"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on."
***
Leo stepped forward with an easy confidence that made the walk to the altar look like a casual stroll through a garden he owned.
His boots clicked against the polished marble in a steady rhythm. Respectful but utterly self-assured. Like he was acknowledging the ceremony's importance while already certain of his own worthiness.
The Awakening Stone rose from the cathedral floor like a frozen waterfall of crystal. Fifteen feet tall. Eight feet across at its widest point. Its surface shifted constantly between transparency and opacity in patterns that made my eyes water when I tried to follow them.
Veins of light pulsed through its interior. Slow, deep throbs that might have been the stone's heartbeat. Or might have been something else entirely.
Leo placed his palm against the surface. Same confident ease he brought to everything.
For a moment, nothing happened. The stone remained merely stone.
Then light erupted.
