Bishop Theodore Cassian POV
Today was just like every other in the Cathedral.
The air of the vast sanctum shimmered faintly with red-gold motes, dust suspended in the shafts of solar light that bled through the stained-glass oculi high above. Each window was a scripture of its own—etched with the faces of saints and the wounds of Thaumiel, their hues burning crimson and amber across the marble floor. The clerics murmured quietly over their lecterns, their lips moving in rhythm with the droning hymns of the Codex Sanguinis. The vast interior of the Onyx Spire was alive with the sound of soft turning pages, the scrape of quills, and the distant tolling of the lesser bells that marked the passing of the liturgical hours.
And as always, I—Bishop Theodore Cassian—was seated beneath the arching ribs of that great dome, drowning in parchment, ink, and obligation.
One such duty, perhaps the least glorious of all, was the audit of the churches scattered throughout the northern reaches of the Imperium. They had sent their ledgers and records for inspection, as required by one of the Cardinals' decrees—a mundane but essential act of stewardship. The finances of faith were a fragile thing; even sanctity required coin.
I sighed and adjusted the golden cuffs at my wrists, my fingers smudged with ink. "By the Sun's endless mercy," I muttered, "may I someday be free of these ledgers." My voice was low, half prayer, half complaint.
To rise—to ascend beyond this bureaucratic martyrdom—was all I desired.
For three centuries I had served the Sangrealis Church: first as a young cleric, kneeling in the libraries of dawn; then as a priest of the lower sanctuaries, presiding over the rites of awakening; and now, these last twenty-five years, as a Bishop of the Northern Diocese. And yet, despite centuries of service, the next step—the Cardinal's scarlet ring—remained a distant sun upon my horizon.
I sighed again, a habit long since worn into me. Even my title as Bishop had not been born entirely of divine merit; it had been purchased—politically, not with gold, but with favor. The Imperial family, ever eager to keep eyes and ears within the ecclesiastical sphere, had placed me within the Cathedral walls as one of their chosen intermediaries.
Everyone in Sol Aeternum worshiped the Sun—every soul, every beast, every city that rose in its shadow—but politics was the true second religion of this world. And I, Theodore Cassian, was one of many caught between the light of sanctity and the shade of intrigue.
Though I often lamented the tedium and stress of my work, I understood the privileges it afforded. I was a Tier V Sol Awakened, known in the old tongue as Sol Amatus(The Armed Sun). My blood ran faintly with the red ichor of Thaumiel, the divine mutation that marked the Sun-Blessed. Through the resources of the Church—its relics, its sanctified draughts, and its whispered rituals—I had been able to ascend to this level of illumination. With discipline and fortune, perhaps within two centuries, I might attain the sixth tier, Sol Vox, and truly be heard by the Sun.
If I were to rise as Cardinal, the process would quicken. But such dreams were distant embers. The path ahead was long, and my patience—though centuries old—was wearing thin.
---
The day progressed as all others. The clerics whispered, the priests tended to the wounded, and I poured over the endless accounts of tithe and expense, every entry a small hymn to the divine bureaucracy that sustained our vast faith.
But amidst these records of piety and coin, darker reports also lay buried—sightings of Sun-beasts in the north. Such horrors were not rare in these lands, especially in the aftermath of the Beast-Rage that had torn through the Northern Province. Even now, years after, the scars of that event festered. Entire villages had vanished beneath crimson flame. The survivors spoke of half-human shapes wandering the frozen wastes, of sun-cursed wretches whose bodies shimmered with molten veins fluckering between human snd beast forms.
The clergy of the outlying churches had sent word of new sightings—mutilated men in the slums, beasts prowling the twilight roads, the smell of ichor in the wells. I recorded these faithfully, sorting the credible from the fanciful, and marked which to deliver to the Cardinal Severian overseeing my sector.
Duty and dread mingled quietly, as they always did.
---
When the bell rang twice that afternoon, its deep voice rolled through the Cathedral like the echo of a heart.
Immediately, every Bishop and senior cleric ceased their labor. Quills were set down, scrolls rolled shut. All rose from their desks, and in solemn silence we made our way toward the Bishop's Chapel—a sanctum within the greater Cathedral reserved only for the episcopal order and above. No priest or cleric was permitted entry.
It was the appointed hour: three o'clock, the Hour of Binding, when every branch of the Sangrealis Church—whether in the heart of the Tri-Kingdoms or scattered across the far provinces of Sol Aeternum—recited the Liturgy of the Red Chain.
I confess, I mumbled when this hour came. It was not irreverence—merely weariness. The ritual consumed time, and I had so little to spare. Yet attendance was mandatory for Bishops, unlike the Cardinals, who were free to abstain should they wish. Another privilege of that exalted rank, and another reason to covet it.
---
The Bishop's Chapel was a place of profound silence. Its walls were of black marble veined with faint crimson light, and the floor was polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the sunfire of the great chandelier above—a suspended mass of crystalline suns, burning eternally without flame.
We took our places in the semicircular choir stalls, each seat carved with sigils of the Chain and the Wound. The air smelled faintly of incense and iron.
Each Bishop drew forth his rosary.
---
The Sangrealis Rosary.
Once, long ago, the faithful had carried the crucifix. But in the age of the Red Sun, the symbol had changed, transformed into something truer—something that did not merely remember the god's suffering but partook of it. The old crucifix had been replaced by the Solar Chalice.
A small cup, no larger than the hollow of the thumb, wrought from Ichor-Bronze—black at first glance, yet shimmering with deep crimson when struck by light. Within it rested a single Sun-Stone bead, glowing faintly as if alive. When held, the bead shifted and clicked, a soft rhythm like a heart.
The stem of the chalice was wrapped in thorns of dark silver, each point pressing faintly against the skin when grasped, a reminder of the price of grace. The bowl was etched with filigrees—microscopic patterns that resembled both the cosmic web of the heavens and the scleral markings of the Sun-Born.
Each element was symbolic:
The chalice, the vessel of divine blood;
The thorns, the duality of ruin and reward;
The bead, the Sun's living essence;
Its movement, the ceaseless flow of holy ichor through all creation.
When we prayed, we held it between thumb and forefinger, feeling the pulse of the bead move—our flesh yearning toward the divine mutation that sanctified and consumed in equal measure.
I bowed my head and whispered the invocation:
> "From the Wound in the Sky flows the Sacred Blood,
From the Sacred Blood comes the Holy Power,
From the Holy Power comes the Terrible Change,
I am the vessel, I am the price, I am the testament."
A murmur of hundreds of voices followed, blending into one immense sigh.
Then began the Liturgy of the Red Chain.
---
(What follows is chanted from memory, the words older than empires, each verse heavy with meaning and fear. I have heard it ten thousand times, and yet each time it feels like the opening of a wound.)
I. The Birth of the Wound
> In the first silence, there was no light.
And from the stillness of nothing, the Dreamer stirred.
Its breath was the first tremor, its thought the first fracture.
From that fracture bled the Red Sun —
Not born, but broken open.
Thus the world was conceived as a wound that would never heal,
And every drop of its light was agony made holy.
II. The Covenant of the Ichor
> From the god's ruptured heart flowed the Red Ichor,
The pulse of creation and decay entwined.
It filled the void and took the form of all living things,
Binding flesh to spirit, and spirit to the dream that bleeds.
And Thaumiel—He-Who-Dreams-Unblinking—
Looked upon His reflection in the rivers of blood
And named it Order, that the chaos might not devour itself.
Thus was born the Law, and from the Law, the Chain.
And so we continued, verse by verse—the Chamber trembling faintly with the resonance of hundreds of voices. The air seemed to shimmer, the light bending as if in reverence. I felt the bead within my chalice grow warm, almost pulsing with each intonation.
Thirteen times the Liturgy was chanted, as it had been for a thousand years. Thirteen, the number of the Wound and the Chain.
When the final Amen Solis left our lips, we crossed our foreheads with the sign of the Chalice and dispersed in silence.
---
The rest of the day unfolded gently, evening descending in soft hues of vermilion through the Cathedral's high glass. My eyes burned from the strain of reading; my mind, from the weight of tedium. I yawned as I began to gather the day's documents into a neat stack, intending to retire to my quarters and resume the audit at dawn.
That was when the bell rang again.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
I frowned, halfway through tying the parchment bundle. A fourth toll began, deep and dissonant—and yet it did not end.
Fifth. Sixth. Seventh.
The sound grew heavier, shaking the windowpanes, vibrating through the marble floor.
Eighth. Ninth. Tenth. Eleventh. Twelfth.
And then—Thirteenth.
A silence followed, absolute and unnatural. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
My blood ran cold. The Thirteenth Bell had not sounded in centuries. Even during the Beast-Rage, when the northern provinces had burned and the sky itself had bled, the bells had rung only seven times. Thirteen was the number of Revelation—the number reserved for divine or catastrophic summons.
I dropped everything. The parchments scattered like frightened doves across the floor.
All around me, others were doing the same. Bishops, clerics, and even Cardinals—those rarely seen within the common halls—emerged, faces pale, robes aflame in the reflected crimson of the setting sun. Without a word, we moved as one toward the Main Chapel.
---
The Grand Nave was already crowded when I entered, the air thick with incense and unease. The high altar glowed with the light of a thousand candles. The Cardinals stood at the front, their crimson vestments like rivers of blood pooling before the dais. Behind them, the lesser bishops and abbots filled the transepts, whispering prayers beneath their breath.
No one spoke aloud. No one dared.
Then—
A murmur of reverence swept through the assembly as the air shifted, thickened, and grew bright.
From the great doors of the Chapel, flanked by twin Choirs of Seraphic Wardens, entered the Sun-Throne.
A blinding figure, draped in vestments woven of solar silk, their face obscured by the golden mask of their order. The sigil of the First Flame burned faintly upon their brow. The sight alone drove us to our knees. Few ever beheld a Sun-Throne in person; fewer still survived such encounters unchanged.
And behind them, like the slow approach of a second dawn, came Her—the Arch-Throne herself.
She moved as though light obeyed her command. The air trembled with radiance; the marble floor bloomed faintly beneath her feet, veins of molten gold spreading wherever she passed.
Every voice fell silent.
When she reached the dais, the very candles seemed to bow, their flames dimming in reverence.
Then, in a voice that resonated not only through the chamber but through the bones of every soul present, she spoke:
> "The Dreamer stirs," she said. "The Sun-Which-Is-Not-A-Sun has breathed upon the Chain. His will has touched creation again."
'The God has spoken," she said, her eyes reflecting no light, only the abyssal crimson of the dying sun.