Sight Seeing [The Sanctuary of the Ascendant Flame]

[Quillon Hawke]

In the presence of the Luminar, Quillon forced himself into a facade of formality. His hands were clasped tightly before him, but his knuckles betrayed the tension he felt, white with the effort of restraint. He longed—achingly, maddeningly—to grab Calliope and pull her far from the Seeker’s unsettling presence. The moment their hands had touched, an anger like a live wire had threaded through his body, crackling along every nerve. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, that’s what he told himself—it was something far more complicated. Both she and Sámiel had reacted strangely, but it was Calliope he had watched the most, his eyes searching for any signs of distress or ailment.

When her breathing evened, and her composure returned, he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. But the thread of unease remained, coiled tight in his chest. He walked close behind her, his shoes echoing faintly in the chamber’s hollow acoustics, his gaze flicking between her and the towering Sámiel, who moved at her side with an unnerving ease, like a wolf weaving through a flock.

The Chamber of Echoes loomed around them, its dark curves and glowing inlays turning the room into an otherworldly cocoon of sound and light. Quillon knelt into place along the room’s rim, the cool floor pressing against his knees as he tried to center himself. He had always loved this ritual. The rhythmic hum of the elements grounding him, the Veil’s power brushing against the edges of perception—it was his connection to something larger than himself, a reminder of why he had devoted his life to the Brotherhood.

But today, he was distracted. The Luminar’s imposing presence dominated the chamber, his every movement deliberate, commanding. Seraphis, as sharp and watchful as ever, seemed to study every shift in the room’s energy with the precision of a predator. And then there was Calliope, her reaction to Sámiel’s touch replaying over and over in Quillon’s mind, gnawing at him. He forced his breathing to match the steady vibrations pulsing through the floor, willing himself to focus, to let the sound dissolve the noise in his head.

As the Luminar reached into the Veil, the shift was unmistakable. The energy of the room deepened, thickened, as though the air itself had grown heavier. Quillon felt the familiar pull, that strange and unnerving moment when the boundary between the physical and the unseen became paper-thin. He remembered the first time he had felt it as an Aethermancer. It had terrified him then—the vastness of it, the power of something he could barely understand. But now, it was second nature.

And yet, as the Luminar’s shadow seemed to stretch and grow, consuming the space with his command of the Veil, Quillon felt something new—a second shadow, raw and chaotic, tearing through the stillness like a jagged tear in fabric. His breath caught, and his eyes snapped across the room, locking onto the source.

Sámiel.

The Seeker hadn’t moved, yet the energy surrounding him was palpable, vibrating with an intensity that bordered on violent. It was nothing like the Luminar’s control—this was wild, untempered, and utterly unmistakable. Quillon’s stomach twisted in a cocktail of awe and dread. He had felt the Veil shift, not for the Luminar, but for him.

By the time the ritual concluded, Quillon’s focus hadn’t strayed. He was still watching Sámiel, his jaw tight as the echoes of the ritual faded into silence. The room seemed to exhale, but Quillon didn’t. Rising to his feet, he moved closer, his voice low but sharp, a blade of quiet accusation cutting through the space between them.

“You Veil Walked.”

The words hung in the charged air, unmistakable, undeniable. His gaze was steady, unblinking, the weight of what he had said sinking in. Sámiel had reached the Veil—an achievement most Seekers never achieved, a skill that set him apart in a way that could not be ignored. For Quillon, it was both a revelation and a reckoning. If Sámiel’s potential was undeniable, then it was his doing. He had brought this Seeker into the fold. No one—not even Seraphis—could take credit now.

A flicker of pride curled at the edge of his thoughts, but he forced it down, suppressing the smile that threatened to break his austere composure. This was no time for celebration—not yet.

He stepped back slightly, his expression hardening, only to watch Seraphis rise quickly and turn her attention elsewhere. His brow furrowed as she moved to Calliope, her sharp movements betraying her usually calm demeanor.

“Calli!” Seraphis’s voice was giddy with excitement, her hands darting out to grasp Calliope’s tightly. Her grip was firm, almost too eager, her gaze searching Calliope’s face with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. “You Veil Walked! Why didn’t you tell us you could?” Her tone was a strange mix of joy and reproach, her words tumbling out in a rush, as though she couldn’t contain them.

Quillon froze, his attention snapping from Sámiel to Calliope. Calliope? He studied her carefully, his mind racing. He hadn’t felt it. Hadn’t noticed. Was it possible? And if it was… why hadn’t she said anything?

His throat tightened, and a new thread of tension coiled in his chest, one born of uncertainty and something far closer to fear. If Calliope could reach the Veil too, what did that mean? For her? For him? For all of them?

And what did it mean that Sámiel had been there when it happened?

The room felt smaller now, the air heavier. As Seraphis clung to Calliope, Quillon’s gaze flicked back to Sámiel. The chaos surrounding the Seeker seemed to linger like a storm cloud, dark and oppressive.