Erevan stood at the edge of a dream.
It was no ordinary dream. Not one of fleeting whispers or formless shapes. No, this vision gripped him like reality itself, soaked with vivid clarity and unbearable emotion. A stillness surrounded him, deeper than silence, as though sound had been exiled from this place.
Before him stood a statue of marble.
A woman carved of stone, though unlike any art Erevan had seen in his lifetime. Her wounds bled... not red, but gold. The liquid shimmered as it dripped from rents in her arms, her legs, and from a deep wound inflicted on her smooth body. Her eyes flowed with tears of gold, her mouth slightly parted in her silent agony. Chains bound her limbs to unseen anchors beyond the white void, and her knees bent slightly as if the weight of time pressed down upon her.
And in Erevan's hand was a sword.
Not just any blade. His sword. The one he had welded through fire and grit, one born not of magic but of will. Its weight was known to him, even here, as if the boundary between his mind and this place had blurred.
The marble figure made no sound. She simply looked at him. Her eyes with a silent sorrow.
He understood.
No words. No plea. Only a sorrowful longing in those golden tears— a cry older than time. The sword trembled in his hand as if resonating with the same truth.
Gripping it tightly he charged forward. He did not question why nor how, but he charged on anyway.
His steps echoed on nothing, his breath caught between his teeth. The statue, still. But it welcomed him. With both hands, Erevan raised the sword, eyes wide with an emotion he could not name.
And with one clean motion, he plunged the blade in between her breasts.
The marble cracked.
A sound like shattering heavens filled the space. Golden light poured from the cracks, enveloping him, blinding and warm. He staggered backward as the stone fell away in fragments like scales.
And beneath it, a most gorgeous woman emerged.
Alive.Radiant.
Her skin was pale gold, her eyes like twin suns just before dusk. She wore no clothing, and her dark hair flowing, as her body fell with a modest grace. She awoke and stepped forward, her wounds already closed.
She smiled as she wrapped her arm around him.
And then, gently, she kissed him.
Her lips were soft, and when they touched his, a flood of images struck him: visions of war, of saints, of tears, of swords, of sorrow, of despair, of endings.
And then, without warning he awoke.
His body jolted upright, his breath ragged.
He was in the lab. The sterile light of aether-lamps buzzed above. Machinery hummed faintly. His hands were trembling.
He raised his gaze, and before him, the golem stood.
Its eyes pulsed faint blue, but what caught Erevan's attention was the face.
Her face.
It was uncanny. Too uncanny. It looked just like the statue... no, the woman from his vision. The same solemn features, the same gentle gaze, the same tranquil sorrow.
The golden wounds weren't there, but something in its gaze struck him with silent familiarity. It looked... waiting.
"I remember you," he whispered, as he raised to his feet.
The golem tilted its head.
Without another word, Erevan turned and stumbled to the exit.
The halls of the Academy were quieter than usual. Most students were in classes or tucked away in research chambers. Erevan barely noticed any of them. His footsteps echoed down marble floors, past shelves and rows of stained-glass windows. His mind raced with thoughts he couldn't form.
He reached the grand library, its massive doors slightly ajar.
Inside, surrounded by towering tomes and magical sigils that shimmered faintly under crystal light, sat Miss Charlotte. She looked up as he entered.
Her golem was stood by her side, like a noble maid or knight beside her master.
It was one of his models, the prototype for the one he was building now. A gift he bestowed to Miss Charlotte.
"Erevan," she said, tilting her head with a curious smile. "You seem troubled. Well, more than usual. Did something happen?"
He sat across from her, still catching his breath.
"Miss Charlotte... I need to ask you something. About the golem."
She blinked. "Oh, Clara?"
Clara. That was the name she had given her, when Erevan offered her as a gift, she said it reminded her of someone she knew long ago.
"Yes, when we were designing I remember you changing face patterns... we then decided on this one, you mentioned something about your personal maid."
"Yes," Miss Charlotte said, slowly." She always had that sorrowful, always looked like she dreamed of being somewhere else. The way she looked as her eye yearned for the horizon reminded me of the mother of sai... "
"The mother of saints," Erevan interrupted, " And she was."
Charlotte leaned back in her chair. "A religious icon from the chronicles of Norman. Chapters of the Holy kingdom, actually. She is real, Mother of Saints."
Erevan's breath caught.
"It's said she was a mythical figure from the holy wars," Charlotte continued. "A woman said to have raised the Holy Kingdom's heroes. It's said her blood and tears blessed their weapons. The kingdom worships her as a deity. Some say they erected a templefor her when the wars ceased, believers worship a corpse long dead. Well, that's what they say. To be honest, I don't know much about that side of the fence."
Erevan clenched his fists. The vision. The kiss. The sword.
"Her remains," he said. "Humanity does strange things when push comes the shave."
Charlotte shook her head. "No one can resist power if given, centuries of history say it as fact. Only in depictions and stories do we get people who are pure. But it's always the same."
Erevan said nothing.
"Is something wrong, dear?"
He shook his head. "Dreams. Thank you."
He stood, still dazed, and turned to leave.
In the western tower of the Academy, in a chamber veiled by scarlet curtains and crimson banners, seven students sat around a circular table of obsidian.
Each bore an emblem stitched into their robes—a crest of power and lineage. Seven voices. Seven eyes.
The student in black, his hair slicked back like oil, was the first to speak.
"It's that time again."
Another—a girl with violet eyes and a silver circlet—frowned. "We need to do this, three seats are open, tree high council members are needed to fill them."
"Yes," said the boy beside her. "We must find those who bear the spark."
The room fell quiet.
A third student, wearing a red scarf and leaning back in his chair, exhaled. "Then it begins again."
"Not a beginning," said the youngest, a girl barely more than thirteen with eyes of burning gold. "It's a continuation. The council doesn't accept weaklings."
The eldest among them, a lady with skin like polished obsidian and eyes that shimmered with constellations, stood.
"Then let us not delay."
She raised a hand, and the banners around them flared with ethereal light.
"Let the meeting of the High Order commence."
The room trembled.