“You ready?” Orvox asked, breaking the silence.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I muttered, though my gut twisted with unease. The closer we got, the more suffocating the air felt, like the Cathedral’s sheer presence was pressing down on me. It was irrational, but I couldn’t shake the sensation.

Orvox opened the door, and I followed him out onto the landing pad. The air here was heavy, carrying an odd dampness that clung to my skin and robes. I tugged at the stiff collar again, wishing it didn’t feel like it was trying to strangle me.

The Cathedral’s entrance loomed ahead—a towering archway guarded by two massive statues. Each one was a humanoid figure draped in flowing robes, faces obscured beneath deep hoods. Their hands were outstretched, palms upturned as if offering something unseen.

“Remember what I told you,” Orvox said in a low voice as we approached the entrance. “Head down, don’t speak unless spoken to. You’re nothing but an acolyte.”

"Yes." I whispered back.

Beyond the entrance, the interior of the Cathedral opened up into a vast, cavernous hall. The architecture was a geometric nightmare.

Rows of figures in crimson and black robes moved silently through the space, their footsteps muffled by the thick, fleshy carpet that covered the floor. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep my gaze lowered as Orvox led the way

We passed several groups of Vornites—priests, acolytes, and paladins alike. Some carried ornate staffs or reliquaries, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. Others moved with purpose, their hands clasped before them in silent prayer. A few glanced in our direction, but none lingered long enough to seem suspicious.

Orvox stopped near a side corridor, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. “This is where we part for now,” he murmured. “I need to speak with the church’s officials before the ceremony begins. You’ll blend in with the other acolytes in the preparation hall. Just follow their lead.”

I glanced at him, incredulous. “You’re leaving me alone here?”

“You’ll be fine,” he replied, though his tone lacked the conviction I wanted to hear. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

I gave Orvox a stiff nod, swallowing the bitter taste of apprehension as he disappeared down the dim corridor, his heavy footfalls soon lost to the muted hum of the Cathedral. Left alone, I scanned the sprawling hall through quick, cautious glances. Every inch of the space seemed designed to overwhelm: the soaring arches, the oppressive shadows, the faint, rhythmic chanting that seemed to bleed from the very walls.

I fell into step behind a small group of robed figures shuffling toward one of the preparation chambers, mimicking their deliberate movements. It wasn’t difficult to blend in—everyone here seemed more focused on their own tasks, their heads bowed in silent reverence. Still, the air prickled with an unseen weight, as though a thousand unseen eyes were scrutinizing every step I took.

The preparation hall was an antechamber bathed in a dim, crimson light, the only source of illumination spilling from sconces shaped like clawed hands. Acolytes gathered here in small clusters, whispering prayers or inspecting ceremonial implements. I lingered near the edge of the room, avoiding eye contact and breathing shallowly, as though doing anything more might draw unwanted attention.

It wasn’t long before a chime—low, resonant, and unsettling—rippled through the Cathedral, silencing the murmurs. One by one, the acolytes filed into the main hall. I followed, slipping into the flow of robed figures.

The Cathedral’s main hall was far grander than the entryway, though no less unnerving. The geometric designs stretched impossibly high, angles meeting at unnatural intersections, the architecture defying sense. Massive tapestries hung from unseen hooks, depicting scenes of cosmic battles, shrouded figures, and celestial rings that burned like suns.

At the center of the hall lay the focus of the ceremony: a wide, circular dais of dark stone, ringed by raised platforms. Arrayed upon these platforms were artifacts—relics of reverence and dread—each displayed upon velvet cushions or within crystalline cases. Gilded placards marked each item, though the script was strange and shifting, never quite settling into something I could understand.

My eyes wandered until they landed on it: the Ring of Enkindling.

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It sat in the center of its platform, ensconced within a glass reliquary that pulsed faintly with energy. The ring was deceptively simple—silver with a dark, opalescent stone set in its heart. But even from this distance, I could feel it: a presence, faint yet inescapable, like a flicker of divine fire dancing at the edge of perception.

Gringol’s ring, I thought. The divine ring worn by the god himself in ancient days—so the texts said.

It was smaller than I’d imagined. Unassuming, almost. And yet the air around it seemed thick, charged with an energy that made my skin tingle and my fingertips itch.

I couldn’t help but drift closer, though I kept to the periphery. From here, I could watch it, study it, without drawing undue attention. Acolytes and priests milled about, some kneeling in quiet prayer, others arranging the offerings placed at the base of the dais. All the while, the ring remained at the center of it all, unmoving yet alive.

I shifted my weight, planting myself where I had a clear line of sight. If something was going to happen here—and I could feel it in my bones—it would start with the Ring of Enkindling.

And I intended to see it coming.

The quiet murmur of prayer and shuffling robes filled the vast hall, but I could sense her approach before I saw her. A ripple of movement—an almost imperceptible shift in the air—heralded her arrival. My pulse quickened, but I kept my gaze lowered, feigning the nervous stillness of an untested acolyte.

When she stopped in front of me, her presence became inescapable. Decon Resha.

Even among the crimson and black garb of the paladins, her robes stood apart. They were darker, stitched with silver threads that caught the faint crimson light and twisted it into strange patterns. Over her shoulders rested pauldrons of polished obsidian, carved with symbols that seemed to breathe in and out of recognition. And beneath the shadow of her hood, two pale eyes—almost white—studied me with predatory interest.

“Are you new?” Her voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to it, like a blade hidden in silk. She folded her arms, her gloved fingers tapping an idle rhythm against her elbow.

I swallowed hard, bowing my head deeper. “Y-yes, Decon. This is my first time assisting the ceremony.” I injected a stammer into my voice, praying it sounded earnest. My hands twitched at my sides, but I stilled them quickly. A nervous acolyte. Nothing more.

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze cutting through my lowered posture. “Your name?”

“Korven, Decon,” I replied, using the name Orvox had given me for this charade. “Acolyte Korven.”

“Acolyte Korven,” she repeated, as though testing how it sounded on her tongue. Silence hung between us for an unbearable moment before she took a step closer. “You’ve been staring quite intently at the Ring of Enkindling.”

I froze, though only for the barest second. It was long enough.

“I—I didn’t mean any disrespect, Decon,” I stammered quickly, lowering my voice to a meek whisper. “It’s just… it’s beautiful. I’ve read of it in texts, but seeing it…” I let my voice trail off as though I were overcome with awe. “It feels… holy.”

Her pale eyes narrowed faintly, and for an instant, I thought I saw the corner of her mouth twitch—whether in a frown or a smirk, I couldn’t tell. “It is holy,” she said, her voice a low murmur, though the words carried the weight of admonition. “To look upon it is a privilege granted only to the faithful.”

“I am faithful,” I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. I cursed myself inwardly and ducked my head lower, clutching at my robes as if ashamed. “Forgive me, Decon. I was overawed, nothing more.”

Resha let the silence drag, studying me like one might study a rat caught in a trap. I could feel her probing for cracks, for anything that might betray me. Her presence loomed—she was taller than most, and even still, her bearing made her seem larger. The air around her felt heavy, like standing at the edge of a deep abyss.

“What texts?” she asked suddenly.

I blinked. “Pardon?”

“The texts you claim to have read,” she clarified, her tone deceptively smooth. “You said you’ve read of the Ring. Which texts? Or are you simply parroting what others have told you?”

Panic flashed through me, cold and sharp. I searched for something—anything—that wouldn’t betray my ignorance. “The Catechism of Vorn, Decon,” I said after a beat, keeping my voice low and submissive. “It mentions the Ring’s creation by Gringol, and how it carried the fires of the divine in its stone. I… I wanted to see if it was true.”

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she circled me, slow and deliberate. Her boots barely made a sound against the fleshy carpet, yet I could feel the weight of her presence behind me, above me, all around me. A chill traced its way down my spine as she stopped at my side.

“You are too curious for an acolyte,” Resha said at last, though her tone was unreadable. “Curiosity can lead to… ruin.”

I nodded vigorously, as though chastened. “Yes, Decon. You’re right. I’ll keep my head down. I promise.”

Another unbearable silence passed, and then Resha sighed—a sound far too soft to be comforting. “See that you do,” she murmured. “The ceremony begins soon. Do not stray.”

“Yes, Decon,” I whispered.

Without another word, she turned and strode away, her robes whispering against the air as she moved. I allowed myself to release a slow, careful breath. My heart thundered in my chest, my nerves alive with the sensation of narrowly avoiding disaster.

From across the hall, Resha paused, glancing back once more—her pale eyes lingering on me for a fraction of a second longer than I liked. Then, with a small turn of her head, she was gone, melding into the procession of priests and paladins.

I stared at the Ring of Enkindling once more, its opalescent stone flickering with faint light. Whatever’s about to happen… she’ll be watching. And I’ll need to be ready.

Just as that thought passed through my head the roof shook violently.