[ Central Spire — Upper Sanctum ]

Night had fallen over Elysium.

A golden-lit airship drifted through the clouds, docking beside the Central Spire. Four figures disembarked and entered the crystal-lined gates.

Inside, the Upper Sanctum glowed with sacred stillness — light that refused to die, as if the gods themselves denied the existence of night.

Incense curled in the air. The faint hum of the dome reverberated through the chamber.

Inside the Orator’s Hall, the air was heavy with incense and static.

Her robes glimmered like starlight. Dozens of candles flickered before the central dais where she stood alone before the great mural of the Era of Wounding — a panorama of agony cast in gold and crystal.

Land eroded. Oceans boiled.

And above it all, the God of Light descended, cradling the broken world in radiant hands.

That was the story. The mercy that birthed the Great Domes.

The covenant every child was taught before they could walk.

Tonight, that light seemed dimmer than usual.

Velskara’s Scar rippled across the glass-vaulted ceiling, painting the god’s sculpted face in something that was no longer divine.

Then came footsteps — calm, deliberate.

The great doors opened.

Marthen entered first — his stride measured, echoing off the marble, with Albedo following close behind.

Guards bowed low. Few were ever permitted here, but the Orator had summoned them herself.

“Leader of Albedo,” she said softly. “You have brought calm where fear reigned. For that, you have my gratitude.”

He bowed, one hand to his chest. 

“We only did what was necessary. Panic spreads faster than death — order is the only cure.”

Her attendants lingered in the shadows, listening.

“Your restraint honors the covenant,” the Orator said softly. “Many of your kind… lack it. The Scarlet Judgement burns indiscriminately. We cannot survive another such display.”

His eyes flickered — just briefly. “Saiya?”

The Orator nodded, the word leaving her like a sigh.

“The one they call Velskara. The people whisper her name as though it were a storm.”

Marthen clasped his hands behind his back, expression composed but sharp.

“She commands fear. Fear commands obedience. Left unchecked, it becomes dominion. My guild will ensure she doesn’t mistake power for providence.”

“Then perhaps,” she said quietly, stepping closer. “You are the balance he promised.”

Her gaze shifted to the faint red shimmer still clinging to the city’s dome.

“The people look to me for faith,” she continued. “But they will soon look to you for protection. The Guardians stir for the first time in an age. The Light alone cannot contain what’s coming.”

Marthen knelt, head bowed. “Then let Albedo be your hands. Give us sanction to act in your name — to preserve what remains of order.”

The Orator studied him for a long moment — this Skyfallen who spoke with priestly poise, whose eyes burned not with faith, but with strategy.

“Your words echo prophecy,” she whispered. “And yet…”

She leaned closer, her voice low enough to vanish between heartbeats. “Tell me, Marthen. Are you driven by virtue — or by the fear of being forgotten?”

His jaw tightened, but his reply came smooth.

“What drives me is survival. And survival requires purpose.”

The Orator regarded him, then nodded slowly. “Then you have my blessing, Bastion of the Reach.”

The title hung in the air — Bastion of the Reach.

It was not part of the system — something new, born of this world’s evolving logic.

He rose, bowing once more. “We’ll keep Elysium from tearing itself apart. Whatever it takes.”

As Albedo turned to leave, the mage muttered, just loud enough for him to hear:

“A partnership with a priesthood. How noble. How terribly convenient.”

Marthen didn’t look back.

“It’s in our best interest,” he said evenly. “Only necessary.”

The doors closed behind them. Silence reclaimed the sanctum.

The Orator stood before the high window once more, watching the faint red stain where Saiya’s lightning had scarred the sky.

She whispered to no one:

“One wields fear. The other seeks control.

And both will mistake it for salvation.”

[ Elysium’s Reach — Lower Quarters ]

The city slept beneath its dome of gold.

Lanterns burned low along the marble streets, their light glinting off mirrored glass and crystal veins that pulsed faintly — the rhythm of divinity.

Inside a modest apothecary, a middle-aged merchant tidied his shelves. The faint glow beneath his skin pulsed with every heartbeat — a mark of long devotion to the Light.

“Thank you for your patronage,” he said to the departing customer, bowing deeply. “May the Light guide your steps.”

When the door closed, silence returned. He exhaled, stacked the final vials, and knelt before the small altar behind his counter.

“I am blessed,” he whispered. “May the Light preserve this peace another day.”

The doorbell chimed.

He turned.

“Ah—sorry,” came a voice. “Are you closed?”

He smiled faintly. “Almost, Skyfallen. You caught me just in time. What is it you seek?”

The newcomer stepped closer — tall, hood drawn low, traveler’s gear dusted from long hours outside the dome. His shadow stretched unnaturally far across the polished floor.

“I heard this shop carries strong amplifications,” the man said.

“Aye,” the merchant replied. “Some of the finest in Elysium. Which do you need?”

“I want the strongest one.”

“Of course.” The merchant turned, lifting a vial from the highest shelf — gold liquid swirling within like captured sunlight.

“This one enhances divine strength threefold — for three hours. Ten marks, my good sir.”

The man’s tone flattened.

“…I don’t have money.”

The merchant hesitated. “Then I’m afraid I can’t—”

The man’s hand twitched toward his weapon. “It’s just data. None of this is real. Hand it over.”

“I—I can’t.”

“You’re talking to someone who’s going to save this world,” the man said, voice trembling, rising. “You people don’t even recognize heroes when you see one.”

The merchant took a small step back. “Please...”

For a moment, silence.

Then steel.

The sword cut through the air in one brutal, thoughtless arc.

The vial shattered mid-swing, light spilling like molten glass across the floor.

When the man blinked, the merchant was already down — not glitching, not fading, just still.

Blood pooled between the tiles, quiet and real.

The light in the room dimmed, reflecting in the Skyfallen’s eyes like fractured glass. His chest heaved; the hum of his weapon faded into a distant ringing in his ears.

“…Why?” he whispered. “T-this has to be a glitch!”

No answer.

Just the sound of dripping.

He stumbled back, panic overtaking reason, grabbed a handful of vials from the counter, and bolted through the door.

His guildmates were waiting in the alley outside, leaning against the wall.

“Hey! What the hell — why are you running?” One called after him.

He didn’t answer. He just kept running.

The others exchanged uneasy glances and followed.

Inside, the apothecary’s wife descended the stairs, a towel in her hand and warmth still in her voice.

“Tobias, the stew’s almost fini—”

The rest caught in her throat.

Her scream split the stillness of the street outside, cutting through the night like breaking glass.

Lanterns flared along the district as neighbors stirred, whispers spreading before anyone dared open their doors.

Outside, Elysium’s domes glowed gold.

Inside, one more prayer went unanswered.