As we crossed the barricade with the entire unit in tow, I could feel it.
The presence here was staggering—like the air itself had weight. The soldiers within the town—mostly officers and wealthy men—glanced at the ragged vanguard that had just entered. Their expressions soured, as though our filth might stain their polished boots.
The wealthier knights loitering near the taverns and bathhouses watched us pass, their laughter quiet but their contempt loud enough to feel. Some spat into the dirt as we walked by. The air was thick, either from the power that gathered here… or from the silent insults buried in every stare.
"Men! Find a clear stretch of land and make camp!" an officer barked from somewhere ahead. "Looks like the nobles don't want us cluttering their streets." His words carried a bite of humor, and a few men chuckled. The low rumble of laughter spread, echoing down the road until it rolled through the village like distant thunder.
They began to scatter, searching for open ground, until only a handful of officers, Qahir, and I remained.
Then suddenly, my body lurched backward. The sky spun and I hit the ground hard, staring up at the underside of Qahir's horse.
"Don't hit your head now, son," Qahir laughed, stretching out a hand.
He'd shoved me clean off the saddle. No warning, no care. His smirk was all satisfaction.
I managed to catch my breath and stood, brushing the dirt from my clothes while the nearby soldiers snickered. Was he trying to play the father now? Pretend for the crowd that this whole "family" story wasn't just a lie to keep me safe?
If the rest of the vanguard caught wind of that little act, I could already imagine the rumors spreading by nightfall. Some of the men already resented Qahir's command—this would only add fuel.
Movement in the corner of my eye drew my attention. Three men were approaching from the other end of the street. The one in front wore gleaming steel armor, polished so clean it nearly reflected the dim torchlight, his crest on the front represented a dim yellow star. Ornate, unscarred like he'd never seen a real fight.
The two behind him were his opposite shorter, leaner, their armor dark and worn, stained with rust and old blood. Their helmets hid their faces, but the way they moved slow, deliberate, told me everything. They were killers.
And they were walking straight toward us.
"Sir Qahir Vehran! Al-Shams grows impatient—you are late," the polished knight barked, his voice sharp and proud.
Qahir let out a quiet sigh. "Yes, Lord Nobsa. The men were slow with their march."
Lord Nobsa cut him off immediately. "I don't care for your excuses. Make haste." He paused, his gaze shifting toward me. "And you, boy. You're coming as well."
He inhaled slowly before adding, "For some reason, Al-Shams wants to see you."
Before I could even respond, he sneered. "Though I can't imagine why he'd waste his time on a scrawny, dirt-covered boy like you. You look incompetent enough to trip over your own sword."
"Yes, my lord," I said quietly, forcing the words past my throat and ignoring the sting of the insult.
The three knights turned and walked ahead, their laughter echoing down the street like a pack of schoolyard bullies.
"Cassian," Qahir said suddenly, turning toward me. He placed a firm hand on my shoulder, then knelt so our eyes met. His voice dropped to a whisper. "No matter what happens in there… even if he asks you directly—don't say Sol. Stick to the story, and you'll be fine."
His tone carried an urgency I hadn't heard before. He wasn't commanding me as a soldier; he was warning me as someone who genuinely cared.
"Sir," I asked, hesitating, "before we go… why is my name so important? Why can't I—"
He sighed deeply, eyes hardening. "After, my boy. I'll tell you after. But we can't keep him waiting."
We continued toward the heart of the town. The streets grew narrower, the noise dimming to a reverent hush. Ahead, a grand structure rose above the village—gleaming marble set against weathered timber, its spires reaching toward the gray sky. It wasn't quite a church, nor a mosque, but something caught between them—sacred and militaristic all at once.
Light poured through the high windows like filtered gold. Soldiers and priests alike knelt along the steps, muttering prayers under their breath. The air smelled of incense, steel, and smoke.
It stood like a beacon of wealth amid ruin. Newly built, polished, and alive with the quiet hum of power.
And whatever waited inside, I could already tell—it carried the presence of like meeting a god in person.
The three knights gently pushed open the decorated doors lined with silver. We climbed the short staircase, and beyond the threshold there was only darkness. It felt like stepping into a void.
As our eyes adjusted, faint candlelight drew itself into focus. The interior resembled a cathedral—rows of benches lining both sides of a long hall, leading to an altar draped in crimson fabric. At its center stood a massive golden basin, curved inward, shaped almost like it was meant to cradle a human head.
We walked forward slowly and silently. Even Qahir's steps, usually bold and heavy, were measured, uncertain. When I glanced back, the three knights still stood outside. They closed the doors behind us, sealing the hall in near silence.
It was just the two of us now.
We reached the altar and waited. The air felt heavy, the kind that presses against your ribs and demands reverence. Without a word, Qahir dropped to one knee, the squeak of his armor echoing through the chamber. He clasped his hands together and whispered a prayer.
I hadn't known he was religious. He never seemed the type.
I stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do, my palms sweating despite the chill. Then a sound broke the silence—a creak from the right, where a narrow door opened into shadow.
A figure stepped out, the dim light gathering around him as though drawn to his presence.
He was dressed in robes of white and gold, his garments embroidered with delicate sunbursts. A single candle rested against his chest, its flame reflected in his calm, amber eyes. His face was lined with age but serene, almost comforting, like a priest who had spent a lifetime blessing both saints and sinners.
"No need to stop your prayers for me, Qahir," he said. His voice was deep but soft, carrying a warmth that didn't quite match the unease in my chest.
Qahir rose halfway, then bent to one knee again. He reached for the man's gloved hand, and the elder extended it without hesitation. Qahir pressed his lips to the back of it with a reverence I had never seen before.
The sound of metal shifting filled the silence.
"Al-Shams," Qahir said carefully, his tone smooth, almost practiced. "It is good to see your face again after such a short time."
"Oh, young Qahir," Al-Shams replied, smiling kindly, "your words always reach the heavens before your prayers do. It warms me to see such faith endure."
So this was Al-Shams—the ruthless, radiant judge I had heard about? He looked frail, almost gentle, nothing like the stories that painted him as a man whose gaze could strip a soul bare.
Then his attention turned to me.
"Cassian, is it?" His voice carried an almost fatherly affection. "How fares the boy who follows this hooligan of mine?"
He smiled, eyes narrowing as if trying to see something hidden within me.
I swallowed hard and knelt beside Qahir. "It's an honor to meet you, Lord Al-Shams," I said, careful to sound respectful. "Sir Qahir has been a great mentor and leader."
"Has he now?" The old man chuckled softly. "Then perhaps there's hope for him yet."
His smile lingered—but for a heartbeat, his gaze sharpened. The light of the candle flickered, and for an instant, I thought I saw something glint behind his eyes. Not warmth. Not kindness. Something searching.
I could feel it—his Luminaris.
I had never faced anything like it before, but I knew what it was. The air around me bent, thickened, pressing in on my chest. It was like standing under a sun that wasn't warm, but dissecting. He was searching me—my memories, my thoughts, my soul.
He was trying to know me.
And I was completely, utterly fucked.
"Al-Shams," Qahir's voice cut through the suffocating stillness. "He's my son."
My head jerked toward him. His tone was steady, but the pulse in his neck betrayed him.
"He's just reached the age to begin training in the art of war," Qahir continued, bowing low. "After my wife's passing, he's all I have left."
Al-Shams's gaze didn't move. The light surrounding him pulsed faintly, brushing against me like invisible fingers before shifting—turning toward Qahir.
"Is that so?" His voice was calm, almost polite. "Strange… I was told your wife and child were killed by the Inquisition of the Purgy."
Qahir swallowed hard. "Yes, my lord. That was the report." He paused, his breath catching for a moment before he forced a small, bitter smile. "I… forged it. I couldn't bear to lose him, too. Forgive my deception, Lord Al-Shams."
A long silence followed. The candlelight flickered, its shadows crawling across the walls like whispers. Sweat rolled down my temple, each drop loud in the quiet.
Finally, Al-Shams exhaled softly. The light dimmed, and I felt his Luminaris withdraw—slowly, reluctantly.
"Oh… I see," he said at last, voice gentle once again. "Well, your secret is safe with me, Sir Qahir. The Purgy have been rather overzealous these days, haven't they?"
The shift in tone was unnerving. It was as if he'd gone from divine judge to kindly priest in the blink of an eye.
"I must ask one thing, Lord Al-Shams," Qahir said quickly, rising to his feet though his shoulders trembled. "Please, do not use your Luminaris on my son again. It… brings back painful memories for him."
Al-Shams's smile widened slightly, though his eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "Of course, my dear Qahir. I would never wound the innocent—especially not family."
The warmth in his tone felt false, like sunlight over a grave.
"Now, boy," Al-Shams continued, turning his gaze toward me, "the reason I summoned you here is because I've heard… rumors." He paused, his voice slow and deliberate. "That you are a Stillkin."
The word stung. I froze.
"How could this be true," he went on, "if you are Qahir's son? But I trust the word of a loyal knight. I will see these outlandish tales buried where they belong." His tone softened into mock reassurance. "Stillkins are the lowest of the low—but you, Cassian, are the son of a war hero."
I forced a nervous smile, trying to hide the truth clawing in my chest.
"Now," he said suddenly, eyes glinting like polished glass, "I do have a question."
Both Qahir and I swallowed hard.
"Have you been through Tahmees before, Cassian?"
Before I could speak, Qahir answered for me. "No, my lord, he hasn't. But he would be honored… to receive it by your hand."
"Wonderful!" Al-Shams exclaimed, clapping his hands softly. "Then let us not waste this opportunity." He gestured toward the golden basin gleaming at the altar. "Cassian, would you be so kind as to place your head in that bowl?"
The request was absurd, but disobeying wasn't an option. My heart hammered as I stepped forward. The basin's edge was warm to the touch, too warm for something made of gold. I leaned over it slowly, my reflection trembling on the surface of the water.
The moment my head dipped in, the world went silent.
A sudden shock tore through me as water cascaded over my skull—icy at first, then searing, scalding. I twitched, gasping, gripping the sides of the altar.
Al-Shams began to chant. "Kentaurus…" His voice echoed, low and rhythmic, shifting into a language I didn't know. The syllables bled together, harsh and ancient. With each phrase, his tone grew rougher, his breath heavier. He coughed once, twice, but continued—pushing through as if compelled by something unseen.
Then the water began to heat. Steam curled upward, hissing around my face. The basin trembled beneath my hands.
"Al-Shams!" Qahir shouted. "The prayer—it's burning!"
I heard him, but his voice grew distant—muffled, as though I were sinking beneath the surface. My heartbeat drowned out everything. The world narrowed to light and sound, collapsing inward until only the water remained.
Then came the voice.
Deep. Jagged. Crawling.
Each word scraped across my skull like metal dragging through stone.
"You… are… heresy."
The words slithered through the air, slow and heavy.
"You… are… Sol."
The basin erupted in white fire.