Yesterday, 12:21 AM
True to his word, Theron guided Anton through the quiet corridors of the Sanctuary to a smaller chamber, a haven designed for moments of intimate reflection, revelation, and conversation. The room was dimly lit, the glow of scattered candles casting flickering shadows that danced like spirits across the polished stone walls. A projection of stained glass shimmered on one side, its kaleidoscope of deep blues, golden ambers, and blood reds spilling across the room like a tapestry of artwork. The air was thick with the faint scent of burning incense—something earthy and ancient, evoking memories of forgotten temples.
Theron gestured with an open hand toward an ornately carved bench draped in velvet cushions, inviting Anton to sit alongside him. His movements were fluid and deliberate, imbued with a grace that seemed to command the space without effort. As Anton settled, Theron folded himself onto the bench with a quiet confidence, his golden-threaded robes pooling like liquid around him.
When Anton began to speak, Theron’s attention sharpened with almost unnerving intensity, his piercing gaze fixed on the Seeker as though reading the words not just from his lips, but from his very soul. He listened with the stillness of a deep forest at twilight, absorbing every detail of the description with a reverence reserved for prophecy.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and raspy, carrying the weight of both wisdom and curiosity. “There is indeed a veil,” he said, his tone like the rustle of old pages in a sacred text. “A barrier between our world and one that exists beyond mortal comprehension. Most will never glimpse it, let alone touch it. For most of those few who do, it is but a fleeting moment—a brush of the fingertips against something vast and unknowable. Others have greater depths of reach…”
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze catching the glimmer of candlelight. “But you… You do not merely touch it. You see it. What they perceive in fragments, you behold in scenes. The currents, the patterns, the truths—these are not veiled to you. This is no ordinary gift, Anton. It is a sight that most could never hope to possess.”
Theron allowed a silence to stretch between them for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle like the final toll of a temple bell. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, yet no less compelling. “Visions are not always bound to the present. Some gaze forward into what may yet come—a path etched in shadow and possibility. Others reach backward, into the echoes of what was—glimpses of truths long hidden, or memories stirred from the depths of the self. Both are powerful, and both must be treated with care.”
He straightened, the faint glow of the stained glass refracting across his features, painting him in otherworldly hues. “This is something rare, Anton. A gift the Veil does not offer lightly. If you wish, I will help you nurture it. The Brotherhood can provide you with the tools and guidance to wield this sight with purpose.”
Theron paused, tilting his head as Anton asked about the story—an old tale, one that even the uninitiated knew by name. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was not one of mirth; it was the smile of someone intimately familiar with the weight of many myths.
“The story of Orpheus and Eurydice,” he began, his voice taking on a natural storyteller’s cadence, “is a lesson in the peril of doubt. Orpheus, gifted above all others, descended into the underworld to reclaim his beloved, armed not with strength, but with the power of his music—a force that could charm even the gods of death. Hades, moved by his song, granted him a single condition: that he walk from the underworld without looking back, trusting that Eurydice would follow.”
Theron’s voice dropped, soft as a whisper but heavy with meaning. “But Orpheus faltered. He doubted. He turned, unable to trust what he could not see, and in that single moment of weakness, he lost her forever.”
He let the lesson linger, his gaze catching Anton’s. “The Veil, too, demands trust. To wield its power is to walk a path of uncertainty, to step forward without always looking back.”
Theron reclined slightly, his presence still commanding despite the casualness of the gesture. “Memories, prophecies, visions—they are threads in a tapestry far greater than ourselves. If you choose to see the whole design, Anton, you may discover truths that even the Veil itself whispers only to a select few.”
Theron gestured with an open hand toward an ornately carved bench draped in velvet cushions, inviting Anton to sit alongside him. His movements were fluid and deliberate, imbued with a grace that seemed to command the space without effort. As Anton settled, Theron folded himself onto the bench with a quiet confidence, his golden-threaded robes pooling like liquid around him.
When Anton began to speak, Theron’s attention sharpened with almost unnerving intensity, his piercing gaze fixed on the Seeker as though reading the words not just from his lips, but from his very soul. He listened with the stillness of a deep forest at twilight, absorbing every detail of the description with a reverence reserved for prophecy.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and raspy, carrying the weight of both wisdom and curiosity. “There is indeed a veil,” he said, his tone like the rustle of old pages in a sacred text. “A barrier between our world and one that exists beyond mortal comprehension. Most will never glimpse it, let alone touch it. For most of those few who do, it is but a fleeting moment—a brush of the fingertips against something vast and unknowable. Others have greater depths of reach…”
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze catching the glimmer of candlelight. “But you… You do not merely touch it. You see it. What they perceive in fragments, you behold in scenes. The currents, the patterns, the truths—these are not veiled to you. This is no ordinary gift, Anton. It is a sight that most could never hope to possess.”
Theron allowed a silence to stretch between them for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle like the final toll of a temple bell. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, yet no less compelling. “Visions are not always bound to the present. Some gaze forward into what may yet come—a path etched in shadow and possibility. Others reach backward, into the echoes of what was—glimpses of truths long hidden, or memories stirred from the depths of the self. Both are powerful, and both must be treated with care.”
He straightened, the faint glow of the stained glass refracting across his features, painting him in otherworldly hues. “This is something rare, Anton. A gift the Veil does not offer lightly. If you wish, I will help you nurture it. The Brotherhood can provide you with the tools and guidance to wield this sight with purpose.”
Theron paused, tilting his head as Anton asked about the story—an old tale, one that even the uninitiated knew by name. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was not one of mirth; it was the smile of someone intimately familiar with the weight of many myths.
“The story of Orpheus and Eurydice,” he began, his voice taking on a natural storyteller’s cadence, “is a lesson in the peril of doubt. Orpheus, gifted above all others, descended into the underworld to reclaim his beloved, armed not with strength, but with the power of his music—a force that could charm even the gods of death. Hades, moved by his song, granted him a single condition: that he walk from the underworld without looking back, trusting that Eurydice would follow.”
Theron’s voice dropped, soft as a whisper but heavy with meaning. “But Orpheus faltered. He doubted. He turned, unable to trust what he could not see, and in that single moment of weakness, he lost her forever.”
He let the lesson linger, his gaze catching Anton’s. “The Veil, too, demands trust. To wield its power is to walk a path of uncertainty, to step forward without always looking back.”
Theron reclined slightly, his presence still commanding despite the casualness of the gesture. “Memories, prophecies, visions—they are threads in a tapestry far greater than ourselves. If you choose to see the whole design, Anton, you may discover truths that even the Veil itself whispers only to a select few.”
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