Apostolic Journey

[Seraphis]

Seraphis barely slept.

She’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling of her room, willing herself into stillness, then finally giving up and throwing the sheets off with a huff. Centering exercises, breathing techniques, silent meditations. None of them calmed her.

So she embraced the wakefulness. She dressed early, checked her notes three times, and still arrived at the exit a full thirty minutes before the Luminar and Lucien. Waiting in the corridor alone, she pressed her gloved fingers together, trying not to fidget.

The gloves helped. At least it helped cover up her nerves.

The car ride passed mostly in silence. Theron and Lucien spoke in low voices behind her, but they weren’t directed at her. Outside the tinted windows, the world was pale with early morning frost. Snow fell in a slow, reverent hush.

Today was the summit. Everyone was anticipating the Brotherhood’s public summit with not only the Ascendancy, but the Pope of the Catholic Church as well. This was the day the Brotherhood was formally acknowledged; and all but placed on equal footing with a worldwide religion. And she was going to witness it firsthand.

By the time they arrived at the Kremlin, snow had begun to accumulate, frosting the high red walls and softening the edges of the courtyards. The flakes caught in the air like falling ash from some silent altar. Seraphis lifted her chin, resisted the urge to spin in the snow like a child. Instead, she straightened her spine, smoothed her already-smoothed hair, and stepped into the grandeur. The palace interiors swallowed her.

She’d seen images, watched feeds, and studied diagrams, but none of them had prepared her. The scale of it was overwhelming. Vaulted ceilings, mosaics that danced with gilded light, archways like ribs of some ancient god. The air itself felt charged, humming with a history too vast to hold.

Composure, she reminded herself. She caught sight of Theron just ahead. His expression was always measured, his gaze always steady, and mimicked his posture as best she could.

They were all dressed for ceremony. The Luminar wore his traditional robes, their long sleeves trailing like banners behind him as he walked. The fabric was deep black, but threaded with flickers of orange and gleams of metallic thread. The colors seemed to shimmer when he moved, not bright, not ostentatious, but alive. Like he himself was a work of art.

Lucien was, as always, immaculate. Tailored lines and perfect poise. His look gave nothing away. It never did.

But Seraphis wore something special.

The night before, Theron had presented it himself. “For the First of the Veilwardens,” he’d said. She had opened the box, and the breath had fled her lungs.

The dress was heavy. That was her first thought. Dense with detail, rich with intention. The garment shimmered with a scale-like pattern of glass beadwork and matte gold sequins, each tile-like embellishment catching the light and holding it. Jewels, real ones, were set into bracelets, a collar, and a belt. Subtle variations of sapphire, citrine, onyx, amethyst. The entire ensemble evoked ancient priestess and modern royalty, as if someone had woven a galaxy into a ceremonial gown and called it modern day couture.

"Are these... real?" she'd asked, lifting one of the adornments between uncertain fingers.

"Yes," Theron had said. "A loan from a friend. I’m told it’s worth more than the Sanctuary itself." He’d smiled faintly, equal parts irony and warning.

Then he'd kissed her cheek and said: “You deserve it. And more. Walk proudly tomorrow.”

And so she walked proudly.

Behind Theron. Beside Lucien.

When the Kremlin official signaled it was time, they entered the throne room not through the grand doors at the far end, but from a side passage. Even that small difference was part of the script. And then she saw them.

The Ascendancy himself stood at the foot of the Tsar’s throne, bathed in the warm cast of light from the symbol behind him, a symbol she had only ever seen projected, now wrought into black, gray and orange and mounted high.

At first glance, he could have passed for a businessman. A tailored suit. A confident stance. But the symbol’s glow kissed his shoulders, and suddenly he was more than a man. Power framed him like a crown.

Her gaze shifted to the Pope.

He was draped in white and trimmed in crimson. His garments looked as though they'd stepped out of a stained glass window all formal, radiant, and impossibly pristine. His presence hummed with ritual, centuries of weight wrapped into each fold of cloth. And yet... he was watching Theron. Both men were. Not her. Not Lucien. The Luminar.

Seraphis swallowed, her heartbeat rising until it seemed it might burst through the jeweled collar she wore. Her hands felt suddenly hot in their gloves.

Theron, she thought. And the words came like prayer, not spoken aloud but pressed into the folds of her spirit.

This is where you belong.