Sight Seeing [The Sanctuary of the Ascendant Flame]

[Luminar]

The echoes of the ritual still lingered in the chamber, a faint hum that seemed to vibrate in the bones of all present. Theron remained where he stood, his hands still clasped lightly before him, his posture relaxed but charged with an undeniable presence. His golden-threaded robes reflected the soft light of the chamber’s crystal, giving him an almost otherworldly glow. It was a studied stillness, deliberate and magnetic, one that drew attention without demanding it, like a whisper carried on the wind.

His gaze swept the room, drinking in the tableau before him. Quillon, standing with barely contained tension, his focus fixed on Sámiel like a hound watching a wolf. Seraphis, gripping Calliope’s hands with an urgency that bordered on fervor, her voice alight with excitement. Sámiel, dark and unbothered, his shadowed presence resonating with the faintest echoes of chaos still clinging to the chamber. Calliope, caught between exhilaration and uncertainty, her energy raw and unrefined.

And above it all, the unmistakable tension of ambition. Theron could feel it as surely as the vibrations of the Veil itself—Quillon and Seraphis, their postures subtly taut, their words laced with unspoken claims. Each sought to lay credit for the sparks of power that had ignited within Sámiel and Calliope. It was a dynamic Theron had designed intentionally into the fabric of the Brotherhood, though it rarely played out so publicly. He allowed himself the faintest smile, a subtle curve of his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It is rare,” Theron said at last, his voice low and resonant, carrying effortlessly in the chamber’s perfect acoustics, “to witness not one, but two new Walkers in the same ritual.” His tone was measured, deliberate, as though he were speaking to the room itself rather than any individual. “And rarer still for them to awaken in tandem. The Veil is nothing if not unpredictable.”

He took a single step forward, his movements slow and purposeful, and the golden threads of his robes shimmered as they caught the light. “It would seem,” he continued, his gaze sliding briefly to Quillon and Seraphis, “that your methods of mentorship are… effective.” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable. “Competition breeds strength, does it not?”

His attention shifted to Sámiel, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary. “And yet, it is not the claims of mortals that the Veil heeds. Power recognizes power, whether you choose to wield it or not.” He allowed the words to hang in the air, like smoke curling from a dying flame. The intensity in Sámiel’s dark gaze reflected back at him, but Theron didn’t flinch. Instead, his lips curved into a faint smile that seemed to acknowledge something unspoken.

Turning his attention to Calliope, he inclined his head slightly. “And you, Calliope. A Veil Walk is no small thing. It is the beginning of a journey, not its end. Do not squander it.” His tone softened slightly, carrying an edge of paternal authority, as though encouraging her without dismissing her awe.

But Theron’s gaze didn’t linger on Calliope for long. He had already noted the ripples in the chamber’s energy, the subtle shifts in its flow. His attention slid to the edge of the room, where Mia’s absence was now keenly felt. She had slipped away without fanfare—unpredictable, perhaps, but notable nonetheless. And then there was the silent stranger, hovering near the exit, his hesitation palpable.

Theron climbed the steps, his movements echoing softly as he made his way toward Anton. The room seemed to follow his movements, the subtle interplay of light and shadow shifting with him, as though the chamber itself were attuned to the Luminar’s presence. He stopped just short of the Seeker, his hands still loosely clasped, his expression calm but unreadable.

“Greetings,” he said, his voice still quiet and smooth, yet imbued with authority. He didn’t need to raise his voice; the chamber carried it effortlessly. “You seem… undecided.” His tone was not accusatory, but neither was it idle curiosity. It was the voice of someone who already knew the answer but asked the question anyway, inviting the other to confront it for themselves.

He tilted his head slightly, studying Anton with the kind of measured attention that made most people squirm. Yet there was no judgment in his gaze, only an inscrutable curiosity that seemed to pierce through surface appearances. “What do you see?” he asked, gesturing faintly toward the chamber, the faint glimmer of gold at his wrist catching the light. “In the Veil. In this place. In yourself.”

The question was layered from the abstract Veil to the intimate Self. It was an inquiry about Anton’s perception, yes, but also an invitation—one that left room for acceptance or refusal without consequence. Theron’s posture was relaxed, his hands loose, his shoulders slightly inclined forward, as though listening intently for an answer he already knew might not come. But his eyes, within his eyes lay the promise of answers if only one may speak the proper question.

“If this is not for you,” Theron continued after a moment, his voice softening slightly, “then the door is yours to take. No chains bind you here. But if you hesitate because something stirs within you…” He let the sentence trail off, the rest implied rather than spoken. His eyes narrowed slightly, their golden glint catching in the dim light. “Then perhaps it is worth lingering a while longer. The Veil does not call without purpose.”

Theron stepped back slightly, giving Anton the space to make his choice without looming over him. He glanced back briefly at the others, noting the continued tension between Quillon and Seraphis, the way Calliope and Sámiel seemed to stand in strange contrast to one another—chaos and potential intertwined. His lips curved faintly again, but the smile was more for himself than for anyone else.

Returning his focus to Anton, he added in a tone both enigmatic and commanding, “The Veil reveals truths we often hide from ourselves. The question is not whether you believe in it. The question is whether you are willing to see.”

[Anton]

The Luninar approached him, but Anton didn’t feel intimidated by his gaze. His fears were more ethereal - attached only to the images he had seen, still vivid in his mind, and the emotions attached to them. The Luminar had senses his hesitation, and in the moment Anton realized he had wanted him to notice the hesitation, not to manipulate him, but to offer the guiding hand he needed to step forward.

The Luminar asked what he had seen and Anton found it hard to put into words, because what he had seen had been more than a visual manifestation. It had encompassed everything, and then the word came to him. ”Memories - but not my own.”

It was the only word to describe it, despite how absurd it might have sounded. Memories were more than pictures. They were accompanied by the thoughts, feelings, and senses that had created the experience and solidified it in the mind. The word was a description, not to be taken as literal. After all, Orpheus was a myth - how could a person who had not existed have memories? Even if there was truth to the myth - how could someone else experience what they had. But it explained the vivid nature of what he had seen, and it had explained the fear he felt to a larger degree because at the end, when he know he was going to die, Orpheus had not felt fear, acceptance, or even the bliss of release. As he had been murdered, he had felt a cold, empty, and apathetic numbness.

His words, the first anyone in the room had heard from him, were meant only for the Luminar, but Anton understood everyone in the room would hear, so he did not lower his voice to a whisper. The spoken words had calmed the fear in him and he took a step forward, a decision made to stay. Anton still didn’t understand what they believed, but he would listen.

”If the Veil is calling to me, I do not understand what it’s trying to say,” he responded after a moment of silence. ”But I think I want to.”

[Sámiel]

Sámiel leaned against the darkened walls of the Chamber of Echoes, the soft, spectral light catching the sharp edges of his face as he lingered there, watching. Observing. The ritual had ended, yet the real theater had only just begun. The reactions unfurling before him—each as distinct as the people themselves—fascinated him far more than the sound bath or the ritualistic formalities of the Brotherhood ever could.

Quillon, ever the dutiful Veilwarden, all taut control and burning ambition, couldn’t seem to stop himself from circling him like a wolf guarding a prize. His voice still hung in the air, You Veil Walked, a declaration spoken with both triumph and territoriality. Sámiel could almost taste the pride and jealousy simmering under Quillon’s composed exterior, and it was exquisite. How dearly the man clung to his notions of control and prestige, as if Sámiel could be tamed or mastered by devotion alone.

Seraphis, meanwhile, was a storm of excitement, rushing toward Calliope with an exuberance that stood out in sharp contrast to her usual poised demeanor. Her declaration spilled from her lips with an intensity that bordered on insistence, and the way her hands clung to Calliope’s betrayed something more than simple joy. Perhaps she, too, saw the potential in the unassuming girl. Or perhaps she feared being left behind. Sámiel couldn’t be sure, and that uncertainty delighted him.

And then there was Calliope herself.

Oh, how she intrigued him. Her quiet poise, her unwavering patience, her persistent faith—it was like looking at a delicate porcelain figurine, perfectly molded, unblemished, and begging to be shattered just to see what lay inside. She had resolved herself to silence, but her discomfort was palpable, written in the shifts of her body, the way she swallowed hard as Quillon’s prideful words echoed through the chamber. She had given him an audience, yes, but he could see the cracks forming beneath the surface of her serene smile.

When she finally spoke, her lilting words were soft, meant only for Seraphis, yet the acoustics of the chamber betrayed her. I didn’t. I can’t. There was no malice in her tone, no frustration, only denial. But it stirred something deep in him—a spark of chaos, a need to dismantle and reveal. To see the truth of her laid bare, raw and vulnerable.

Sámiel let the tension simmer for a moment longer before stepping away from the wall. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though he were savoring the weight of every step. He could feel the pull of eyes on him—Calliope’s, Quillon’s, Seraphis’s—but he gave no indication of whose attention he sought most. The Veil still hummed faintly in his veins, its residual energy coiling around him like a shadowy mantle, and he let it shape the aura he carried as he spoke.

“How fascinating,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, laced with amusement. The chamber’s acoustics carried it effortlessly, the words seeming to wrap around everyone present. “Two Walkers, revealing themselves in tandem. Such synchronicity—it’s almost poetic.”

“Faith, you say, is the cornerstone of your little brotherhood,” he said, his tone carrying a subtle edge, neither mocking nor reverent but something in between. “And yet, it seems faith has a curious way of tangling itself up in ambition, doesn’t it? Everyone wants a piece of the Veil. To touch it, claim it, mold it into something that justifies their place within this grand design.”

His gaze settled on Quillon for a beat, then shifted, almost lazily, to Seraphis, before finally resting on Calliope. He tilted his head slightly, studying her as though she were a particularly interesting puzzle. “But not you,” he said softly. “No, you’re different. You’re still clinging to the idea that it’s all beyond you. That you’re… what was it? Unworthy? Incapable?”

He stepped closer to her then, not enough to invade her space, but enough that his presence felt tangible and heavy. His gaze flickered to Seraphis, as though silently dismissing her excitement, before returning to Calliope. He yearned to touch her hand again, to rekindle the spark that ignited at their union. “Do you really believe that? That the Veil won’t touch you simply because you’ve convinced yourself it shouldn’t?” He paused, his voice dropping lower, quieter, as though sharing a secret. “I think it already has.”

His smile split his face in half. “You’re standing on the edge of something, Calliope. All of you are. The question is… will you let it consume you? Or will you step back, let the fear win, and cling to the safety of what you think you already know?”

He returned his attention to Quillon, offering himself as the prize that he knew he was. “This is the fun part, you see. The waiting. Watching the cracks form, the pieces shift. Wondering who will fall and who will rise. Who will give in to what’s already written inside them.”

He didn’t stay because of the Brotherhood, its rituals, or even the Veil itself. No, Sámiel stayed because of her. Calliope. There was something inside her, something unshaped and raw, begging to be revealed. And if no one else would do it, he would. Not to save her, but to see her. To see her truest self laid bare. That was the part he craved most.

“I will join you.”

The show was only just beginning.

[Quillon Hawke]

Pride stiffened Quillon’s spine as the Luminar’s praise reverberated through the chamber. The subtle yet deliberate acknowledgment of his role in Sámiel’s awakening sent a surge of satisfaction through him, though he kept his expression carefully measured. The Brotherhood thrived on ambition, an unspoken competition simmering beneath every interaction, with its members vying for greater access to the Ascendancy’s secrets. At the summit of their hierarchy stood communion with the Ascendancy itself—a place only the Luminar could claim—but the Veilwardens were no strangers to power. Their ascent granted them increasingly potent knowledge, each revelation more intoxicating than the last.

The chamber still pulsed faintly with the residual energy of the Veil, the tension between the members lingering like a haze. Quillon’s gaze found Sámiel, whose willingness to join the Brotherhood had been declared with unsettling ease. The man’s presence still radiated an untamed aura, as though he carried chaos within him, barely leashed. Quillon’s pride wrestled with unease.

“Let us speak elsewhere,” Quillon said smoothly, stepping toward Sámiel with the confidence of someone accustomed to authority. His tone carried the weight of unspoken insistence, leaving little room for argument. Without waiting for agreement, he gestured toward the exit in order to lead Sámiel from the Chamber of Echoes.

As they passed the Luminar, Quillon inclined his head in a gesture of deference. The Luminar’s commanding presence always seemed to draw the air out of the room, a pull that made Quillon loathe to leave. To remain here, at the center of power, was always preferable. There was no telling when an opportunity to serve the Luminar—or prove himself indispensable—might arise. Yet the thought of Seraphis stealing this moment, weaving Sámiel’s name into the Celestial Codex before Quillon could, was intolerable. She was watching, he knew; she always was, sharp-eyed and calculating beneath her serene exterior.

The weight of the Luminar’s gaze brushed over him as they passed, but Quillon forced himself to remain composed, even as the urge to linger tugged at him. He couldn’t afford hesitation now. Sámiel was his to guide, his to claim, and his to shape into something that would bolster his standing in the Brotherhood. No one—especially not Seraphis—would rob him of this victory.

Seraphis

Seraphis lingered beside Calliope, her composure a study in poise, though her sharp gaze flickered occasionally toward Quillon. Her eyes followed his retreating form as he led Sámiel from the Chamber of Echoes, her expression carefully neutral but faintly tinged with disdain. She knew Quillon too well—his ambition was relentless, his hunger for acclaim unyielding. He wasn’t guiding Sámiel; he was laying claim to him, staking his place in the Celestial Codex. And while Seraphis claimed to rise above such petty squabbles, today the sight irritated her more than it should. She glanced back at Calliope, a new spark of determination lighting her gaze.

Turning fully to Calliope, Seraphis’s demeanor softened, her smile warm but brimming with purpose. “You, my dear,” she said, her voice low and reverent, “must begin your new studies at once. It’s time to prepare for the Ceremony of the Luminal Flame.” There was an insistence that hinted at how much she believed in Calliope’s potential. And yet, there was also an undercurrent of pride, a sense that she had already decided Calliope’s destiny long before Calliope herself had.

Her expression brightened, excitement radiating through her usually measured composure. “And I will teach you everything I know,” she continued, her hands reaching out to lightly clasp Calliope’s shoulders, as though anchoring her to the moment. “Come, let us set you on the path to Veilwarden.” Her voice carried a tone of promise, but also of certainty, as if the idea of failure were an impossibility. Seraphis had always been like that—steady, unshakable, and utterly assured in her convictions.

It wasn’t just enthusiasm driving her. Seraphis was the only other female Veilwarden in the Brotherhood, the sole woman among their ranks who had walked the Veil and returned with her connection intact. Her position was not simply earned; it was hard-won, forged against unspoken doubt and quiet prejudice in a Brotherhood where women were still the exception rather than the rule. To share that title, that achievement, with Calliope was no small thing. Seraphis had long shouldered the burden of her singularity, and now, with Calliope’s awakening, she saw an opportunity to share that balance.