Dominic returned to his kneeling position, lowering himself before the faceless statue. The air was thick with the scent of incense and melted wax. He closed his eyes, steadying his breathing until only the slow rhythm of inhale and exhale filled the chamber. For several minutes, there was no sound but the soft crackle of candles.
Then came the creak of a door and the hurried steps of an apprentice.
"My apologies, Priest Dominic," the young man said, bowing deeply. "High Priest Adrian has arrived and requests your presence."
Dominic didn't move at first. His voice was calm and low, eyes still closed. "I will be there in a moment."
The apprentice nodded, backed away respectfully, and left.
Dominic exhaled, opened his eyes, and bowed once more to the twin statues. "Grant me composure, O Lord, Lady, grant me calm," he whispered before rising to his feet and leaving the small chamber.
A short while later, he stood before a tall golden door engraved with a set of balanced scales above the frame, the sigil of divine justice.
"It's me, Dominic, your eminence," he said softly before pushing the door open.
The scent of incense mixed with old parchment and sweet wine. Inside stood High Priest Adrian, dressed in red and gold robes, his presence radiant enough to make the air hum faintly. The room itself seemed brighter for his being there.
"Ah, Dominic!" Adrian's face lit up as he strode forward, arms open. "Wonderful to see you again."
They embraced like old brothers, laughing lightly.
"You still insist on calling me 'High Priest,'" Adrian said, stepping back with a smile that reached his eyes. "For the thousandth time, it's just Adrian. What are titles among friends, hmm?"
Dominic chuckled. "If I started calling you by name again, half the apprentices would faint. The title keeps them disciplined."
"Fair point," Adrian said with mock seriousness, tapping his chin. "Still, I miss when you used to just call me 'idiot.'"
"That was before you started glowing," Dominic teased, smiling faintly.
Adrian laughed heartily, shaking his head. Then his tone softened, his gaze gentler. "So, tell me, are you ready for your ascension, my friend?"
Dominic took a slow breath. "Ready? Perhaps not. I can only rely on God that I don't speak out of turn before Their Majesties, the nobles, and the congregation."
"Ah, ever the worrier," Adrian said warmly, moving to a shelf lined with decanters. "You'll be fine. Just speak from the heart. You've been preaching for years, Dominic. The people already love you."
He poured a dark red wine into two cups and lifted one toward Dominic. "Drink?"
Dominic smiled faintly and shook his head. "No, thank you. I'd rather keep my mind clear enough to conduct the mass without slurring scripture."
Adrian chuckled. "Suit yourself," he said, taking a sip. "Mmm. Still the best vintage from the capital."
For a moment, they stood in companionable silence, the candles flickering between them. Then Adrian's expression shifted, the mirth fading slightly.
"The Purple Diarch received a vision yesterday," he said quietly.
Dominic looked up sharply. "Concerning?"
Adrian set his cup down and moved to sit on the velvet sofa near the center of the room. "It was vague," he admitted. "A giant door, slamming shut. The sound echoed through the vision. Nothing else."
Dominic frowned, lowering himself into the opposite seat. "A door closing… That could mean anything. A warning? An ending?"
"I don't know," Adrian said with a slow shake of his head. "But there's more. People across the city have been having nightmares, all eerily the same. They're dragged into darkness by tentacles lined with green spikes."
Dominic's brows knitted together. "So, the pair is warning us," he murmured. "The Lady and the Lord both stirring…"
Adrian gave him a knowing look. "That's what I fear. When both sides of the divine stir at once, history tends to break beneath the weight of it."
Before Dominic could reply, a knock interrupted them.
"Enter," Adrian called.
An apprentice stepped inside and bowed deeply. "High Priest Yulan has arrived."
Dominic and Adrian exchanged glances, then rose in unison.
They followed the apprentice through the corridors, their footsteps echoing on the marble floors. When they entered the main hall, High Priestess Yulan was already seated, her posture regal and composed. Her silver hair was tied into an intricate braid that shimmered faintly beneath the cathedral's light.
Both men bowed respectfully before taking their seats across from her.
"The Diarchs send their warmest regards," Yulan began, her voice smooth and calm. "And their apologies, Ascendant Dominic. They will not be attending your mass today. Something urgent has occurred in the capital."
Adrian leaned forward slightly. "If I may ask, High Priestess, what matter demands their absence?"
Yulan exhaled softly, her gaze drifting momentarily to the tall stained-glass window behind them. "You've heard of the prophecy, the one the Purple King received?"
They both nodded.
"The Queen," Yulan continued, "has succumbed to a sleep-like death. She hasn't woken since yesterday."
A heavy silence fell. Even the candles seemed to waver more gently.
Dominic's voice was barely a whisper. "The Lady's hand, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," Yulan said. She turned to the window, watching the bustling square outside. "But speculation helps no one. For now, Dominic, offer a prayer for her during the mass. The court will hear of it, and it will soothe their hearts."
She smiled faintly over her shoulder, warm but edged with meaning.
Dominic nodded slowly. "Of course, High Priestess."
Before more could be said, the bell tower tolled above them, its deep sound rolling through the stone halls.
"It's time for mass," Yulan said, her tone lighter. "Good luck, Dominic. May the Lord's shield rest over your words."
She and Adrian exchanged glances before walking out together. Adrian turned briefly to Dominic and gave a small, reassuring nod. "You'll do fine," he said simply, then followed after her.
Dominic returned to his chamber in silence. His ceremonial robes awaited him, a deep crimson vestment trimmed in intricate gold thread. The sleeves were embroidered with the twin symbols of balance: a cross-pointed blade and a leafless tree. Around his collar gleamed a thin band of white silk, representing purity of service.
He stood before the mirror, smoothing the fabric and taking a slow breath. "Grant me the words," he murmured.
When he stepped out, three apprentices were waiting in the corridor. They bowed deeply as he approached.
"The congregation is gathered, Father," one said.
Dominic nodded once. "Then let us begin."
The great doors opened.
Light spilled across the aisle as Dominic entered, following behind his apprentices. The grand hall was filled, nobles, priests, citizens, all waiting. In the front row, he saw Adrian, Yulan, and a line of opulent figures whose faces he didn't know.
He ascended the dais, the air alive with quiet anticipation. Upon the altar stood the sharp cross entwined with the leafless tree, symbols of protection, judgment, storms and endurance. Dominic bowed deeply toward the twin statues before turning to face the crowd.
"You may be seated," he said. His voice carried through the cathedral, resonant with divine amplification.
A young apprentice stepped forward, offering him a leather-bound book. Dominic accepted it, turned a few pages, and began to read aloud. His voice softened, then rose like the swell of a hymn.
"In the first silence, before breath or name, there was motion without mind, and light without source.
The ancients say the stars were born screaming, and their fire burned the heavens to mark the universe's first heartbeat.
From that pulse came the world. The mountains rose as though reaching for the sky, and the seas gathered as if returning to their place of origin.
And so the world was whole, but empty. No god had yet seen it, no spirit yet had claimed it. It was a desolate mass, adrift, unnamed.
Then came the gods. They laid claim to the earth and all its splendor.
Then came the first storms, vast, rolling tempests that sang with lightning and sorrow. From their song awoke She Who Is the Tempest's Heart.
She beheld the formless land and wept for it, and her tears fell as rain. From those tears grew rivers, and from the rivers arose He Who Is Life, and through Him the first living things that crawled, then walked, then spoke.
Yet when the world cried out in fear and sorrow, when beasts devoured the weak and tyrants raised blades over the helpless, the earth itself trembled.
From that trembling rose He Who Is the Wall and the Blade, the Guardian who stands between ruin and mercy.
The Tempest beheld Him, and in His stillness saw the calm her storms had long sought. She took His hand, and thunder and justice were wed.
But neither knew whence they came, nor who had placed the stars above them.
And so it is said among mortals: even gods walk upon mysteries older than themselves.
In the Age of Wars, when men spilled blood for soil older than their names, a lone warrior lay dying upon the field, broken, nameless, betrayed.
As his sight dimmed, the heavens split, and from the storm descended a whisper of light:
'Rise, for the weak yet need a shield.'
And the dying man rose, strength flooding through shattered bones, as the God of Protection laid His hand upon him.
Thus was born the First Oath, and the first kingdom, enlightened by the wisdom of the Father.
And ever since, when the storm cries and the thunder answers, the faithful bow, for they remember:
even in ruin, the Shield is eternally raised above them."