Light poured in from the high windows above, a single shaft breaking through the colored glass and spilling down the aisle.
It caught Celeste full on.
Gold and crimson washed over her fur, staining it with the faces of saints and sinners set into the panes above—martyrs with bowed heads, conquerors with raised blades, figures frozen forever in judgment and absolution. For a heartbeat, it felt like they were looking through her rather than at her, weighing her soul against stories she had never been meant to fit into.
Celeste swallowed.
She suddenly felt very small.
Unworthy of the space.
Unworthy of the light.
Unworthy of standing anywhere near a dais built for certainty.
Her fingers curled together, tight enough to ground herself. She wasn’t here to belong. She was here to do a job. To protect people. To find the truth. To keep things from getting worse.
Please, she prayed silently—not to the saints, not to the stars, just to whatever was listening. Let me not mess this up.
Then she breathed out, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward anyway.
She stopped just short of the dais, hands folded in front of her like she was approaching a nervous animal instead of a holy figure.
“Um—excuse me,” she said gently, looking up at the fennec fox. “Have you… noticed anything unusual lately? People coming and going? Relics moved? Mythics acting… not like themselves?”
The owl priest inclined its head.
“This is Arch-Luminar Tamsin Emilio,” it said formally. “Keeper of Doctrine and Confessor of the Luminarch.”
Arcade muttered instantly, “Don’t bother. You’ll get more personality out of a brick wall.”
Celeste tilted her head. “How do you know walls can’t talk?”
Arcade opened his mouth—then paused.
He pointed at Skye.
Then at Arch-Luminar Tamsin.
Then back at Skye.
There was a very quiet click.
“Oh,” Arcade said slowly. “Ohhhh.”
Skye froze.
His ears flattened. His tail stiffened. For half a second he looked like he might bolt, fight, or curl into a hole in the floor.
He didn’t.
He swallowed, said nothing, and shifted closer to Arcade instead.
Arcade—uncharacteristically gentle—just rested a hand on Skye’s shoulder and steered him away. “We’ll… go check the acoustics,” he said flatly. “Come on.”
Skye followed, head down.
Ray jerked her chin toward the door. “We’ll keep watch.”
Pitch nodded, already drifting into the shadows near the arches. “If anyone bolts, I’ll hear it.”
That left—
Celeste.
Silver.
Hughes.
Topsy.
Arch-Luminar Tamsin’s gaze settled on Celeste at last.
It wasn’t hostile.
It wasn’t warm either.
It was… assessing. Like someone looking at a constellation and deciding whether it was real or imagined.
As though Celeste had simply arrived mid-lesson.
“The Luminarch Doctrine,” Tamsin said, voice calm and resonant, “teaches that all souls are born from the Divine Light—the stars themselves. An eternal, perfect force that once filled the heavens and shaped the world in harmony.”
He lifted one slim hand, and the light from the stained glass caught her fingers, refracting like a halo broken into pieces.
“But perfection does not endure contact with mortal desire.”
The words echoed.
“Through sin, ambition, and defiance, the Light was fragmented. From that fracture came wild mana. Monstrous races. Unstable forms.” His eyes flicked—briefly, unmistakably—toward Celeste’s chest. “And eventually, the Beings of light.”
Silver’s jaw tightened.
“The Doctrine recognizes Three Tiers of Purity,” Tamsin continued smoothly, as if reciting something memorized since childhood.
“Purebloods,” he said first, inclining his head slightly toward Silver. “Closest to the Divine Light. Ordered. Stable. Untainted.”
Then, a pause.
“Mythics. Once angelic. Touched by flame and power. Fallen—but still capable of reverence.”
His gaze slid away again, just long enough to acknowledge Hughes.
“And finally—” his ears tilted forward, voice softening into something almost pitying, “Hybrids. Born of blasphemy. Chaos given form. Souls that flicker and destabilize the world around them.”
Topsy’s fingers curled into her sleeves.
Celeste didn’t move.
“Mana,” Tamsin said, serene and absolute, “is not a tool. It is a divine inheritance. It was never meant for fractured vessels. Suppression is mercy. Control is stewardship.”
He folded his hands.
“To give wild magic freedom is to invite collapse.”
Silence settled heavy as incense.
Celeste breathed in slowly.
Then, carefully, she spoke.
“…That’s a very tidy explanation,” she said. “But it sounds unfair.”
Tamsin studied her again, that same distant, evaluative calm.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Truth often is.”
“You ask about what is unusual,” Arch-Luminar Tamsin said quietly. “In a place built on sin and repentance.”
Celeste nodded. “Yes. Sorry. I know that sounds silly.”
“It does not,” he replied.
Silver stiffened slightly at that—clearly not expecting agreement.
Arch-Luminar Tamsin continued, voice even.
“Relics have been moved without record. Doors opened that should not open. Runes applied where blessings once were.”
Celeste’s ears twitched. “Runes… to control mana?”
Arch-Luminar Tamsin looked at her more closely now.
“…Yes.”
Topsy leaned forward, tail flicking. “That’s bad, right? Like very bad. Even by your standards.”
The fox’s mouth curved—not quite a smile.
“By any standard.”
Hughes folded his arms. “Who authorised it?”
Arch-Luminar Tamsin was silent for a long moment.
Then, carefully:
“No authorisation that would survive the Light.”
Silver’s jaw tightened. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Arch-Luminar Tamsin said, meeting Silver’s eyes at last, “that someone believes themselves beyond confession.”
Topsy leaned in slowly, eyes narrowing with theatrical suspicion.
Then, in a little sing-song voice, she whispered, “He is being very cryptic and creeeepy—”
Hughes clapped a hand over her mouth.
Topsy’s ears bounced.
“Mmph.”
Hughes did not look away from Tamsin. “Apologies. She’s got a condition.”
Topsy nodded solemnly behind his hand.
“Mmph-hmm.”
Arch-Luminar Tamsin blinked once.
Only once.
Then continued as if that had not happened.
That landed hard.
Celeste swallowed. “And the Mythics who went missing?”
Tamsin’s ears lowered a fraction.
“They came seeking absolution. Or protection.”
“And?”
“They did not leave.”
The cathedral felt colder.
Topsy gently peeled Hughes’s hand away from her mouth.
“That’s… really not great.”
Tamsin inclined his head. “No.”
Then his gaze flicked—just once—toward the confession booths.
“Whatever is happening here,” he said softly, “is being hidden behind prayer.”
Silence stretched.
Somewhere near the door, Ray shifted her weight.
Silver exhaled through his nose, controlled but sharp. “So someone is using the Church as cover.”
Arch-Luminar Tamsin did not correct him.
Celeste felt it then—that familiar weight in her chest. The one that came right before everything got worse.
She straightened, tail swishing once.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Then we’ll start there.”
Topsy grinned, sharp and feral. “Ooooh. Church conspiracy. I love those.”
Hughes sighed. “Of course you do.”
They left the Arch-Luminar Tamsin to his preaching.
The corridor narrowed as they walked, the noise of the cathedral fading behind them until there was only the hush of old stone and distant chanting.
Light filtered in through high, arched windows—soft gold and rose—casting murals along the walls. Each panel told a piece of the Motherlight myth: a radiant figure at the center, hands outstretched, threads of light binding worlds together. Above her stood a knight, blade lowered but ready, Sigils forming a barrier between Motherlight and the creeping dark beyond the frame. Above her, stars bent inward, listening.
Silver slowed, hands clasped behind his back, eyes flicking over the art with practiced appreciation.
“Well,” he drawled, voice echoing faintly, “if one must be indoctrinated, at least they’ve invested in decent aesthetics.”
Celeste blinked. “Oh. Um. I always thought it was kind of comforting.”
He glanced sideways at her. “You believe in it, then?”
She hesitated, ears twitching. “I don’t… think so? Not like—properly. I mean, I know some of the stories Orbal taught me some. Motherlight weaves the world together, keeps the void out, protects the lost, watches hybrids more closely because they’re… unstable.” She winced slightly at that word. “But I don’t really know what’s metaphor and what’s real.”
Silver smiled, slow and indulgent, like a tutor humoring a promising but unpolished student.
“How refreshingly undecided.”
Celeste laughed softly, relieved. “Is that bad?”
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Uncertainty is far preferable to blind devotion. It suggests a mind capable of… adjustment.”
They stopped in front of a larger mural—Motherlight standing between a crowned king and a kneeling general, one hand raised in blessing, the other in warning.
Silver tilted his head. “So tell me, Commander. If you don’t know whether she’s real… why follow her at all?”
Celeste studied the mural seriously, tail curling around her ankle.
“I think… people need something to hold onto when things don’t make sense,” she said after a moment. “And if believing there’s someone kind watching helps them be kinder to each other, then maybe that’s enough. Even if she’s just a story.”
Silver hummed. “A pragmatic answer.”
She brightened. “Is it?”
“Yes. You don’t challenge the belief. You redirect it.” His eyes flicked back to the mural. “Very efficient.”
Celeste flushed faintly. “Oh—I didn’t mean it like that. I just… don’t like taking things away from people. Especially if it’s helping them cope.”
“Mm.” Silver leaned one shoulder against the wall, posture effortless. “That’s a weakness, you know.”
Her ears dipped. “It is?”
“Compassion without discrimination,” he said lightly. “It makes you predictable. People learn they can appeal to your feelings.”
She frowned, genuinely considering this. “I suppose… but if I stopped caring, wouldn’t that be worse?”
Silver chuckled. “You say that as if those are the only two options.”
He straightened, stepping closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Belief systems—religious or otherwise—are tools. They stabilize populations. Create shared language. Shared guilt. Shared hope.” His smile sharpened just a little. “The trick is knowing when to wield them, and when to let them believe they chose for themselves.”
Celeste nodded slowly. “That sounds… complicated.”
“It is,” he agreed pleasantly. “That’s why most people shouldn’t try.”
She looked up at him, earnest. “Do you believe in Motherlight?”
Silver didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he gestured to the mural. “I believe symbols are powerful. I believe stories shape behavior. And I believe people will follow whoever makes them feel seen.”
A beat.
“And you?” he added softly. “You don’t need doctrine to inspire loyalty. They follow you anyway.”
Celeste startled. “They do?”
Silver smiled again—warm, charming, faintly patronizing. “Oh yes. You just don’t notice. Which makes it all the more impressive.”
Her tail flicked, flustered. “I’m just… doing my best.”
“And that,” Silver said, turning back toward the corridor ahead, “is exactly what makes you so very useful.”
Celeste beamed, taking it as praise, and hurried to keep up with him—never noticing the way his eyes lingered on her reflection in the glass.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Learning exactly where the light got in.
