three-dimensional model of Moscow occupied the center of the chamber. Snow depth shifted district by district in real time. Buildings changed color according to structural risk. Power failures spread across the grid. Transportation networks disappeared as systems were shut down. Emergency calls appeared as points of light, clustering more densely with every passing minute. The system continuously generated evacuation routes, then discarded them when the routes became impassable.

Representatives from the Custody of Defense stood alongside members of the military Collective. Intelligence officers occupied one section of the chamber. Emergency management officials worked beside infrastructure and energy specialists. Communications personnel monitored national networks while scientific advisers watched the atmospheric data.

They had all been brought together because no single institution possessed enough information to understand what was happening. That was KSOC’s purpose. Intelligence and strategic defense in real time.

When Nikolai entered, the room changed.

People rose.

"Sit."

They did.

One of the members of the Collective stepped forward, the Commissioner-General of the CCD Police.

"Ascendancy."

"Commissioner. What do we know?"

The briefing began.

"Moscow is entering full emergency conditions. The metro network is being sealed. Rail service is suspended. Airports are closed. Road traffic restrictions are expanding."

"Casualties?"

"We don't have a reliable number."

"Estimate."

"Thousands are potentially trapped. Sir, maybe millions before this is over. Confirmed structural collapses have occurred across multiple districts. The number is increasing."

"Heating?" Nikolai called out.

An infrastructure official answered.

"Still operational in most districts, but the grid is under increasing stress." 

"Then conserve it."

The man nodded.

"Prioritize hospitals, emergency shelters, communications, water distribution and residential heating. Everything else is secondary."

A military representative stepped forward.

"We need additional engineering units."

"You have them."

"Tracking vehicles?"

"Every available vehicle capable of operating in this."

"Aviation?"

Nikolai looked at the storm consuming the city on the central display. "No. Ground operations first. I don't want aircraft lost trying to prove they can fly through that."

The representative nodded.

"Excavation equipment?"

"Everything."

A civil-defense official spoke.

"The roads are already completely inaccessible."

"Forget the roads." Nikolai pointed toward the city.

"Dig corridors where people are trapped. We don't need roads. We need passageways." 

Even if the passageways went nowhere, fresh air could circulate and escape routes from buildings under collapse danger could be opened. Orders went out. Across the KSOC, the displays changed as the response expanded. Military units were mobilized, shelters were opened - above and below ground shelters - assuming entrances below ground were even accessible.

Hospitals initiated emergency protocols. Power distribution was reorganized. Autonomous drones capable of flight in the wind were redirected toward collapsed structures. Communications networks shifted to emergency priority. The machinery of the CCD began moving, and Nikolai watched. For a moment, the technology was almost reassuring.

This was what humanity had built. Sensors capable of seeing through weather. Satellites mapping entire continents. Autonomous systems capable of coordinating thousands of emergency personnel. Predictive models that could calculate the failure of a power grid before the first transformer went dark.

Surely something here could explain what was happening.

"Show me the atmospheric model."

The central display changed.

The storm appeared as a vast rotating system surrounding Moscow.

Data streamed across it. Pressure. Temperature. Moisture. Wind. Precipitation. The system attempted to model its movement. The projection flickered.

"Run it again." The system did, but the prediction changed.

"Again." And it changed again.

The meteorologist stared at the display.

"The model is unstable."

"Why?"

"It isn't predicting the storm."

Nikolai turned toward him.

"What is it doing?"

The man looked at the impossible weather system filling the room.

"It’s only able to describe current conditions."

An unsettling silence settled over the KSOC as workers watched his reaction.

Nikolai looked back at Moscow before his gaze flickered toward Karim al’Shaidis, the unofficial leader of the Dominions when Vellas was deployed. A channeler? The thought came unbidden. There were people in this world capable of things that had once been considered impossible. He knew that better than anyone.  If one of them had caused this...

Who? How? Why?

His gaze moved across the displays, searching for something the machines could not find.

Victor approached.

"The summit?"

Nikolai turned.

"The Pope and the Luminar are still in the Kremlin.”

For a moment, Nikolai saw the throne room again. The three spiritual authorities seated together beneath the symbols of centuries of power. A meeting he had spent years arranging had finally happened. And now Moscow was disappearing beneath them.

"End it."

"Immediately?"

"Immediately."

Victor nodded.

"Move the Pope and the Luminar somewhere secure. Somewhere comfortable. They are not to leave these walls."

Not that they could even if they wanted to try, he thought as he turned back toward the map. The enormous displays showed Moscow from above.

His fingers curled slowly at his side. He had summoned the Pope to Moscow. He had placed the Brotherhood beside the Church. He had brought three worlds into the same room. And now something had buried his capital beneath a mountain of snow.

Nikolai looked to al’Shaidis.

"How many of the Dominions are on the grounds?"

"Six including myself, sir."

"Send word for them to get ready."

Karim nodded curtly and began to send his own orders to the other five that were on site. A brief silence had fallen when Nikolai addressed all of KSOC at once.

"Prepare for deployment. Engineering units, emergency services, military transport. Everything capable of moving through that snow goes with us."

The Commissioner-General stared at him.

"You intend to go, sir?"

Nikolai looked him in the eye.

"I intend to lead."

The orders had already gone out.

That was the first thing Nikolai reminded himself of as he moved through the Kremlin corridors. The city was not waiting for him to tell every agency what to do. Custody of Defense had begun deploying engineering units and tracked vehicles. Civil defense was working through shelters, hospitals, evacuation priorities, and rescue operations. Infrastructure authorities were isolating damaged systems and protecting what remained of the power and heating networks. Military communications were establishing alternate links as conventional systems began to fail.

The state was moving. Now he needed to move with it. He had no intention of spending the rest of the day underground watching Moscow disappear across a screen.

The Kremlin itself had become strangely crowded. Staff who had been moving quietly through the corridors that morning were now gathered in small groups, speaking urgently into wallets or trying to reach family members. Security personnel were everywhere. Diplomatic delegations remained confined to their assigned areas, and the press corps that had come to cover the summit had been transformed into something closer to a war correspondent pool.

Nikolai passed beneath one of the vaulted passages toward the ground-level portion of the complex where the Dominions were assembling. The six who remained on the Kremlin grounds were already prepared.

Karim al'Shaidis stood at their center, informally directing the others as they checked their equipment and divided responsibilities. There was no formal ceremony to it. No announcement of command. The Rods simply looked to Karim, and Karim looked to Nikolai. That was enough.

They had abandoned the clothing appropriate to the summit. Heavy insulated coats covered them from throat to knee. Their trousers were reinforced against the cold and abrasion. Boots were thick, waterproof and designed for conditions far worse than ordinary Moscow winter weather. Goggles and face coverings hung ready around their necks ready to be donned. Gloves were thick enough to protect their hands while still allowing them to channel.

Nikolai looked toward the six men and relayed the plan.

"We go where the most amount of people are. KSOC will give us in the intelligence and directions. Our job is to create opportunity for rescue.”

Nikolai turned toward one of the surrounding officers holding a tablet.

"Do not send us toward the financial district because it looks important on a map. I don't care how many offices are buried. I want apartment blocks, hospitals, shelters, schools, residential corridors. Find me the largest concentrations of people who cannot get themselves out.” The officer nodded and hurried away.

Nikolai looked through the nearest window. There was nothing left to see on the other side: just a dense sheet of white already drowning the building in snow drift. Beyond the Kremlin walls, Moscow had become an abstraction of white and gray. Buildings that should have dominated the skyline were gone in the whiteout conditions. Streets had disappeared entirely.

Twenty meters.

Perhaps more in places. He thought of what that meant.

Countless people trapped inside buildings whose entrances were likely already buried. Families sealed inside apartments. Elderly residents unable to reach stairwells. Children in schools. Patients in hospitals. People whose only crime had been being in the wrong building when the city vanished. Air shafts blocked. Roofs collapsing. 

They would not clear Moscow, but they could reach some people. He sent a brief message to Nox, informing him of the response and telling him to do whatever he could wherever he was in the city just as the door opened behind him, and Theron entered.

Nikolai turned.

The Luminar had changed as well. Gone were the robes and formal vestments of the morning. He wore heavy winter clothing, gloves and a face covering, his expression composed beneath the hood.

Nikolai stared at him.

"No."

Theron's eyebrows rose.

"I have not said anything."

Nikolai’s expression sharpened. “You were going to."

"I am going with you."

"No." The answer was immediate.

Theron looked past him toward the six Dominions.

"I can channel."

"So can they."

"And so can you."

"Which is why I do not need another person following me who has no place in the operational structure."

Theron's jaw tightened. "I am not asking for command."

"Then what are you asking for?"

"To help." 

Nikolai studied him. He believed that, which was the main problem. He also believed several other things.

Theron wanted to help, but he also wanted to prove himself. He wanted to demonstrate that the Brotherhood was not merely a congregation of people who worshipped from a safe distance. He wanted to be seen beside Nikolai when the world was watching.

All of those things could be true at once. The six men paused their preparations and watched what would happen.

"You want to be seen," Nikolai said.

Theron did not immediately answer. Then he gave a small nod.

"Yes."

At least he was honest.

"There are cameras everywhere," Theron said quietly. "Foreign delegations. Religious representatives. Journalists. Governments watching us. The Brotherhood has spent too long telling people what we believe. Today they can see it."

Nikolai looked at him for several seconds.

This was exactly the sort of thing Theron would have said that morning. It was the sort of calculation he understood. The Luminar told the world Nikolai was a god. He had built an entire religious institution around that belief. But Nikolai had always suspected that Theron's faith was less devotion than architecture. He believed, certainly. He simply had not yet surrendered himself to the belief in the way he demanded of others.

Nikolai was the foundation upon which Theron had built his own authority. Now the foundation was walking into the snow. Of course Theron wanted to follow, but Nikolai also understood the political consequences if he died.

The Luminar of the Brotherhood killed while accompanying the Ascendancy into an unprecedented disaster would make him a martyr. His death could strengthen the Brotherhood more than his life ever had. But there was another possibility. Theron might actually be useful. And there was no time to indulge certainty.

"Stay close to me," Nikolai said.

Theron's expression sharpened.

"I can do that."

"You do exactly what Karim tells you."

Theron glanced toward Karim.

Karim's expression remained unreadable.

"Understood."

Theron exhaled.

For the first time, something resembling satisfaction crossed his face. Nikolai noticed, and so did Karim, but neither commented. They began moving through the Kremlin.

The atmosphere changed as they approached the Kremlin's main public-facing areas. The press had been held back behind security cordons, but cameras were still visible. Journalists were calling questions toward the passing officials. Some were trying to understand what happened to the summit. Others were reporting directly into cameras, their voices strained by the realization that whatever story they had arrived to cover had been replaced by something unprecedented.

A large monitor mounted in one of the Kremlin's public corridors carried a emergency statement issued to Moscow.


Nikolai stopped long enough to hear the end of it.

A reporter nearby spoke into a live-feed camera as they passed, then turned back toward the group. "He's going out.”

Another journalist looked at her.

"The Ascendancy?"

"Yes."

The woman looked toward the security cordon.

"Why?"

The first reporter's answer came quietly. It hadn’t been announced, but it could be inferred.

"Because people are trapped."

Nikolai continued walking, and another camera followed him. Through the stream, there were millions of eyes on him now. He could feel it. Fear had changed the atmosphere inside the Kremlin, but so had something else. People were looking at him with the desperate expectation that he would know what to do.

Some looked at him as a sovereign. Some as a commander. Some as something much closer to what the Brotherhood called him. A god. The irony was not lost on him. That morning, he had sat across from the Pope and the Luminar while they discussed faith, divinity and the nature of channelers. Now Moscow was buried beneath an impossible storm, and everyone was watching to see what he would do. There was something satisfying in the irony.

At the gate's interior, he looked toward the officer with the tablet.

"Where?"

The officer brought up the latest population overlay.

"East and northeast. Dense residential concentrations beyond the immediate central district. Several complexes reporting structural distress. Hospitals in three zones are requesting assistance. Communications from two residential districts have gone dark."

Nikolai pointed toward the eastern sector.

"We start there."

“The Red Square is directly ahead of the Spasskaya Gate."

"I know."

The officer hesitated.

“Ascendancy, the commercial and government districts around the center are also reporting—"

"Later." Nikolai's voice was flat. “Businesses can wait." And gestured at his men, and together they continued toward the Kremlin's famous landmark.

The Spasskaya Tower rose above them, its massive red-brick form disappearing into the storm above. For generations, its chimes had marked the hours for Moscow, their sound familiar to virtually everyone in Russia. Beneath the tower were the Kremlin's main Holy Gates, the Spasskaya Gate, through which tsars had once been met and warriors sent off to war. Holy processions had passed beneath the same archway, making the gate a waypoint between the sacred heart of the Kremlin and the city beyond. Nikolai looked up at the tower. The clock couldn’t be seen through the snow. There was something fitting about that.

The enormous doors stood ahead.

Beyond them was Red Square, but Nikolai was not interested in the square itself. They would cross through it only long enough to reach the eastern side of the central district and begin cutting toward the residential concentrations beyond.

The wind could already be heard through the heavy doors. It was not the ordinary sound of winter. It was a continuous roar.

Snow slammed against the walls beyond the gate and spun upward in enormous clouds. The courtyard and square outside had almost vanished beneath the accumulation. Whatever had once been a clear route through the center of Moscow was now a white expanse broken only by shapes that might have been buildings, walls, vehicles or nothing at all.

The six Rods tightened their gear. Karim went down the line, checking each of them without a word again. He tugged once at a glove cuff, adjusted the seal around one face covering, then checked the fastening on a coat where it had come loose. He inspected their goggles and boots with the same practical attention before giving each of them a brief nod.

Karim looked at Nikolai. “We’re ready.”

Nikolai looked once at Theron.

The Luminar stood beside them, bundled against the cold. He had pulled his hood tightly around his face and was fastening the last of his protective gear. For just a moment, Nikolai wondered whether he had made a mistake. Then he thought of the people beyond the walls. There would be time to question the decision later.

Nikolai pulled his face shield into place. He flexed his gloved hands once, feeling the material settle around his fingers. The security personnel moved to the doors.

“Open it.”

The summit ended without any actual ending. There was no final statement, no carefully staged photograph, no ceremonial exchange between the three traditions represented within the palace  walls. The storm had made such things irrelevant, and over the course of a few minutes, people began to move.

Seraphis remembered watching the Ascendancy disappear into the growing machinery of the emergency. He had spoken with official looking people, issued instructions, and then left the throne room with the unmistakable intention of seeing the situation for himself.

After that, nothing. For the first hour, Seraphis expected him to return. He did not.

For the second, the Kremlin had become a different place. The grandeur remained, but it had been overwhelmed by function. Government workers hurried through corridors carrying communications tablets. Military officers appeared and disappeared behind guarded doors. Emergency personnel arrived in increasing numbers, some covered in snow despite having traveled only a short distance across the complex. Gossip was being passed from one person to another faster than Seraphis could follow.

Outside, Moscow had ceased to resemble a city. Snow pressed against the windows so thickly that the world beyond them appeared almost abstract. The Kremlin towers were intermittently visible through the white, and sometimes not visible at all.

Seraphis spent much of that time with Lucien and she tried to be useful, but there was nothing to do. So she listened to news reports and watched the movements of people who seemed to understand what was happening better than she did.

But beneath it all was an unsettled feeling. She kept thinking about the summit. About Theron.

She had watched Theron stand beside the Ascendancy that morning, had heard him speak to the Pope and the gathered world with confidence. She had felt proud of him. She still did. But now there was something else in the way he carried himself.

He was too quiet. Too deep in thought. She knew him well enough to recognize it.

Theron had spent years learning how to turn circumstances into influence. He understood people. He understood symbols. He understood that history did not merely belong to those who acted, but to those who understood how an action would be remembered afterward.

And this storm was going to be remembered because there was no precedent for it.

Theron could already see what it meant for the Brotherhood. If the world witnessed channelers standing openly against a catastrophe of this magnitude, then everything they had argued about the nature and purpose of their abilities would suddenly possess a different weight.

But there was a danger in that, too.

If they failed, the Brotherhood would be seen as impotent. If they appeared to be exploiting the suffering of thousands for spectacle, they would be condemned.

If they remained safely inside while the government acted, they would look like followers who preached courage from behind walls.

Theron understood all of this. Seraphis could see it in his face. What she could not tell was which conclusion he had reached. Then the rumors intensified.

A military officer speaking to another near the corridor. A communications aide asking whether the route had been cleared. Someone mentioning the Rods of Dominion. Seraphis heard only fragments.

"The Ascendancy is going out."

She turned. The officer who had spoken seemed not to realize she had heard him.

Another voice answered, lower.

"All six?"

"That's what I've been told."

Seraphis stared toward the corridor. The Ascendancy. Going out. Into that. She looked toward Theron. He had heard it too.

For several seconds, he said nothing. Then he looked toward the nearest window. The storm raged beyond it, immense and almost incomprehensible and something changed in his expression.

He turned to Lucien.

“Try to find out where they're assembling."

Lucien nodded and moved away. Seraphis felt a strange tightening in her chest.

"What are you doing?"

Theron looked at her. "Going with them."

The answer was immediate enough to suggest that the decision had already been made.

"You can’t!”

His eyebrow lifted. "Why not?"

She almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. "Because that's the storm."

"I am obviously aware of that.”

"Theron!”

He looked toward the windows again. "I have spent the last two hours trying to decide what I should do." Seraphis said nothing. "I could remain here and issue statements. I could tell the Brotherhood to deploy where we have access. I could make myself available to the emergency authorities. All of those things would be reasonable."

"And?" Seraphis asked.

"And reasonable is not necessarily useful."

There was something different in his voice now. The familiar ambition was still there. She knew him too well not to hear it. He understood what this could mean for the Brotherhood, for his own authority, for the place he had spent years building. But beneath it was something more genuine.

People were trapped out there. Theron looked at her.

"If the Ascendancy is willing to walk into that storm, I cannot stand here and explain to everyone else why I should remain behind."

Seraphis understood. Or thought she did. Maybe he was chasing glory, but he was also choosing to be useful. And perhaps, she realized, that was okay. She took a step toward him.

"Then I'm coming."

Theron stopped. "No."

She stared at him. "I can help."

"I know."

"I can channel."

"I know."

"Then let me come,” she insisted.

His expression tightened, “Seraphis."

"You need every person you can get."

"No. We need the people who are going."

"That includes me.”

"No."

She felt heat rise beneath her skin. "You didn't even ask me."

Something flickered across his face. For a moment, the authority of the Luminar gave way to something more personal. He put a hand on her shoulder as his voice softened.

"I need you to stay."

The words struck exactly where he knew they would. He knew how much it meant to her to be needed by him. He knew that if he told her he needed her here, she would have difficulty refusing. She hated that she knew he knew.

"I could still be useful out there."

"I don't doubt that."

"Then why?"

"Because I am telling you to stay."

Her eyes hardened. "That's not an answer."

His posture straightened. “It is the one you're getting."

She looked at him for a long moment.

Around them, people moved with increasing urgency. Somewhere nearby, someone called for an engineer. A door opened and three officers hurried through it. The whole building seemed to be bracing itself for something.

Seraphis lowered her voice. "I thought you wanted me beside you."

"I do."

"Then why am I not going?"

Theron's expression shifted. He looked almost frustrated by the question, but there was something else beneath it. Concern, perhaps. Or simply the knowledge that he had wounded her.

"Because this is not a place for you."

The words were worse than the refusal.

Something inside her closed. She “opened her mouth to protest but he interrupted, voice terse. “Enough, Seraphis! You are staying with Lucien. That is an order, Veilwarden.”

She went completely still.

For several seconds she could not speak. Then she bowed her head.

“Alright.”

Theron watched her. A moment later, Lucien returned.

"They're assembling on their way to Spasskaya Gate.”

Theron nodded.

“Thank you my friend. Please stay in contact with Quillon if you can, and —” he stopped himself from finishing that sentence, but Seraphis assumed it was about her.

He turned away without finishing it. Seraphis watched him go. She had imagined many things that day. She had imagined standing beside him when the world finally recognized what the Brotherhood could do. She had imagined helping him, perhaps even proving herself indispensable.

She had not imagined being left behind. Theron turned away. For several seconds Seraphis remained where she was, watching him disappear into the movement of the Kremlin. Lucien stood beside her. She looked at him, and he looked at her, and neither spoke.

But something passed between them.

Lucien's expression did not change. There was no approval in it, nor disapproval. Only the faintest suggestion that he understood precisely what she was thinking. Seraphis glanced toward the corridor. Then back at him.

She waited until Theron had disappeared from sight before slipping after him. She kept to the edges of the palace corridors, moving with enough care and confidence that no one thought to stop her. The Kremlin had become too busy for anyone to pay much attention to a single Veilwarden moving through the halls.

She followed the growing current of activity toward Spasskaya Tower.

By the time she reached the outer passage, Theron had already found the others, and he had changed.

The robes and formal clothing of the summit were gone. He had dressed for the storm, pulling on heavy outer layers and securing protective equipment over them. The transformation should have made him look ridiculous against the grandeur of the Kremlin.

Instead, it made him look important.  Seraphis stopped before entering the open area near the gate.

The Ascendancy was there. She was taken aback, being so close. For the first time in hours, she saw him again. He stood near the great entrance to Spasskaya Tower with the six Rods of Dominion gathered around him. They were dressed for the conditions outside, their clothing heavy and practical, their attention fixed on the Ascendancy and the instructions coming through their equipment.

Nikolai looked nothing like the man who had occupied the throne room that morning. There was no ceremony now.

Theron approached him, and the conversation that took place between them was a strange echo of her own. Seraphis watched the exchange from just far enough back that they ignored her.

Something about how easily Theron was accepted unsettled her. She had expected Nikolai to be impressed or perhaps even pleased that the Luminar of a religion that openly proclaimed the Ascendancy a god was asking to walk with him into the storm. If there was ever a moment when that devotion could be displayed before the world, surely this was it. But the Ascendancy did not seem interested in being worshipped in that moment. He did not even seem particularly interested in being followed. He was interested in getting outside and reaching the people who were trapped beneath the snow.

Seraphis found herself watching him instead of Theron.

The doors were ordered open, and for one brief moment, Seraphis thought about stepping out to call for Theron and make one last attempt to go.

Snow swept across the stone beneath their feet, wind breaking around her dress while the men moved into the white one after another.  The Ascendancy went first, without a moment’s hesitation. The six Dominions followed, spreading into formation as they disappeared into the storm, and Theron was among them.

Seraphis watched until the doors were sealed again. Only then did she realize that her heart was beating faster.

She had followed because she could not bear to watch Theron leave without seeing him go. But somewhere between the corridors of the Kremlin and that final conversation, something had changed.

She had expected to see Theron standing beside a god. Instead, she had seen a man who seemed to have forgotten anyone was watching.

Ascendancy was not asking for admiration, or faith or belief. Only to be followed.  And Theron had chosen to follow him. Her throat was tight, and her eyes were warm with the intensity of this moment. She told herself the ache in her chest belonged to Theron. She knew it did.

But she could not stop thinking about the god the Brotherhood worshipped.

The lab was shut down moments before he got the call. "Duty calls." He didn't belong in the lab but that's where the safest place to play with this wormhole tech that they were working on. He didn't understand the math. Didn't matter he didn't understand the weave all that well either. But when the boss man called, he went. He hadn't been by the apartments or the Atharim codex in a while, it was disillusioning meeting one of them and he was a pompous little kids with no respect. It really irked him to no end. How they let people like him in a selected order -- were they all like that? Guess he'd never know now since the world knew who he was and the Atharim were just bogey men now.

Order were to go out into the end of the world and save civies. And they were issued winter wear out the wazoo. Allan was not looking forward to trudging through snow over his head. The cold sucked even if he was used to it. And this snow was probably wet and heavy and the worst kind ever. He wondered if the kid would be out in the snow with nothing on like he'd shown up at the Garden. Fucking arragont prick! But he was going to be side by side with the Ascendacy again flinging magic and saving people -- again. And that little prick was god knows where. Did he have a jealous streak... yes...

The big doors opened and they were really going to do it. He waited for his orders and he'd follow them, but fuck if this wasn't going to suck.

Karim watched the last red tower dissolve into the storm and turned his attention to the city ahead, but there was almost nothing left to orient by. Snow had consumed streets, walls, cars, signs, and the ordinary landmarks by which a person understood where he stood. It was unsettling to his bones, but as he glanced at the other Dominions around him, he grit his teeth and hardened his resolve to face anything out there.

Ascendancy stood ahead of the group, one hand raised slightly toward his comms as the Kremlin spoke in his ear. The six Dominions had spread naturally around him, close enough to see one another through the shifting white. Theron remained with them, bundled against the cold, his face mostly obscured but his unmistakably alert attention.

The Dominions had trained and worked  together enough that very little required saying. Two came forward while the others widened behind them, each finding a place in the work almost by instinct. Theron stepped clear as the changing formation around him suddenly swelled with the Power.

Plunging head into the snow, like a spear thrust into the belly of a beast, a tunnel compressed outward as the Dominions worked, leaving darkness where solid snow had been moments before. Karim issued instructions about the direction of the tunneling based on the map in his visor, trying to follow the invisible street beneath their feet and avoid inadvertently crushing into the side of a permanent structure.

But the streets were filled with abandoned cars, left behind like the skeletal remains of an abandoned meal in the back of a cave. The first time they encountered a pack of vehicles, he ordered the halting of all channeling, and approached to determine the best way to proceed. They couldn’t shove the vehicles out of the path. Nor could they crush and walk over their surface: that completely undermined the purpose of clearing a path in the first place for first responders.

It was the Ascendancy’s orders that redirected their path.

“We tunnel above vehicle height. How much must we compact the snow beneath us to carry the weight of tracked vehicles?” He asked, turning to Karim.

Snowcrete wasn’t Karim’s area of expertise, but he understood density and support. A couple moments of researching on his visor’s HUD and he gave his best guess.

“To drive safely across compacted snow, the snow layer generally needs a density of about 500 kilograms per cubic meter, for tracked vehicle, let’s say 600 to be safe.”

“And how do we know if we’ve achieved that threshold?” The Ascendancy asked.

“Compress as much as you think you need and I’ll try to guess.”

The Ascendancy nodded, and threads of fire and air swarmed around him plunging beneath their feet like an unfurled carpet. Suddenly, the snowpack beneath them sank, but when he turned back to Karim, his voice was firm.

“No guesses.” He said.

Karim nodded, eyes focusing as he drew earth into him. No pressure..Pun intended, he thought grimly.

He’d never been pinned down by an adult bear or a small car, but as threads of Earth was thrust into the tunnel floor, he estimated that the amount of pressure beneath their feet was equivalent to being pinned down by a grizzly.

“I think it’s safe.”

“You think?”

He nodded, “it’s safe.”

“Good. Dominions, copy this and let’s proceed.” He waved a hand and the worked continued. The corridor took shape within the snow itself, broad enough for the vehicles waiting behind them, its floor packed hard by the One Power.

But the farther they plunged into the tunnel, daylight disappeared. The change was gradual but complete. Karim's visor compensated, but to the naked eye the tunnel ahead was black. Behind them, the entrance remained a distant rectangle of storm-gray light, already diminished by the curve of the route.

The various men activated lights on their gear, but the Ascendancy once again stepped out in front of them, peering deep into the darkness. More of the Power gathered around him, and suddenly, points of white appeared ahead. Dozens. Then dozens more.

They ignited through the tunnel in rapid succession, stretching away from them until perspective compressed them into a single luminous line. More appeared behind. Karim watched the count climb across the edge of his display.

Fifty. Seventy. Nearly a hundred. The tunnel changed around them in both directions. Soft white spheres hung beneath the compacted ceiling at regular intervals, each bright enough to illuminate the corridor without dazzling anyone beneath it. Light sank into the dense snow and returned faintly blue from the walls.

Karim felt the weaves settle into knots, and his mouth parted. He didn’t know that was possible, but he was going to remember it.

Nearby, the Luminar was not staring at the lights themselves, reaching out a tentative hand to caress the orb. Any trained channeler could make light, but Theron's attention moved instead along the tunnel, gaze following one suspended sphere after another until they vanished into the distance.

Then he spoke quietly, almost reverently, to Karim: “How did he do that?”

Karim simply smiled to himself as Theron fell speechless.

They opened a ventilation shaft several hundred meters into the route. One of the Dominions drove it upward while another controlled the surrounding snow from collapsing inward on itself. Gray daylight appeared high overhead, small at first, then widened until snow began spiraling through the opening. Depending on how much more snow fell, it might get blocked, and Karim noted in their gps coordinates its location so they could return and clear it if needed.

Once they reached their target coordinates, the work became controlled chaos. The men split into two teams of four in order to continue tunneling in different directions.

Karim and Samuel pulled the snow into a tunnel shape while behind them, Im Jeung and Theron attempted to compress the walls and floor of the tunnel into a hard enough mass to withstand the work to come. But Theron was struggling next to the blazing torch of power that was Im Jeung. It was exactly why Karim paired the two of them together in the first place. He had a feeling Im Jeung could compensate for Theron’s lack of experience if needed, but they went slower than they anticipated.

It was Karim who attempted to direct their path toward the highest need buildings, and every time they reached one, the four of them worked together to stabilize it and move on. Sometimes the stabilization was obvious, but other times he had to halt the work before any channeling began because his engineer’s eye saw something on the visors that the others couldn’t sense with the one power. A wall that was held up by snow bank. A roof that if it was cleared of snow would only collapse a wall beneath it instead.

Then there was the other team, and god only knew what they were encountering.

Seraphis lasted twenty-three minutes.

For the first ten, she sat where she had been told to sit. For another five, she paced. After that she found increasingly pointless reasons to cross the room, examine the windows, check her comms, and look again at the same reports she had already read. Theron had gone out into that. Every time she approached the windows, all she could see beyond the glass was white. Not falling snow in any recognizable sense, but a moving wall of it, thick enough that the world seemed to end somewhere beyond the panes.

The room was beautiful, of course. Everything in the Kremlin seemed determined to remind a visitor that empires had existed here before them and would probably exist afterward. Gold, polished wood, carved moldings, ceilings high enough to make ordinary people feel appropriately small. Seraphis had admired it all when she arrived. Now it felt like a very expensive cage.

So she left. No one actually told her that she couldn't. The distinction carried her through two corridors before anyone challenged it.

The Grand Kremlin Palace had changed since the summit. Earlier, its halls had possessed the strange stillness of a place under intense security, every movement anticipated and every person precisely where someone had decided they should be. Now people moved quickly beneath the chandeliers. Kremlin staff passed carrying equipment cases. Uniformed officers spoke into comms while walking. A table that Seraphis distinctly remembered holding flowers earlier in the day had become an improvised station covered in chargers, batteries and handheld equipment.

She wandered slowly enough to appear as though she belonged somewhere. It was an old skill. At the first guarded passage she tried, a Kremlin officer stepped into her path before she had made it three strides.

“Miss.”

Seraphis smiled.

He did not.

“Not this way.”

“Of course.”

She turned around with perfect obedience, waited until the corner concealed her, and took the next corridor instead. The palace opened unexpectedly into another magnificent hall, enormous even by Kremlin standards, though Seraphis had no idea what it was called. She stopped beneath a painted ceiling and turned slowly, taking in columns, gilding, chandeliers and doors tall enough for giants. It seemed absurd that such a place existed while, somewhere beyond its walls, Moscow was being buried alive.

A large display at the far end of the hall had once carried information for the summit. Now it showed the city. Seraphis drifted toward it.

The map was almost unrecognizable. Districts were shaded according to accumulation and infrastructure loss. Emergency notices crawled along the bottom while a presenter spoke over footage of snow swallowing buildings. The numbers beside the map kept changing. Accumulation. Power failures. Heating outages. Emergency shelters. Rescue deployments.

Then the image changed, and she saw the Kremlin. Seraphis stopped.

The footage had been taken earlier, probably from one of the palace cameras. The storm had already been ferocious, but visibility was still good enough to distinguish figures moving away from the walls.

There was Theron. Her heart jumped despite herself.

The camera was too distant for faces, but she knew from the way he moved. Six other figures surrounded the man ahead of them. And at the lead, Ascendancy. The caption beneath the footage identified him unnecessarily.

The presenter spoke with the careful composure of someone who understood that millions of frightened people were watching. The Ascendancy, she explained, had personally joined the Dominion response after directing emergency operations from the Kremlin. Specialized teams were opening routes through central Moscow to allow trapped emergency personnel access to residential districts otherwise unreachable by conventional means.

The footage showed them all disappearing into the white. Seraphis folded her arms.

“That was stupid,” she murmured.

A Kremlin employee passing nearby glanced at her, but Seraphis pretended she had said nothing. She meant it, though.He was the Ascendancy! There were Dominions for this. Soldiers. Emergency workers. Entire custodies whose purpose was dealing with catastrophes. Theron going made some kind of sense, even if she hated it. Theron had spent years telling people that service was sacred. He could hardly remain drinking tea in the Kremlin while Moscow suffocated, but Nikolai Brandon had an empire. He had no business walking into a storm.

The broadcast moved on, but Seraphis remained. A few minutes later another report interrupted it. This footage was different. She stepped closer.

For several seconds she couldn't understand what she was seeing. The camera moved through a long corridor whose walls were pale blue-white. Emergency personnel drove slowly ahead of it across a floor that looked almost unnaturally smooth. Overhead floated spheres of white light. The caption identified the location as somewhere in central Moscow, but it was a tunnel. They had tunneled through the snow.

Seraphis stared.

The correspondent explained that the first emergency corridors had reached several previously inaccessible residential blocks. Teams were moving while the Dominions stabilized buildings threatened by the extraordinary accumulation. The camera passed beneath another sphere. Then another. And another. Seraphis moved closer to the screen. She recognized that type of light.

Light was among the simplest things a trained channeler could make. She could have created one right then and there if she wanted to, but what bothered her was how many there were. The footage continued forward. They never stopped. The correspondent mentioned them almost incidentally. Illumination had been established throughout the emergency route by the Ascendancy and would remain in place for responders working below the surface.

Seraphis's arms slowly unfolded. The camera turned at an intersection. The lights continued in both directions.

“Wow,” she whispered to herself. She watched until the footage ended.

The next report showed rescue personnel entering one of the corridors. Another showed a ventilation shaft breaking through the surface somewhere near Kitay-gorod, air and snow erupting upward together. There was footage of emergency vehicles disappearing into a snowy opening. The official commentary remained controlled and reassuring, but the images hardly needed assistance.

The city was changing beneath the storm. And Nikolai Brandon was somewhere inside it. Seraphis became aware that she had been standing in the same place for a long time. She finally shook herself out of it and moved on.

The deeper she wandered into the palace, the quieter it became. The frantic movement of the emergency staff gradually receded behind her. The rooms grew smaller, although smaller was relative in the Kremlin. State halls gave way to older corridors and heavier doors. The architecture changed too. Less imperial grandeur and more age. Walls thick enough that Seraphis wondered what century lay beneath the wallpaper.

She encountered another guard, but this one merely looked at her. Seraphis smiled pleasantly and kept walking. He let her. That was encouraging. The next one did not.

“Restricted.”

Seraphis stopped.

Two Kremlin security officers occupied the corridor ahead, but they were not alone. Beyond them stood men she recognized from earlier in the day. Dark suits and clerical black. One unmistakable flash of scarlet farther down.

They were from the Vatican, which meant she had accidentally found the Pope. Or at least his people.

“I am with the Brotherhood delegation,” Seraphis summoned her confidence and proclaimed herself.

One of the officers consulted something on his display. “Your delegation has rooms assigned in the state apartments.”

“I know.”

“Then you are in the wrong place.”

She thought quickly. “I was looking for His Holiness.” That earned considerably more attention.

A priest standing beyond the security line looked toward her. He was older, silver-haired, with the exhausted expression of someone whose day had ceased making sense hours ago..

“His Holiness is unavailable,” he said.

Seraphis looked past him. “Is he here?”

The priest hesitated just long enough to answer the question.

“He is at prayer.”

“Here?”

“In one of the old palace churches.”

Seraphis looked toward the heavy doors at the end of the corridor. For reasons she couldn't quite explain, the answer unsettled her. Outside, Nikolai Brandon was walking beneath Moscow. Inside, Patricus was praying. She wondered what the Pope was asking God.

“Can I wait?”

“No.”

The answer came simultaneously from the priest and one of the Kremlin officers.

Seraphis smiled with fake demurity.

“Right. Of course.”

She should have left. Instead she wandered several steps away and stopped before an old painting as though it had suddenly become the most fascinating object she had ever encountered. She could feel the security officer watching her.

Seraphis studied the painting and the officer continued watching. So she studied it harder. Somewhere behind the doors was a soft sound. Seraphis glanced over. The priest straightened. One of the Vatican men moved first, but the door opened before he reached it, and Patricus appeared in the doorway.

He had none of the spectacle around him that had accompanied his arrival at the summit. No procession. No announcement. He seemed somehow smaller without it, dressed simply in white against the darkness beyond the door. For a moment Seraphis could see the church behind him, old walls illuminated by candlelight, the gleam of an icon, shadows gathered in corners that looked centuries deep.

Everyone in the corridor changed when he appeared, despite herself, Seraphis did too. Patricus spoke quietly to the priest, who leaned closer to hear him. Then his gaze moved beyond the gathered men. It found her. Seraphis immediately became aware that she was standing where she had explicitly been told not to stand.

The Pope stared at her, and looked surprised.His expression changed so subtly she might have imagined it, but something in his face went still. His eyes remained on hers with an intensity that made Seraphis forget whatever excuse she had been preparing.

The priest followed his gaze. “Your Holiness, she is with the Brotherhood delegation. We were just escorting her back.”

Patricus did not answer him, but he continued looking at Seraphis. Then he stepped into the corridor.

“No,” he said.

The priest paused, but Patricus's gaze never left her.

“I would like to speak with her.”

Seraphis blinked.

“With me?”

For the first time, something almost like amusement touched the Pope's face.

“Yes,” Patricus said. “With you.”

Seraphis had imagined that being personally summoned by the Pope would feel more impressive than alarming. She discovered almost immediately that she had been wrong.

Patricus stepped aside and gestured toward the chapel behind him. “Come.”

She glanced toward the priest as though he might offer some explanation, but his expression suggested he had no more idea what was happening than she did. The Kremlin officers were even less helpful. Seraphis straightened her shoulders and walked past Patricus into the chapel, acutely aware of the absurdity of the situation. Twenty minutes ago she had been wandering around the Kremlin because she was bored and worried about Theron. Now she was being invited into a private church by the Pope.

The door closed behind them with a heavy wooden sound that seemed to shut away more than the corridor.

The chapel was smaller than Seraphis expected. After the enormous halls of the palace, its intimacy was almost disorienting. Candlelight trembled across old painted faces and gilded halos. The air smelled faintly of wax and incense, though the latter had faded enough that she suspected no one had burned it recently. There were no cameras here, no screens showing the storm, no emergency maps or hurried officials. Even the wind seemed farther away behind walls that had survived centuries of Russian winters.

Patricus returned to the place where he had apparently been praying. There was nothing particularly regal about it. No elaborate throne or upholstered chair had been provided for him, only a small wooden kneeler positioned before an icon. The sight unsettled her more than she expected. She had seen him earlier surrounded by ceremony, dressed in white while powerful people waited for him to speak. It was strange to imagine that same man alone here on his knees.

He did not kneel again. Instead, he turned toward her and studied her with an attention so complete that Seraphis suddenly wished she had stayed in the state room where she belonged.

“Am I in trouble?” she asked.

For several seconds his face revealed absolutely nothing. Then one corner of his mouth moved.

“Should you be?”

Seraphis considered lying and decided the Pope probably had considerable experience with people doing exactly that. “Probably.”

Something almost approving passed through his expression. He moved toward one of the old wooden benches and sat, arranging the white of his cassock with unconscious precision before indicating the space beside him. Seraphis chose the opposite end. It seemed safer.

“You are with the Brotherhood of Ascension.”

It was not a question, but she nodded anyway. “I'm a Veilwarden.”

His gaze rested on her for another uncomfortable moment. “And what does a Veilwarden do?”

That was harder to answer than it should have been. Seraphis had never needed to explain it to the Pope before. She gave him the answer that came most naturally, talking about service to the Brotherhood, preserving its teachings, supporting the Luminar and helping others understand the truths the Brotherhood represented. Patricus listened without interruption. She wished he would at least try to argue with her. This quiet acceptance was unnerving.

When she finished, he asked, “And how old are you?”

Seraphis blinked. “Twenty.”

Again, that strange silence. His eyes moved over her face as though comparing the answer with something she could not see.

“Why do you ask?”

“I'm curious.”

“You don't seem like someone who asks questions just because you're curious.”

Patricus smiled then, though she could not decide whether she had amused him or irritated him. “You don't know me at all. I'm actually quite a curious person.” The smile remained a moment longer. It changed him when he smiled, though not necessarily in a comforting way. There was something clever behind it, something that made Seraphis feel as though she had walked into a conversation already in progress and simply hadn't been told what they were discussing.

His attention drifted toward the candles. “Why did you join them?”

“The Brotherhood?”

He looked back at her. “I am unaware of another religious organization represented in this room that you might recently have joined.”

Seraphis almost laughed. She managed not to, mostly because she couldn't tell whether he had meant to be funny.

She told him about Theron instead.

It happened more easily than she intended. At first she spoke about the Brotherhood, but Theron's name entered the answer almost immediately. Theron had explained things no one else could. Theron had helped her understand that the old stories were not merely stories. Theron had shown her how the world had forgotten what it once knew. He had seen something in her when she had still been trying to understand herself. The whole time, Patricus listened fully.

Eventually he interrupted with a single question. “Do you believe him?”

The answer came so quickly that Seraphis almost talked over him. “Yes of course.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Entirely?”

“Yes.”

“That is unusual.”

A tiny spark of irritation caught inside her. “Not if you know him.”

“I met him today.”

“You know what I mean. you don't really know him.”

Patricus absorbed that without visible offense. Seraphis realized belatedly that she had just snapped at the Pope and folded her hands together in her lap before they could betray any further opinions.

“No,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I do not.”

The concession should have satisfied her. Instead, it made her suspicious.

He asked how long she had known Theron and what she had been before joining the Brotherhood. His questions were not intrusive exactly, but they were difficult to predict. Sometimes he seemed interested in doctrine. A moment later he wanted to know whether she had family, whether she had always been religious, whether she had ever believed something with absolute certainty and later discovered she was wrong. Seraphis answered more carefully as the questions accumulated.

“Are you interviewing me?” she finally asked.

“Would that trouble you?”

“It would make more sense if you were interviewing me.”

His eyes settled on her again. “Must everything make sense? I find almost nothing does.”

She didn't have an answer for that. For a moment neither of them spoke. Somewhere high in the chapel, old wood creaked softly. Seraphis found herself looking toward one of the painted saints staring solemnly down at them. The faces were beautiful, but remote. She wondered how many people had sat in this room asking God for something they never received.

Patricus broke the silence. “Your Luminar worships Nikolai Brandon.”

Seraphis turned back to him immediately. “Ascendancy.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“That's what we should call him.”

“I am aware of the title he gave himself.”

There was no mockery or defensiveness in the words, which somehow made them more pointed.

“Do you worship him?”

Seraphis hesitated only because the question sounded strange coming from Patricus. “Yes.”

Patricus leaned back slightly. “Why?”

This time she was ready for him. She spoke of the truths preserved in the Codex, of the return of powers the world had once called divine, of Ascendancy's place among them and the evidence written across the past two decades of history. Theron had taught her that humanity remembered more than it realized. The players changed. The stories distorted. But the truth beneath them endured.

Patricus had gone very still.

“The Codex?”

Seraphis nodded. “The Brotherhood's sacred text.”

“How old is it?”

She hesitated. “Ancient.”

“How ancient?”

“I don't know exactly.”

“In what language was it written?”

That stopped her.

“I... I don't know.”

Patricus's expression did not change, but she suddenly felt as though she had failed an examination she had not known she was taking.

“Theron knows more about its history than I do.”

“I imagine he does.”

Something in his tone made heat rise into her face. “You think he's lying about it?”

Patricus considered her. “I did not say that.”

She couldn't keep the scoffing from her tone, but she folded her arms and tried to not be so defensive, “You didn't have to.”

Her voice had sharpened again. She knew it and couldn't quite stop herself. It bothered her that he could sit there in his old chapel and reduce something beautiful to a sequence of suspicious questions. Theron had given her a way to understand herself. He had never laughed at the things she felt or made her feel foolish for wanting the world to mean something. Patricus did not know any of that.

“You met The Luminar once,” she said. “You don't get to decide what he is from one meeting.”

Patricus watched her anger rise with an expression that was neither offended nor particularly surprised.

“You care for him very much.” His face tilted slightly as if he uncovered something that sated his curiosity.

The words were quiet. Seraphis felt something close around her chest. “He's my Luminar.” She looked away. The candles suddenly became extremely interesting.

Patricus allowed the silence to remain, which Seraphis decided was cruel. She expected him to pursue it, but he did not. When he spoke again, his voice had lost whatever edge she thought she had heard before.

“There is nothing shameful in loving someone.”

Her eyes snapped back to his. Patricus regarded her for one long, unbearable second. Seraphis hated him a little.

She crossed her arms and stared toward the altar, wishing suddenly that she had listened to the Kremlin officer and gone back where she belonged. Her heart was beating harder than it should have been, partly from embarrassment and partly from the fear that Patricus had seen something she had worked very hard not to name. He let her recover.

When he spoke again, he surprised her by returning to the topic of the Ascendancy.

“Your belief in Nikolai Brandon. Does that also belong to Theron?”

Seraphis frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You have explained to me what Theron believes. You have explained what the Codex teaches. I asked what you believe.”

“I already told you. I believe he's divine.”

“Because Theron does.” It wasn't phrased as an accusation, but she heard one anyway. A defensive reply rose immediately, but something else rose beside it.

The media images of the tunnel and endless lights disappearing into blue darkness filled her mind. She remembered the Ascendancy standing at the gates while the storm tore at everything around him. He had not announced what he was doing. There had been no speech, no grand moment prepared for an audience. He had simply gone, and Theron had gone with him. Her irritation softened before she could hold onto it.

“I saw him do something today.”

Patricus's expression changed almost immediately. “You saw him at the summit.”

“No. I mean after.”

She told him about the footage. At first she meant only to explain the tunnels, but she found herself describing the lights instead. How simple the weave itself was. How anyone trained could have made one. How there had been so many that she had stopped counting. She explained that it was a miracle that the lights remained after he moved on, and her voice changed as she spoke despite her best effort to keep it matter-of-fact.

“He didn't have to go out there,” she said finally. “That's the part I don't understand.”

Patricus watched her closely. “Why not?”

“Because he's Ascendancy. There are people whose entire job is to do things like that. He could have stayed here and commanded everything from inside.”

“And instead?”

Seraphis looked down at her hands. “He went.”

Something about saying it aloud made the thought feel heavier.

She remembered the dark figures disappearing into white on the broadcast. She had called him stupid in the moment. She still thought it had been reckless. Yet the more she had watched afterward, the harder it became to dismiss what had bothered her about it. He had gone where everyone else was suffering. Patricus's gaze lingered on her face. Seraphis suddenly felt self-conscious again.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I said something I didn't say.”

For the first time since entering the chapel, Patricus laughed. It was brief and surprisingly warm, though it did nothing to make him easier to understand.

“We all speak many things we do not say.”

Seraphis wasn't sure what that meant, and judging by his expression, he had no intention of helping her decipher it.

His attention shifted toward the altar again. Something changed in him then. The cleverness did not disappear, but it receded enough for Seraphis to see the exhaustion beneath it. He had looked tired in the corridor. Here, in the candlelight, he looked older than he had at the summit.

“People often prefer certainty,” he said. “Religions are particularly skilled at providing it.”

Seraphis glanced around the chapel. “That's a strange thing for the Pope to say.”

“Is it?”

“A little.”

He considered that. “Faith and certainty are contradictions.”

Seraphis expected him to explain, but he didn't.

She thought of Theron, who always seemed certain when he spoke from the Codex. She thought of the Brotherhood and all the things she had accepted because Theron spoke them as though remembering rather than teaching. Then, against her will, she thought of Nikolai disappearing into the storm again.

“Do you believe he's a god?” she asked.

Patricus looked at her.

For once, the question seemed to surprise him.

“Ascendancy,” she clarified. “You asked me. So I'm asking you.” She tried to sit a little taller.

His eyes moved briefly toward the icon before them, then back to her. Whatever answer Seraphis expected, it did not come quickly.

“I believe Nikolai Brandon is a man capable of things I do not yet understand.”

Seraphis frowned. “Now it's you who isn't giving an answer.”

“It is the only one I have.”

She stared at him. Something about the admission unsettled her more than certainty would have. Theron always had answers. Even when the answers were strange, even when they demanded that Seraphis rethink everything she had once assumed about the world, there was comfort in the way he delivered them. Patricus seemed entirely willing to stand in the middle of something enormous and admit he did not understand it.

She wasn't sure whether that made him wise or simply frustrating.

“May I ask you one more question?”

Seraphis sighed softly. “You've asked about thirty.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Then one more should hardly matter.”

She nodded.

His expression became unreadable again.

“If the day came when what you loved and what you believed demanded different things from you, which would you choose?”

Seraphis went still. The question landed differently from all the others. She thought first of Theron. That annoyed her. She thought next of everything he had taught her, which annoyed her even more because surely those were not different things. Then Nikolai entered her mind without permission: not the Ascendancy of broadcasts or the god of Theron's Codex, but the distant man walking into impossible snow.

“I don't know.”

Patricus' gaze fell to her hands, currently folded on her lap, and she stopped wringing her fingers at the attention. Then his eyes returned to her face.

“Good.”

Seraphis frowned. “You think that's good?”

“It means you did not lie merely because you disliked the question.”

She wasn't sure whether to be pleased or not. She was really starting to dislike this Pope.

Patricus rose, and Seraphis realized the conversation was apparently over. She stood with him, feeling oddly as though she had survived something despite having spent the entire time sitting on a bench.

He walked her toward the door, but before reaching it he stopped. For one strange moment he seemed about to say something else. His eyes searched her face with the same startled intensity he had shown when he first appeared in the doorway. Then whatever he had considered saying disappeared behind the practiced composure of the Pope.

“Take care whom you allow to answer your questions for you.”

Seraphis stiffened immediately. “If that's another criticism of Theron—”

“It is a criticism of everyone.”

That stopped her, but Patricus opened the door before she could rebut him. The corridor beyond returned all at once: security officers, Vatican personnel, distant footsteps and the muffled urgency of a palace attempting to govern a city buried beneath snow. Seraphis stepped through, then turned back despite herself.

Patricus had already begun closing the door.

She caught one last glimpse of the chapel behind him, candles burning before the icons and old gold shining softly in the dark. His expression had changed again. The intensity was gone, replaced by something she could not identify.

Fear, perhaps. But that was ridiculous. He was the Pope! The door closed between them and she shivered.