Ashen Light

Chapter 2: The Last Day of Light

The Axis was silent as Cyrus stepped into its inner sanctum, his footfalls muffled by the lush, woven carpet stretching across the floor. Rows of elders and Wardens lined the chamber, their faces hidden beneath their ceremonial hoods, their robes blending into a sea of white and gold. Flickering braziers cast shadows across the chamber's high, vaulted walls, their flames moving in rhythm with the quiet chanting that filled the space like a soft breeze. The air was thick with incense, its fragrance—a blend of sun-dried sage and desert herbs—sharp yet strangely comforting.

At the center of the room stood the high elder, his weathered face partially hidden beneath his own hood. In his hands, he held a blade, its hilt wrought in shimmering gold, the intricate patterns gleaming under the firelight. Cyrus's pulse quickened as his eyes fixed on the weapon, feeling its pull from across the room. It was as though the blade itself recognized him, as if it were an old friend greeting him after years apart. He took his spot before the high elder, putting his arms behind his back and tilting his head slightly downwards. 

"Cyrus Zane Constel," the high elder's voice rang out, firm and resonant, carrying the authority of both tradition and divine right. "You have been chosen by the will of Apollousa to serve as her Warden, to carry her light and her law into every shadowed corner of our land."

Cyrus did not speak. It was not his time to speak yet. He saw movement in the corner of his eyes, and familiar shapes. He felt his heart twinge a bit, knowing that his family was here, watching. Even his father, who was usually away in the name of the church. His big sister too, who he didn't think would leave the captivating comfort of her bed to see such ceremonies. He felt heartened, and all he wanted to do was look at them fully, to feel a sense of comfort. But he did not. He stood and waited, though he did lift his head up slightly.

The elder extended the blade toward him, and Cyrus stepped forward, his hands steady despite the pounding of his heart. His fingers closed around the hilt, and a strange sensation pulsed through him, cool and powerful, as if the blade itself were alive, attuned to something deep within his spirit.

As he raised the weapon to eye level, unsheathing the warm metal, his gaze caught on an unusual pattern etched just below the blade's edge—a sigil unlike the others, darker, woven with lines that almost seemed to pulse. A chill ran up his spine, breaking the sacred warmth that had enveloped him only moments before. But he pushed the unease aside, gathering himself and lowering the blade as the elder spoke again.

"From this day on, you are bound to Apollousa," the elder intoned, his voice rising. "May her light guide you. May her strength protect you."

Cyrus knelt, bowing his head as the elder placed his hand over his, their fingers both resting on the hilt. The elder's voice lowered to a murmur, just for him: "Bear it well, child. She sees you."

The elder spoke now to the audience and the rest of the church, raising his voice as he released Cyrus. "And now, brothers and sisters, let us say the ancient texts, and make this child a new hope for our community"

The Axis was silent once more, as everyone closed their eyes, holding both hands over their hearts. After a few moments, the elder led the prayer.

 "May her light warm us, may her flame guide us, may her grace protect us... Creator of all life and keeper of the balance of light and dark shadow-"

The voices of the assembled villagers joined together, rising like a wave in praise of Apollousa. Cyrus bowed his head, closing his eyes as he joined in, feeling the chant wrap around him like a cocoon, steady and grounding. The blade felt cool in his grip, and he let its weight anchor him, focusing on his breathing as he repeated the sacred words.

But then, a faint tremor traveled up the blade, almost like a heartbeat. His eyes snapped open, and he glanced down, his pulse quickening as he watched the dark sigil near the hilt. Its lines pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if drawn by some hidden force. Cyrus blinked, half-convinced he was imagining it, but the tremor grew stronger, rippling through his hands, making it harder to hold the weapon steady.

A surge of cold flooded his veins, clashing with the warmth of the prayers around him, and his grip on the blade tightened. He glanced up, hoping to catch the elder's gaze, but the man's eyes were closed, his voice rising in sacred reverence, oblivious to the strange energy building between Cyrus and the blade.

Then, all at once, the sigil flared with a sudden intensity. A searing pain shot through Cyrus's hands, up his arms, and he felt something like a deep, ancient presence pushing into his mind—a presence filled with fury and hunger, chained and waiting.

The chanting faded into a distant hum as Cyrus's vision blurred, his surroundings receding into a void of darkness and flame. In the silence that followed, he heard a whisper—low, dark, and unmistakable.

"At last..I am free."

Everything broke.

Cyrus's thoughts scattered, fragmented, as a rush of raw, seething energy surged through him. He could feel himself moving, but his body felt distant—each step heavy, foreign. He struggled to focus, to reclaim control, but the force within him had woven itself deep, pulling him along in a torrent of fury and power.

Flashes burst through his mind like fragments of a broken mirror: the hall filled with panicked faces, elders backing away in terror, voices calling his name, desperate and pleading. His arm rose, blade in hand, slicing through the air with a force beyond anything he'd ever known. The warm, familiar faces of his neighbors became faceless blurs, snatched away as quickly as they appeared, the proud eyes and smiles replaced by terror, and then, lifeless, bloodstained...

He felt a surge, like lightning tearing through him, and caught a fleeting glimpse of his own reflection in a brass shield across the hall. But it wasn't him. Red, fevered eyes stared back, filled with rage, his features twisted by a malevolent force that barely resembled his own, his skin white, his hair a crimson color.

His surroundings spun as he moved from one end of the hall to the other, faster than thought, leaving destruction in his wake. He heard the shattering of stone, the crumbling of walls, the cries of his people—and underneath it all, a guttural laughter echoed, reverberating through his mind, deep and merciless.

This isn't me, he thought, trapped within the storm. But the force pushed deeper, like cold iron around his heart, tightening, suffocating.

Then, in a rare moment of clarity, he heard a woman's voice in his ear, whispering, trembling. "Cyrus, stop..." The woman's words reached him through the haze, but they were swallowed by the laughter and the chaos, fading like an echo down a long, dark corridor.

He knew that woman...

Just as quickly as it had begun, the darkness receded, leaving only silence.

Cyrus found himself on his knees, the blade still in his hand, its edge stained with blood. The sword flashed a golden color briefly, and the sigil was gone. He felt a warmth go through his fingers, but he felt it like it was far away, like it had come . The hall was still, the air thick with dust and the faint, sickening smell of smoke. He looked around, dazed, his mind trying to process the devastation surrounding him—the broken forms, the lifeless faces he knew too well.

And as the last of the darkness faded, he felt something cold settle over him, a weight he knew he could never lift.

The laughter was gone, but its shadow remained, a whisper at the edge of his mind.

This is only the beginning.

{{A/N: 😦}}