Kiara
Yule has passed, and with it, the year.
The sky no longer sings with celebration, only wind and the breath of ruin.
It has been weeks since the Mahilayan conflict erupted—since war broke the unity of our sacred five.
The Faeryn have fallen.
What remains of Mahilaya is divided:
Kinan in the north, Halawe in the wetlands, Aradel near the mountain rivers—and the broken remnants of Faeryn, hollow and bleeding.
No longer a council. No longer a body.
Each clan now acts alone.
The Faeryn still draw breath, but not order.
Their line of queens is extinguished, their court splintered.
And in that silence, the counselors have seized the throne's bones—governing by shadow, not birthright.
They do not yet know the deeper truth:
Faeryn will die.
Not by sword or siege.
But by absence.
Its mana core—the heart of the land itself—is gone.
I hold it now.
Weeks I have traveled, unseen,
and now the Empire rises before me—its outer provinces brushing the dust of Orion, the stone-gated city that listens but does not kneel.
They sent me to monitor the Faeryn.
To observe.
To record.
But that was never the true task.
My presence ensured one thing:
that when the royal line burned, the core would not fall into wild hands.
No scholar.
No soldier. No wandering heir.
Only the Church may carry it.
Only we may bear its will.
The crystal sleeps beneath my cloak,
warm, like blood cupped in the palm.
It whispers sometimes, like a thing remembering breath.
And when it does, I feel its hunger—not for power, but for place.
Cores belong to their land, and without Faeryn's return, this one will wither.
But the Church has plans.
And I—
I was born to fulfill them.
The inner cathedral rose above Orion like a blade pointed skyward—seamless black stone, its spires sharpened by time.
No banners. No bells.
The Church did not decorate what it already owned.
They let me through the eastern transept, past carved saints and shadowed alcoves.
The hall was dim, lit only by firelight filtered through stained glass. The scent of myrrh hung thick in the air, clinging to the skin like prayer.
At the end of the nave stood the High Priest.
Kaliki.
She did not wear gold, nor crown, nor gem—only the white mantle of her station, stitched with the twin circles of Obedience and Design.
She was old enough to remember the founding of the outer sanctums.
Young enough that her voice still split rooms in half.
She turned before I reached the dais.
"You carry it?"
Her voice was low, even, neither greeting nor challenge.
"I do."
I approached and unwrapped the core slowly, as was custom. Kneeling was not required—but I did it anyway. Not for reverence.
For witness.
The mana core pulsed in the dim.
Once it would've shone like starlight. Now it flickered faintly, like a dying heart removed from its chest.
Kaliki descended the steps, one by one. No rustle, no sound.
She stopped before me.
"You took it from the Faeryn."
"I was instructed."
"And what did you see?"
"Collapse. Grief. Pride, even in death. The bloodline ended without scream or mercy."
She studied the core. Her fingers did not touch it.
"The land will die without it."
"That was the price," I answered.
"The world will blame war. But it was we who ended the Faeryn."
At that, I raised my gaze.
She was not accusing me. She was recording it—for the archives, for history, for the judgment of those not yet born.
"Then let it be remembered true," I said. "They fell when the gods turned silent, and the Church remembered its voice."
Kaliki looked down at the core again.
This time, she lifted it.
The light inside the crystal flickered—once, then twice—and dimmed.
"It sleeps," she murmured. "Good. We will seal it in the southern vault until the rites are prepared."
She turned.
"You've done what was required. But not yet what is asked."
"Then ask."
Kaliki paused, then without turning:
"Rest. Cleanse. In four days, you will be summoned. The next task will not be as simple as watching a kingdom die."
She walked away, the mana core cradled in her arms like an heir.
I remained kneeling long after she had gone.
Not in prayer.
But in thought.
They say the gods do not speak to mortals.
But that night, deep in the marrow of my bones, I heard something stir.
And I did not know if it was god, or guilt.
Four days passed in silence.
They gave me a stone cell within the western wing of the cathedral—spartan but clean.
I washed daily, as instructed, drank the bitter tea of sobel root, and fasted.
No candles were allowed.
No metal.
No words not sanctioned by the old rites.
Only preparation.
I dreamed of ash. Of blood in river water. Of glass breaking, not with sound, but with light.
The core had slept. But something within me had not.
At first light on the fifth day, they came.
Two black-robed acolytes, their faces veiled, led me through the lower corridors of the cathedral—beyond the crypts, beyond the archive vaults, into the sanctum beneath sanctums.
The Southern Vault.
It was carved from the mountain's bone, far below the city. The walls were etched with sigils no longer translated. The air was cold—not from draft, but from presence.
Seven clergy waited in a circle of salt and glass.
High Priest Kaliki stood at the center, the core cradled in her palms.
Its glow had dimmed further—blue now, and flickering. Like a memory trying to die.
"Kiara of the Fifth Temple," Kaliki said, her voice echoing through stone, "you were chosen to deliver the mana core of Faeryn to the Church. You have done this."
I bowed, deep and silent.
"But now, you must witness its sealing. You are not a participant—you are the last voice of the land it once bound. Its final breath belongs to you."
I stepped forward, beyond the salt ring.
My mouth was dry. The crystal in her hands throbbed faintly, once.
"Say its name," Kaliki commanded.
"Faeryn," I said.
"And what was it?"
"A kingdom of grace. Arrogance. Secrets. Magic older than the Church itself."
Kaliki raised the core above her head. The other priests began the chant.
"And what is it now?" she asked.
"Ash," I answered. "And memory."
The ground trembled.
Not violently—like breath, drawn too deep. The runes along the vault walls ignited in silent flame, pulsing white-blue, then dimming.
Kaliki stepped into the altar ring. She placed the core within the sacrarium—a hollowed obsidian sphere, sealed with binding chains of petrified root.
The chants rose. The air thickened. My ears rang.
The priests circled.
Their palms bled freely now, dripping into the floor channels, feeding the ritual.
Each voice melded into the next, a thousand years of liturgy sharpening like a blade.
Kaliki turned to me.
"The seal must close with a vow. You will speak it."
I stepped forward. My chest felt hollow.
"Speak," she said.
And I did.
"Let this core sleep beneath the stone, unclaimed by crown or creature. Let its power be bound to the will of the Church. Let Faeryn's name be sealed with it—until the world forgets, or we choose to remember."
The sacrarium closed with a sound like a door slamming in a dream.
The glow died.
The vault fell into silence.
Later, aboveground, Kaliki walked beside me in the cloister garden. The roses here bloomed without sun, drawn from the light of relics buried in the soil.
"You did not flinch," she said.
"Why would I?" I replied.
"Because even those who do not mourn the dead," she said, "sometimes feel their eyes."
She stopped walking.
"You will be tasked with the next."
"What task?"
Kaliki turned to me. Her eyes were tired, but sharp with purpose.
"To find what the war failed to kill."