The Prime Church of Embrace stood at the very heart of Low Noctis, its magnificent dome rising toward the floating palace of High Veil like a supplicant's hands reaching for divine grace. Unlike the modest churches found in towns like Brackenholt, the Prime Church was a testament to both faith and power—a breathtaking fusion of art, magik, and architectural mastery.

Massive pillars of white marble veined with blue rose to support arches that seemed to defy the very laws of nature, their seemingly impossible spans held together by intricate magik circles etched into their keystones. These circles glowed with soft azure light as they channeled energy from the mana ore embedded within the stone, creating a perpetual luminescence that bathed the cathedral in ethereal radiance even on the darkest nights.

The dome itself was a marvel of engineering and mysticism. From the outside, it gleamed with thousands of pieces of lapis lazuli and clear crystal arranged to depict The Father and The Mother embracing the world between them. When sunlight struck the dome, or when the floating palace's mana lights shone down upon it at night, the entire structure seemed to pulse with living energy, as if the deities themselves breathed within its walls.

Inside, the church opened into a vast circular chamber where the faithful gathered for ceremonies. The interior of the dome was even more spectacular than its exterior—a mosaic of mana-infused glass depicting scenes from The War in Heaven, strategically incomplete in ways only the initiated would recognize. The missing portions of the story were as significant as what was shown, a deliberate reminder that some truths remained the exclusive province of those who served at the highest levels of the Church and the Crown.

At the center of this architectural wonder, beneath the very apex of the dome where a shaft of light perpetually fell regardless of the time of day, stood Pontiff Elias. Small and unassuming in his simple robes, he seemed almost incongruous against the grandeur of his surroundings—a humble vessel carrying an immense spiritual weight.

Before him knelt a woman on one knee, her head bowed in reverence. Even in this posture of supplication, Aetherion Selenica emanated an aura of grace and barely contained power. Her long white hair, bound in an intricate braid for the ceremony, cascaded over one shoulder. The light from above caught the blue earrings she wore—secretly repositories of backup mana ore—making them sparkle like captured stars.

The Sword Saint's armor, body-tight yet practical, bore the insignia of her station, and at her hip hung a sheathed blade that seemed to shimmer even in stillness, as if eager to be drawn. Her cape, emblazoned with the sigil of the Church, pooled around her like liquid silver on the polished floor.

"May The Father who fights to protect grant you strength," Pontiff Elias intoned, his weathered hands tracing the pattern of the Embrace above her head. "May The Mother who nurtures bestow upon you wisdom. Through their divine grace, may you stand as their instrument in this world of strife."

It was a blessing Selenica had received hundreds of times before—a ceremony that was said to bring the protection of The Father and The Mother to those who received it. As the youngest Sword Saint ever recognized by the Church, she was not required to undergo this daily ritual. Many of her rank considered it a formality, something to be observed on holy days and special occasions.

Yet Selenica knelt before the Pontiff every day without fail, her light blue eyes closed in genuine devotion as she received the blessing. In a world of political machinations and half-truths, her faith remained pure and unwavering—a quality as rare among the powerful as her extraordinary skill with a blade.

"Rise, child," Pontiff Elias said as the blessing concluded, his voice warm with genuine affection. Though only in his sixth decade, the weight of his responsibilities had aged him beyond his years, etching lines of concern around his eyes and mouth. Yet when he smiled at Selenica, as he did now, years seemed to fall away from his countenance.

Selenica rose gracefully to her feet, performing the Embrace with fluid precision—hands raised upward, then curved down to form a circle before meeting at the center and lifting to her chest. "Thank you, Your Holiness. The blessing brings me comfort, especially in these uncertain times."

"Your devotion honors the Church," Elias replied, his clean-shaved head catching the light from above. "Though I suspect it is not my blessing that makes you such a formidable Sword Saint."

A small smile touched Selenica's lips. "The Father grants strength, The Mother grants wisdom, but practice grants skill." She adjusted the large blue earrings that framed her face. "I would not neglect any of the three."

"Wise beyond your years," Elias nodded approvingly. "The Church is fortunate to have such a faithful servant. Many in your position might forget that power comes with responsibility."

"The responsibility weighs heavily at times," Selenica admitted, her eyes momentarily clouding with an emotion that seemed at odds with her youth. "The Illusory Orb, the title of Sword Saint... sometimes I wonder if I am worthy of such gifts."

"It is precisely that doubt which proves your worthiness," Elias said gently. "Pride has no place in true service, whether to Crown or Church."

Selenica bowed her head slightly. "Your words give me strength, Your Holiness. I should go—Prince Lenundis has requested my presence at the training grounds."

"Of course. Do not let me keep you from your duties." The Pontiff made a small gesture of dismissal that was also a blessing. "May The Father and The Mother watch over you, Sword Saint."

With another perfect Embrace, Selenica turned and walked toward the massive doors of the central chamber, her cape flowing behind her like quicksilver. The guards stationed at the entrance stood a little straighter as she passed, a mixture of respect and awe evident in their postures.

When she had gone, Pontiff Elias stood alone in the shaft of light, his simple robes a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding him. He sighed deeply, the sound echoing in the vast space as he turned toward a small, unassuming door partially hidden behind one of the great pillars—the entrance to his private chambers.

The corridor beyond was narrow and dimly lit, a reminder of simpler times before the Church had grown to its current grandeur. Elias preferred it this way; the modesty of the passage matched his own origins. As he walked, his thoughts drifted to his childhood—an orphan taken in by the Church after his mother had abandoned him on its steps. He had known hunger then, and cold, and the bitter sting of being unwanted.

Now, as Head-Master of the Prime Church, he controlled vast resources and commanded the respect of kings. Yet the boy who had once huddled in the shadows of the Church's great halls had never fully disappeared. That boy's vow to change things for the better, to reform the institution from within, still burned in his heart—tempered by years of compromise but never extinguished.

He paused before the wooden door to his chambers, his hand resting on the worn handle. The dark secrets of the Church—the truth about the Batteries, the incomplete history of The War in Heaven—weighed on him like a physical burden. "I am changing things," he whispered to himself, a mantra repeated countless times over the decades. "Slowly, but surely."

His private chamber was as modest as the man himself—a simple bed, a wooden desk covered with scrolls and texts, and a small altar where a pair of candles burned perpetually, one white for The Father, one red for The Mother. The only luxury was a large window that offered a view of both High Veil floating above and the sprawl of Low Noctis below, a constant reminder of his position between the divine and the mundane.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his contemplation.

"Enter," he called, straightening his shoulders as if physically preparing to bear the weight of his office once more.

The door opened to reveal a tall, athletic woman with tightly braided blue hair and an alert gaze that missed nothing. Spumirius Amariel wore the distinctive armor of a Battle Maiden beneath a Church hood, the material fitted to her powerful frame. Despite her impressive build and commanding presence, there was something in her eyes—a softness, perhaps, or a questioning spirit—that set her apart from others of her rank.

"Your Holiness," she said, performing the Embrace with military precision. "I apologize for disturbing your solitude."

"Amariel," Elias smiled, the expression genuine unlike many he wore in public. "You know you are never a disturbance. Come, sit." He gestured to the simple chairs by the window.

She complied, though her posture remained formal. "The preparations for my journey to Mezza Island are complete. Yonathan has prepared the necessary supplies, and we can depart at first light tomorrow."

Elias nodded, his expression growing somber. "And you understand the true nature of this mission? Beyond the official explanation of relieving Foghorn Metilda?"

"I believe so, Your Holiness." Amariel's voice lowered. "You suspect Metilda has been... mistreating her Battery."

"Not just suspect," Elias said heavily, turning to gaze out the window. "I know. Yoshua sent a desperate prayer to the Church two weeks ago. The details..." He shook his head. "I would spare you them if I could."

"You need not protect me from ugly truths, Father," Amariel said softly, using the more personal title she had called him since childhood, when he had rescued her from the streets of Low Noctis and brought her into the Church's care. "I have seen enough to know what some Battle Maidens do to their Batteries."

Elias's shoulders slumped slightly. "And yet we perpetuate the system. Batteries and Battle Maidens, locked in a relationship that too often becomes one of abuse and exploitation." He turned to face her, his eyes troubled. "When I was young and full of righteous fire, I swore I would change it all. Remake the Church into something truly worthy of The Father and The Mother." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Now I find myself making small adjustments, tiny reforms that barely scratch the surface of the problem."

"You have done more than most would dare," Amariel reminded him. "The Brotherhood of Battle has better conditions now, more protections—"

"Protections that fail the moment they are out of sight," Elias cut in. "Like poor Yoshua." He sighed deeply. "Sometimes I wonder if the price of change is too high. If maintaining the structure, imperfect as it is, prevents something worse from taking its place."

"What worse thing could there be than what Metilda is doing?" Amariel asked, a rare edge in her voice.

Elias met her gaze directly. "Chaos. War. The collapse of the delicate balance that keeps the truth about The War in Heaven contained. Some secrets..." he hesitated, "some secrets must remain buried, for the good of all Erath."

Amariel's expression softened with concern. "You carry too much alone, Father."

"As must all who lead," he replied, straightening again. "But enough of my philosophical wanderings. You and Yonathan have a difficult task ahead. Foghorn Metilda may be the daughter of Lord Foghorn Luceronis, but her noble birth does not excuse her actions." His face darkened. "I should have acted sooner when the first reports reached me."

"We will find Yoshua and help him," Amariel promised.

"Yes, but there is more." Elias lowered his voice further, though they were alone in the chamber. "The relic sealed beneath the church on Mezza Island is... volatile. It must be monitored at all times. That is the true reason we always station a Battle Maiden there, not merely to tend to the faithful." A shadow passed over his face. "Never approach the seal without proper precautions."

Amariel nodded, her expression grave. "I understand, Father."

"I pray you never have to face what lies beneath," Elias said softly. "Now go, prepare for your journey. Yonathan will need your guidance."

After another perfect Embrace, Amariel departed, leaving Elias alone once more with his thoughts and the weight of his responsibilities. He moved to the window, gazing up at High Veil where tiny points of blue light—mana-powered lamps—glittered like stars against the darkening sky.

"So much power," he whispered to himself, pressing a palm against the cool glass. "In the Crown, in the Church, in the magik that flows through the veins of the gifted."

He looked down at his own hands—weathered, age-spotted, and utterly ordinary. No matter how he might concentrate, no faint blue lines would ever appear beneath his skin, no circuit of power connecting him to the forces that shaped their world. He was a null, born without even the faintest trace of a Magik Circuit. In a world where power was measured by one's ability to channel and manipulate mana, he had entered the game with empty hands.

"Perhaps that is why you chose me," he said, addressing the candles on his altar. "A man who cannot rely on magik must rely on faith alone."

He moved to his desk, picking up a scroll detailing reports from churches throughout Somnium. So many problems, so many abuses of power, all perpetuated by a system he now helped maintain. The irony was not lost on him—that he, who had once sworn to tear down the corrupt structures from within, now found himself making the smallest of adjustments to a machine that ground on relentlessly.

"It would be easy to surrender," he admitted aloud. "To accept that change comes too slowly, if at all. To convince myself that maintaining tradition is enough."

He placed the scroll down and straightened his shoulders, feeling a familiar resolve harden within him despite his weariness. "But that would be faithless. The Father did not grant me strength of arm or magik, but strength of will. The Mother did not grant me the wisdom of spells, but the wisdom to persist."

Elias performed the Embrace again, this time with a fervor that belied his age and fatigue. "This is the test laid before me—to change what can be changed, to endure what cannot, and to recognize the difference between the two." His voice grew stronger with each word. "I will not fail You in this task, though it takes my final breath."

With renewed purpose, he returned to his desk. Amariel's mission to Mezza Island was but one small part of a larger design—a careful, patient dismantling of the Church's worst excesses. He could not wield magik against his opponents, nor call down fire from the heavens or bend minds to his will. But he had persistence, and faith, and the long view that comes from understanding that true change requires generations, not moments.

"One step at a time," he murmured as he began writing instructions for another task, another small adjustment to the great machine. "One small victory at a time."