The road to the Sanctum wound through hills that looked carved from bone. Alexander had been riding for more than four hours, his cloak soaked from the mist that rolled endlessly from the coast. The Light's capital, Vallora, spread below like a wound that never closed. Even from here, he could hear the bells. They rang without rhythm, as if the air itself was praying.
When he reached the gates, the Custodians didn't speak. They moved aside in perfect synchrony, their armor polished until it caught the weak sunlight and threw it back at him like a mirror. The horse's hooves echoed on marble as he entered the courtyard. There were gardens, but no scent of flowers, only the sharpness of burning wax. The Sanctum of Light was a cathedral that pretended to be a palace: too beautiful to be holy, too silent to be alive.
Inside, the corridors curved like veins.Everything was white: walls, columns, even the robes of the servants who passed without sound. On the far side of the hall, a procession moved toward a set of iron doors. At its center walked a general in gold armor, his hands clasped before him, eyes vacant. A priest whispered the litanies beside him. The general did not resist as he was led into the chamber beyond, a faint hum leaking out as the doors closed.
Alexander stopped.He had heard the stories: that the Light could bless steel, that the swords of the High Command were fed with something sacred. But no one ever said what happened to the men who carried them afterward.
He continued down the hall. The sound of his boots on stone was the only proof he was still there.
At the end of the corridor stood a tall wooden door, plain and unguarded. He hesitated before knocking."Enter," said a voice, soft, round, and utterly unthreatening.
The room inside was warm, almost small. Candles covered every surface, their light trembling against the polished marble. A single window let in a thread of grey morning. And there, behind a desk heavy with scrolls and chains of silver, sat the man the world called the Shepherd of the Light.
Jacobo did not look up at first. He was bald, with a broad face and cheeks that carried the color of someone who still enjoyed food. He was not what Alexander had imagined. The most powerful man in Dromo looked more like a parish baker than a pope.
Jacobo's fingers were wrapped around a candle's flame, shielding it from a draft that wasn't there."Poor thing," he murmured, as if to the light itself. "It flickers even when the room is still. Do you know why, my son?"
Alexander stepped closer, his boots creaking against the marble. "Because it's alive, your grace?"
Jacobo smiled and finally raised his gaze. His eyes were clear, unclouded. "Because it remembers the wind."
He gestured for Alexander to sit. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if every second were sacred. "I was told you wished to speak about your...position," Jacobo said, his tone pleasant, almost playful. "And yet, I sense you bring something heavier than soil on your shoulders."
Alexander sat down, the chair sighing under the weight of his armor. He folded his gloves on the table and kept his posture straight, the way one does when meeting a man who could erase kingdoms with a prayer.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice composed, "I appreciate you receiving me in such short notice."
Jacobo waved a hand gently, as if brushing away formality. "The Light has no notice, Lord Alexander. It shines when it must."He poured tea into two small cups of white porcelain, though he didn't drink. "Tell me, what brings a son of Dromo's nobility to my humble chamber?"
Alexander hesitated for the briefest second, long enough for Jacobo to notice. "A request," he said. "A small one. I wish to petition for the restoration of a minor holding in the eastern provinces. My family once governed there. The land has since… changed hands."
Jacobo's lips curved, almost indulgently. "Ah. A man seeking what he believes is rightfully his. That is the oldest story of all."He leaned back in his chair, the candlelight bending over the folds of his robe. "And tell me: does your blood entitle you to soil, or do you simply believe it does?"
"I believe," Alexander replied calmly, "that nobility exists to serve the people. But a man cannot serve without foundation. The land would allow me to rebuild, to bring peace to a region long forgotten by the Light."
Jacobo's laughter was soft, almost musical. "Peace," he repeated. "Such a beautiful word for such a dangerous thing."He set the teacup down. "You see, peace does not grow naturally, my son. It must be cultivated... like faith. And both require pruning."
The room fell quiet for a moment.Alexander met his gaze. "If pruning is what keeps the tree alive, then I'm not opposed to it. But a tree cannot live in shadow forever."
Jacobo's eyes glinted. "Ah. You think the Light casts shadow?"His voice didn't rise, but something in it shifted, the weight of power hidden behind gentleness.Alexander kept his tone steady. "Every flame does, Your Grace. Even divine ones."
That earned him a slow smile. Jacobo reached for a small silver chain resting on the desk, its pendant shaped like a rising sun, and ran his fingers along it thoughtfully."There are men in Bondrea," he said at last, "who claim to carry that same truth. They call themselves Knights of Light. Heretics who believe the Light can belong to all."He looked up. "You wouldn't know anything about them, would you?"
Alexander met the question without blinking. "Rumors reach everyone, Your Grace. But loyalty reaches further."
Jacobo seemed pleased. "Well said."He rose from his chair, moving toward a tall, arched window. Beyond the glass, the Sanctum's courtyards stretched in pale perfection, every stone symmetrical, every shadow obedient."The world is restless, Lord Alexander. Doubt grows in places we thought were pure. The Light needs loyal men, men of heritage, of reason."He turned, smiling again, and the warmth of it was terrifying. "If I were to grant you this land you ask for, I would need something in return."
Alexander expected that. "Name it."
"Your presence," Jacobo said simply. "In Bondrea. The city festers with false symbols. I am assembling an envoy (men of the Light, and men of reason) to put things back in order. You would join them, and in doing so, prove your faith."
"I travel light," Alexander replied. "My men are still scattered."
"Then take mine." Jacobo's tone was disarmingly casual. "A handful of Custodians. They will accompany you. Protect you. Observe you."He smiled again, the same gentle smile one gives to a child who doesn't yet understand the rules."Once Bondrea is cleansed, we shall speak again of inheritance. The Light rewards obedience… even when obedience looks like defiance."
Alexander inclined his head slowly. "You honor me, Your Grace."
"I only illuminate," Jacobo said softly.
He reached forward and touched Alexander's shoulder, a brief, paternal gesture that felt heavier than any threat. "May the Light guide your path, my son."
The echo of Alexander's steps followed him down the marble corridor.Behind him, the doors of the chamber closed with a soft hiss, sealing in the smell of wax and incense. The Sanctum's light was different now, too white, almost sterile, as if the building itself were cleansing him for what had been decided.
He passed the same hall where the golden general had been taken earlier. The iron doors were now open, and faint smoke drifted out. The scent was not of metal, nor incense, something in between, sharp and electric.Alexander looked inside for only a heartbeat.A man lay still on a slab of stone, his armor fused to his skin, his sword glowing faintly beside him. The hum that filled the chamber wasn't of chanting anymore, but of something alive inside the metal.
He turned away before anyone could see him.
Outside, the corridors twisted back toward the courtyard. A group of Custodians waited there, their armor newly polished, the symbol of the Light engraved into their chests with fresh gold. At their front stood the man Alexander had seen before: the one who had entered the chamber to be blessed. His armor still smoked faintly from the edges, like cooled glass after a forge.
"Lord Alexander," the man said, stepping forward. His voice was deep, calm, almost courteous. "I'm Lukas. His Grace asked that I accompany you to Bondrea."
Alexander studied him. The man's eyes were steady, unblinking, as if still seeing something far beyond the room. "You were the one who received the blessing."
"Yes." Lukas glanced briefly toward the Sanctum's towers. "The Light strengthens all who serve."
Alexander gave a polite nod. "I'll remember that."
"The others are ready," Lukas continued. "We depart within ten minutes. The storm should hide our approach. His Grace wants us in Bondrea before nightfall."
There was a pause, brief, but loaded. Alexander's gaze flicked toward the formation behind Lukas. Nearly a hundred soldiers stood ready, their armor glinting faintly in the courtyard's pale light. The sound of their discipline was almost musical, one heartbeat shared among many.
Among them, a few led a covered cart, its wooden wheels groaning under the weight. Shapes moved inside, slow, deliberate. When the curtain shifted, Alexander caught a glimpse of faces, blank, colorless, eyes wide open but seeing nothing.
Custodians did not travel with nobles. Not unless the noble was being watched.
He forced a smile. "Let's not keep the Light waiting."
Lukas saluted him with a closed fist over his chest, then turned sharply to command the troops. The Custodians' armor clinked in unison, their steps rhythmic and rehearsed. As they began to move toward the gates, the air filled again with the distant peal of bells, low and endless, as if the city itself were breathing.
Alexander walked beside his horse for a moment before mounting it. From the courtyard, he looked back one last time at the Sanctum. The sun had fallen behind the hills, leaving only the white glow of the towers reflected on the mist. It didn't look like a holy place anymore. It looked like something waiting.
The gates opened. The Custodians rode first, silent and straight-backed. Lukas took the lead, his sword gleaming faintly, as if whispering beneath the metal. Alexander followed behind, the hooves of his horse clattering against the cobblestones.
As the column disappeared into the fog, the bells continued, solemn, patient, eternal, carrying their sound all the way to Bondrea.