Sight Seeing [The Sanctuary of the Ascendant Flame]

[Luminar]

Theron remained unmoved by the others passing by, his attention fixed entirely on the man before him. He had long since learned that the Chamber of Echoes left no one untouched—its resonance was too profound, its reach too deep. But the way it stirred those who entered was as varied as the individuals themselves. Some fled, consumed by their own feelings, like the young woman who had slipped away earlier. Others lingered, emboldened or shaken by what they’d glimpsed within themselves. Fear, awe, shock, revelation—all were familiar to Theron. He had borne witness to countless transformations within these walls, but what this man spoke of, what lingered in his eyes, felt unlike anything he had encountered before.

Theron inclined his head slightly, the faintest gesture of acknowledgment and invitation. His movements were deliberate, yet unhurried, as though time itself bent to accommodate him. “Let us walk,” he said, his voice low and resonant, filling the space between them without ever seeming to press. “We will speak more, away from the echoes of others. Such revelations deserve quiet, for they are not to be rushed or lost to noise.”

There was no command in his tone, only a deep, unshakable assurance. He radiated a quiet authority that carried with it an almost gravitational pull, the kind of presence that compelled without demand. His words lingered in the air, weighty and deliberate, and the silence that followed seemed to deepen their significance.

“My name is Theron,” he continued, his eyes steady but calm, searching Anton’s face with the subtle intensity of someone who saw far more than was said. “I am the Luminar of the Brotherhood, its voice and its witness.” He paused, the faintest hint of a smile flickering across his lips—not warmth, exactly, but a quiet acknowledgment of the moment’s gravity. “And you? By what name shall we call you?”

Theron gestured with an open hand, offering to lead him toward one of the quiet alcoves beyond the Chamber’s main hall. His movements were fluid, deliberate, imbued with a stillness that carried an almost ritualistic weight. There was no urgency in his invitation, only a sense of expectation that hung between them—a subtle pressure, not of force but of inevitability. Whatever Anton had seen, whatever he had felt, Theron sought to understand it, to peel back its layers and glimpse its truth.

“Memories are powerful things,” he said softly, his voice weaving through the air like a thread connecting past and present. “They can guide us, shape us, or even bind us. But there is something more to what you’ve touched, isn’t there? Something that echoes beyond memory alone.”