Inside the sanctum

“What is all this?” she whispered.

The attendant guided them into a waiting chamber, a wide hall lined with mosaics and benches of polished stone. Incense curled from shallow bowls, their smoke painted orange by shafts of late sunlight. Vesh lowered himself easily onto a bench, tail curling around his legs. Tia sat beside him, hands folded tight in her lap, eyes darting across the painted walls.

Vesh started talking, reciting a story:
“When the First Dawn cracked the dark shell of the world, Syrath blazed forth, golden and fierce. His warmth woke the rivers and coaxed green from the stone. But his pride was vast, and pride weighs heavy. Soon, Syrath tired, and with his retreat came night’s cold teeth. He wept, his tears falling as rain upon the land he loved but could not hold.”

Up above was a mosaic, Vesh’s gaze followed Tia’s.
A blazing golden disk rimmed with flame. “Syrath,” he said softly. “The Sun Eternal. The first breath of life, the heart of all order. His warmth nourishes us. His light guards us. When he rests, we are left vulnerable to the shadows.”

Tia studied the mosaic. The sun’s rays reached out in gilded tiles across a darkening field of blue, stretching toward kneeling figures below. She swallowed. “And at night?”

Vesh continued:

“Iyora, the Eternal Arch, saw Syrath’s sorrow. From her endless curve she bent low, whispering promises of watchfulness. ‘Sleep, Bright One,’ she said. ‘I will guard what you cannot.’ And so she held the sky wide, a ring unbroken, until dawn rose anew.”

He lifted a claw, gesturing toward the next panel. A great ring arcing across a field of stars. “Iyora – the Arch Sentinel. Eternal, ever-watchful. When Syrath withdraws, Iyora guards the heavens, reflecting his essence in the starlight. She is constant where he is fleeting, but she cannot exist without his fire.”

Tia tilted her head. “So they’re… like partners?”

A low rumble of amusement stirred in Vesh’s throat. “In a way. Two halves of the sky, balancing each other. Some see them as companions. Others as parent and child. The stories differ, but the truth is the same: together they weave the cycle of day and night.”

Her eyes wandered to a third mosaic – bands of color arcing over weeping clouds. “And those?”

Vesh’s eyes brightened, crest lifting slightly.

“But Syrath’s tears were bitter and heavy, and the world despaired. Iyora sent her children – the Brightlings – to dance upon the storm. They painted the air with their colors, laughter ringing like bells in the rain. And Syrath, hearing their joy, smiled again. His light returned. His warmth kissed the soil. And life sang.

So when clouds gather and sorrow falls, look for the Brightlings. For as long as they dance, hope is never lost.”

Tia leaned back, exhaling. “That’s… actually kind of sweet.”

Vesh inclined his head. “Clouds veil his face, testing our patience. Rain feeds our crops, but too much is warning of his anger. And when storms break with thunder, we say it is Syrath’s wrath, striking through his tears.”

“And.. the stars?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

His eyes softened, scales catching a glimmer of incense light. “The embers of Syrath. Sparks he scattered across the heavens so mortals could find their way in the dark. For travelers, for sailors, for those who wander. To look upon the stars is to know we are never wholly abandoned.”

Tia’s throat tightened. She thought of nights lying awake under unfamiliar skies, trying to trace patterns that never matched the constellations she knew. The idea that every star was a spark – an ember of some great fire, left to guide the lost – made her chest ache in a way she hadn’t expected.

Vesh must have noticed the flicker of emotion on her face. He let the silence stretch a moment, then added gently: “It is said the stars also remind us of longing. That even in absence, bonds endure.”

Tia pressed her palms together to keep from fidgeting. “That’s… beautiful. Thank you, Vesh.”

He inclined his head again, slow and deliberate. “Faith is not only worship. It is remembering the world is greater than ourselves. That is why I wished you to see this place. And I’m happy you approached me.”

They sat in silence after that, the mosaics watching over them. Tia tried to steady her breathing, tried not to think of how the priests might react when she told them she wanted to go home – to a world not under Syrath’s gaze, not guarded by Iyora’s ring.

When the inner doors creaked open and an attendant beckoned them forward, her heart skipped.

“It is time,” Vesh murmured.

Tia rose on shaky legs. The stories still echoed in her chest like embers, fragile but glowing. As if the Sun and the Arch and the Brightlings themselves would be witness to whatever she dared speak.

Her thoughts tangled: What if they laughed at her? What if they called her blasphemer? What if they believed her, and it only made things worse?

Vesh walked steady at her side, the scrape of his claws against stone a grounding sound. He did not push, did not fill the silence with more lore or reassurance. He simply remained, tall and unshaken, a quiet pillar to lean on.

Together, they crossed the threshold into the sanctum.

The heavy doors closed behind them with a hollow thud.

Standing in a chamber, vast, circular, its walls soaring high into the dome above, they glanced around.
Shafts of daylight streamed through narrow panes of glass set into the ceiling, cut and angled so that every beam converged on the center circle of polished stone. The light seemed alive – golden, shifting, sanctified.

A handful of robed figures bowed low at the center, then retreated silently to the edges. Without a word, they slipped past Tia and Vesh, leaving the space hushed, emptied, save for the single lizardman who remained.

The high priest stood not on a dais, not on any throne, but simply upon the circle where the sun’s light fell. His robe was plain white, trimmed in a thread of gold at the hem, and his face bore the patient calm of one accustomed to both silence and confession.

“Vesh,” he greeted warmly, voice carrying easily across the chamber. His gaze shifted to Tia, and his smile deepened. “And you bring with you someone touched by brightness. I could feel it even before you stepped through the door.”

Dipping her head politely, she noticed her mouth had gone dry. The priest’s presence didn’t weigh on her like she feared. It soothed, like standing in sunlight after a long shadow.

He raised a hand, gentle but commanding. “Be at ease. This is not a court. You need not carry armor nor fear. Within these walls, you are safe. Speak only as yourself.”

Tia let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She glanced at Vesh, then around the chamber, at the mosaics, the carved stone, the open sky through glass above.
“It’s… beautiful,” she admitted softly. “The temple, the stories Vesh shared with me – they’re… really something. I didn’t know faith could feel like this.”

The priest’s eyes glimmered, and he turned a grin toward Vesh. “And you’ve always been quick to share it, haven’t you? A virtuous heart, steady in devotion. I should have known you’d guide another here.”

Vesh inclined his head, but his frill fluttered faintly at the praise.

Tia swallowed, nerves crawling up again. The words pressed against her throat but tangled before they could escape. How did one begin to tell a holy man that you weren’t of his world at all? That you wanted to leave it?

Her gaze flicked around the hall, noting the absence of the lesser priests, the way the doors had sealed. Just them. No audience. No ears to overhear.

Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted her sleeve. The skin of her wrist gleamed faintly under the shaft of light – her Guild Mark, glowing, a sign she had never shown in this place before.

“I… I think I should start with this.”

The priest leaned closer, the shafts of light catching on his brow. His expression did not harden nor soften, but something passed across it – a flicker of recognition.

“…So you are the one,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The whispers spoke of a stranger with no mark. A girl who bore the name of the goddess.”
His eyes returned to hers, steady, unreadable.
“Celestia.”

Tia flinched at the name. She pressed her lips tight, then nodded. “That’s… my real name. Tia’s just my nickname. I thought – I hoped – I could pass as normal here. But I’m not.”

Her throat burned, but she pushed the words out anyway. “I’m not from this world at all.”

The silence that followed was so complete she could hear the faint hiss of incense across the chamber.

“I come from… from somewhere else. A place you can’t even imagine.” Her voice shook, but she couldn’t stop now. “We have things called computers – machines that think faster than we do. Phones, that let us talk to people across continents instantly. Airplanes, jets even, huge metal machines that carry people across the sky faster than sound does.”
She laughed, too brittle to be humor.
“I don’t even know how to explain it without sounding like I’m making it all up. It’s so different. Everything is different.”

The priest’s face did not waver. He folded his hands lightly before him, patient as stone.

Tia stared down at her glowing wrist. “I fell asleep there. Just… in my bed. And then I woke up in a white void. This bratty, self-important boy was there, calling himself a god. He said he was gonna show me my future job. He… he talked about destinies like it was something- tangible.” She winced at the memory.
“Then I woke up again. On the grassy highlands below Wyrmspine. Alone. Terrified. I thought it was all just a dream until I saw smoke in the distance. The others found me. If they hadn’t, I’d probably be dead already.”

Her voice faltered, then steadied again, quieter this time. “I heard about Guild Marks. About how everyone’s born with one, tied to their role. But when I went to the guild in Ssarradon, mine was blank. Just… nothing. And then later – later it changed.”
She turned her wrist fully so the light struck the mark. “It became the sigil of L’ile. The god of destinies. That’s what they told me, anyway. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t even understand it.”

She bit her lip, then added, barely more than a whisper: “And then there’s my name. Celestia. Back home it’s just… a pretty name. Here it’s – your goddess. I swear I didn’t choose it to deceive anyone. It’s just what my parents called me. But everywhere I go it makes things worse.”

Her voice cracked on that last word, raw with the strain of weeks of silence. She stood there, trembling faintly under the golden shafts of light, waiting for judgment.

The high priest breathed in deeply, then exhaled as though he had carried the weight of her words without resistance. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, resonant, like sunlight through glass.

“You have carried much, child. Alone.”

The high priest did not answer at once. He stood in the center of the illuminated circle, his robes pooling like still water around his feet, eyes fixed on Tia’s mark as if it were a flame burning too close.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, contemplative.
“I have heard the proclamations,” he said. “The heralds shouting your name as if it were poison. A foreign deceiver, a corrupter, a terrorist sent to unravel the threads of our order.” His gaze lifted, meeting her eyes without flinching. “But this…” He gestured faintly to her mark. “This is no rumor. This is fact.”

Tia swallowed hard. She wanted to shrink under that light, to vanish.

He paced a few steps, hands clasped behind his back. His brow furrowed, not in anger, but in thought – as if he were sifting through centuries of dust in his own mind.

“Your name. Your speech. Your ways. They are unlike ours, yes. But I see no madness in your eyes, no deceit. I see only a young woman burdened with truth too strange to speak aloud.”

He drew a long breath through his nose, then exhaled. His eyes shone faintly in the golden shafts.

“Perhaps…” he murmured, almost to himself, “perhaps the gods did not bind you to this world as they bound us. Perhaps they sent you – across space, across time, perhaps even across the veils of reality itself. Chosen, not as we once thought of it, but in a deeper sense. Not a craft or a station. A purpose.”

He lifted his chin, his voice gathering strength.
“Long have I wondered. The scriptures… the very oldest of them, written in tongues even our scholars strain to render. They do not say ‘chosen,’ not in the way we believe. The closest word is ‘recommended.’ As though destiny were not a chain, but a guide. As though the gods whispered: this way is best, but left our steps our own.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “It is a heresy to say so aloud, without certainty. For centuries I have not dared. And yet…” His eyes flicked back to her mark, its faint glow painting his features. “…here you stand. A girl without a path, marked blank. Then sealed not by a guild, not by man, but by L’ile himself. The God of Destinies, confirming what should be impossible.”

Tia’s throat tightened. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t even know what she wanted to say.

The priest went on, quieter now, as if confessing to himself.
“An antithesis of our order. A reminder that perhaps destiny is not as rigid as we have built it to be. That what we call law may be… interpretation. Habit. Fear.”

The silence that followed was heavy, not hostile, but charged. Tia could feel Vesh’s eyes on her from the bench just behind, steady and loyal. The priest, meanwhile, stood like a man at the edge of a precipice, staring into a horizon he had half-believed was only rumor.

Finally, he straightened. “Celestia,” he said, her name heavy with new weight. “You were not sent here without reason. The gods do not waste their breath. And if you seek a way home…”

His voice gentled, almost kind. “…then I believe you must be heard at the Arcanum.”