[The Imperial Records]

  Night falls over the Kingdom of the Imperium. The rain comes. Heavy but warm water pats against the cobblestone, filling the streets with the soft percussion of water against stone. Rooftiles tap beneath the downpour, gutters drain, and streams of rainwater trickle along the roadside.

  A lone holy man strides through the rain, his robe clinging to his skin, soaked through. "The people are afraid," he whispers to himself. "I've never seen them crowd the temples like this. I hate being anxious." He pauses, looking skyward. "The Father is with me." He reaches the towering doors of the Grand Imperial Church—the beating heart of The Order’s power.

  A masterpiece of architecture, its massive oak doors rise like old guardians, wide, heavy, and unyielding. They know he’s here. As he steps forward, they groan open. The deep sound rumbles through the old sleeping town. He steps inside, leaving the downpour behind.

  The transition from rain to sanctuary is immediate.

  Inside, glass spheres hang overhead, each filled with luminous white liquid. They cast bright light like captured stars. Shadows of water run across the white marble interior. The scent of incense and melted wax hangs thick in the air, mingling with the distant, rhythmic hum of prayer vibrating beneath the stone floor. Spectacular.

  A figure approaches. His footsteps are practised, unhurried, measured against the polished white stone. "Father Enoch, I presume?" The voice is calm. Neutral. Structured. The permanent clergy here wear robes of smooth black silk—shaved heads, clean and unmarked.

  Enoch nods, clearing his throat, shaking the rain from his cloak—a gesture that suddenly feels impure in a place like this. “Y-yes. I am Father Enoch. I received the archbishop’s letter.” "Good. Follow me." The man closes his eyes politely and offers a smile, gesturing forward.

  Father Enoch swallows, hard. His hands are damp—not from rain, but sweat. He dries them against his sides and exhales—this is the moment he has waited for. “I've practised this I don't know how many times. I really hope they listen to what I have to say.” He steps inside, finding his determination. But the cleric halts in front of him, lifting a hand. A silent signal. "But first—" A glance toward a red rug near the entrance. "Shoes off, please." The smile is kind. Genuine. But laced with quiet insult.

  "Yes, of course. My apologies." He lowers himself, prying his shoes from his feet.

  The stone feels unexpectedly warm underfoot. They walk in silence, their bare footsteps pat softly against the vastness. Marble statues—saviours of old, elite scholars—watch from their pedestals. Grand paintings stretch across high ceilings. The walls are lined with scripture-filled tomes, cradled by candleholders made from white gold, their wax pooling like melted time.

  “Is that a map of the lost city, Jericho? And Michael the Great, who broke the code of the Helena Scripture. Adam the Hunter, who saved seven thousand believers with just a dagger and the holy words. Even the star system Lusandar.” Enoch draws a deep breath. “I would love to study, love to work here. Maybe… if things go right today.”

  They reach another great door within, and stop. Holy Knights stand guard, motionless in their polished steel armor marked with sacred symbols. From the doorway, a cloaked figure in white steps forward, the soft clang of a censer swaying in hand. The thick, fragrant smoke spills into the air, cleansing, blessing.

  The chant begins.

  The figure slowly weaves between them, humming words of old, the sound vibrating through him. Father Enoch's hand trembles. He hides it against his robe. A room of giants awaits beyond those doors. He feels their judgment already, pressing against him before he's even stepped inside. These aren't merely men. These are some of the highest voices of the Faith, the ones whose words shape kingdoms, whose judgments make and unmake lives.

  He adjusts his neckline. “Was it always this tight? Just breathe.” His fingers quiver. He forces them still. They cannot see doubt. Doubt is weakness.

  The white-robed figure stops beside him as the incense smoke slowly pools around their feet. The doors crack open. A Knight steps forward, unannounced. He says nothing. His hands move over Enoch’s body—blunt, bordering aggressive. The search is not a courtesy. It is a reminder.

  "It is done." The Knight nods to the others. There is no threat here.

  Enoch peers through the opening doors. The chamber waits in perfect stillness. The cleric gestures forward with another practised smile. "Follow me." Enoch swallows against his dry throat and steps inside.

  Figures in luxurious black robes with gold trim sit on raised marble podiums, watching his approach. Deep red tapestries line the walls in the firelight. The cleric guides Enoch to the centre of the chamber. The moment expands around him, threatening to swallow him whole.

  "Your excellencies. I present Father Enoch of Bottom Hill. He holds scholarship in astro-philosophy from The Order's left branch, district 10. He has dedicated a decade to the study of: The Red Doctrine and The Lamentations of the Mothers Coming." The cleric bows, smiles, and walks away. He doesn’t look back. The doors close with a soft, final sound behind him.

  "Thank you for joining us, Father." Archbishop Eldrich closes his book and shifts in his chair. "The Lamentations of the Mothers Coming. The fundamental scripture on the Mother's dormancy and her eventual return," Archbishop Lucian says. He leans forward in his seat, studying Enoch with his old eyes.

  Enoch scans the room, recognizing each face.

  Archbishop Solomon—master of Transcription.

  Archbishop Lucian—master of Scripture.

  Archbishop Eldrich—master of Artifacts.

  He looks at each in turn, feeling the weight of their collective wisdom. “I'm standing here before the most brilliant minds of our age.” Enoch steps to the chamber's centre, but movement catches his eye. New figures appear from the shadows.

  His heart stops. “Grand Inquisitor Lazarus.”

  The air leaves his lungs. But it's the second figure, a Sol Elf, that makes his knees weak—Helion, the Emperor's personal advisor. A tremor runs through Enoch's body. The Grand Inquisitor's presence alone is suffocating, but the Emperor's representative here makes this a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Body’s weak. “Lazarus himself is attending? And Helion... Why would the Emperor send his advisor to a meeting like this?

  The Grand Inquisitor watches Enoch, sharp, dissecting. He watches him without expression, his hands folded in front of him, a figure of pure, unshaken authority. Helion leans near the fireplace, studying—a figure who does not belong here but is here nonetheless. His eyes measure everything Enoch doesn't say.

  The weight of their expectation settles over Enoch’s shoulders. Now is the time. He cannot falter. He clears his throat, his voice steady despite the dryness in his mouth. He exhales slowly. Heart pounding. This is it. One breath, and there is no turning back.

  "Your excellencies,” he begins, voice steadier than he feels. “I bring forth a breakthrough—a truth found within the sacred texts, hidden beneath centuries of what I believe has been a misinterpretation." A pause. No one speaks. No one stops him. But they are listening.

  Enoch inhales deeply. Every day, he has rehearsed this moment, shaped his words carefully. "The Red Eclipse has passed… The Darkness has come. Watching. Waiting. Beyond our sight." The words still the room. A reminder of the faith they follow.

  "We have long taught of the Blood eclipse, that will bring the God of Darkness… this Death, will arrive to consume this world. A Doom that will claim everything, that will take everything. It will use this world to seep into the heavens, where all our souls will forever serve as food for its endless hunger.” He takes a step forward. “That the Mother will rise. She will guide the Darkness over these lands. Until all light is swallowed." The chamber remains perfectly still, silent.

  "And, unless we can stop it, these will be the final moments of our existence.” The words force him to swallow hard. His breathing is shallow, and a cold chill causes a hidden shudder. “But I believe that is not what the scriptures truly say." Words that catch Solomon’s attention—a quill hovers over blank parchment.

  Enoch presses on.

  "I believe we’re wrong", he continues. "Not about the coming Darkness or the horror that awaits us. But about the Mother.” He looks at the men judging him. One by one. Unreadable. "I believe that she will come, not to doom us—but to save us.”

  The energy in the room shifts like a current.

  Lucian leans back, tapping his fingers lightly against the polished marble of his armrest. Solomon exhales through his nose, shaking his head once. Eldrich, however, does not move. His expression is carved from stone—unreadable. The silence lingers. Too long. Too heavy.

  Then—Lucian speaks. His voice is smooth, measured. But there’s a sharpness beneath it. “Impossible, Father.” A small, polite smile that seems to fade fast. “You’re suggesting that the Order has been mistaken for generations?”

  Enoch’s chest tightens, recognizing the trap in the question. He chooses his next words with care. "Not mistaken, Your Excellence." His voice is steadier than he expects. "Perhaps... incomplete in our understanding. The ancient words hold layers. I believe some have a different meaning."

  Solomon scoffs. He sets his quill down, unimpressed. “The Lamentations are among some of the oldest scriptures in our faith. You believe you see clearer than centuries of scholars?” Lucian exhales, rubbing his temple. “You wish to rewrite the scriptures for us.” A chuckle. Not cruel—but dismissive. Eldrich remains silent. Thoughtful. Calculating.

  Enoch feels the weight of their judgment settle over him. Amusement. A scholar making a child’s mistake.

  Then—Lazarus moves. A slow, measured exhale. His voice resonates with the authority of a man whose words carve the path of nations. "How?" The single word vibrates in the chamber. "How did you arrive at this conclusion?"

  The Archbishops do not move, but their silence speaks.

  Enoch’s throat tightens. This is the moment. His answer is simple. Short. "A contranym, Your Excellency," he says simply. "A word with two opposing meanings." He forces himself to hold his ground. He does not fidget. Does not drop his gaze. They will see no doubt. The chamber goes still again.

  Then—a scoff. Lucian leans back, shaking his head. "Centuries of scholars," Solomon murmurs to himself, but heard by all. "Countless lifetimes of study. And all this time, the answer was right before us?” A smile, but there is no warmth in it. “How fortunate we are that Father Enoch of Bottom Hill has found the truth where we, in all our wisdom, have failed.” A quiet chuckle.

  Enoch breathes steadily. “None of them believe me. How could they? They've believed this their whole lives, and now I question it. If they would only let me show them my work, the texts, the hidden meanings. Maybe then they would see. Then they would understand.”

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  Then Lazarus speaks again. The room stills. "These are bold claims, Enoch." His eye studying him. "One wonders if you have considered the consequences of such a claim." A pause, calculated. “These claims require proof.” The words are not loud. Not forceful. But they hold absolute finality. He leans forward slightly, his hands folding together on the table. “Not with scripture.” “Not with words.” His voice is steady, measured, unwavering. Even Lucian straightens, his amusement has disappeared. “I task you to prove your work. The Red Doctrine dictates she is already among us. Go beyond the Imperial Wall.” Lazarus’ gaze does not leave Enoch. “Go find the Mother.”

  The breath in Enoch’s lungs turns cold. “I’m being exiled. Sencentesed to death.” Enoch swallows hard, his mind racing. “He wants me to go beyond the Wall. Beyond the Empire’s boundaries. Into the wilds. The horrors. The unknown. I can’t do this.”

  The Archbishops do not speak. They do not need to. The room belongs to Lazarus now. "You've spent a decade understanding the scriptures of The Mother," Lazarus continues. "Go. Travel with our blessing. Under the authority of The Order. Bring her to us." He pauses. The fire crackles softly. The air is tight. “Do this, and your interpretations will be recognized.” he says, “and you will be named Archbishop.” A stillness claims the room, all eyes on Lazarus. “Master of Prophecy.” He finishes.

  The breath leaves Enoch’s lungs. A chilled wave washes through him, prickling his skin. “The youngest Archbishop in history.” The whisper leaves his mouth before he can stop it. “Master of Prophecy. If I prove my work, my worth, I can sit among these men. An equal. Respected by the faith. After all… The men that sit here before me needed their steel tested. Maybe this is my test?”

  His knees feel weak. His hands clench at his sides. He should be afraid. But he is not. He is being seen by the greatest above him, a moment he secretly asks for. His voice comes steady. Stronger than he feels. “If that is what you ask of me... then I will see it done.” The very moment in the chamber shifts. Not laughter now. Not ridicule.

  “Master of Prophecy.” The words replay in Enoch’s thoughts. This is the moment he has waited for, but there is a fear deep within, rising to the surface. He exhales slowly but struggles to contain the rising dread. "Your Excellency," he says, voice careful, hiding a plea. "I am honored by this task, truly. But..." He hesitates, feeling the weight of the next words before he speaks them. "The lands beyond the Empire’s reach are treacherous. I ask that I be granted an escort—a small guard for protection."

  A simple request. A reasonable one.

  No one speaks. Lazarus’s gaze studies Father Enoch. The moment is spent weighing, calculating, "No." The refusal is quiet and absolute. Discomfort and unease flickers across Enoch's face. "But, Your Excellency, surely—" Lazarus exhales, cutting him off. "What do you fear, Father?” “The Barkskins and Blood-Suckers have not been seen in two hundred years." His patience thins, but he knows the answer. "It’s the Herdsmen you fear, yes?"

  The mention of Herdsmen. Enoch’s anxiety tries to break through. But he fights it. "Yes, your Excellency," a subtle tremor. "I am not a solider."

  Lazarus sees the fear in Enoch's eyes, he knows the stories. "The Order’s gaze is needed elsewhere, Father. I’m sure you understand in light of recent events. We cannot spare a single man." He leans forward, fingers pressing together. "And besides…" A pause. "Faith must be proven… not carried."

  The words stop the moment, cold and final. Eldrich watches in silence, unreadable. Solomon lowers his quill. Lucian’s lips press together with no amusement, but rather… a flicker of sorrow. Lazarus does not elaborate. He does not need to. Enoch lowers his gaze, nodding once. "I understand." “If this is your will, Father, then I will see it through." He prays. The chamber does not move. No protest. No dissent. Only silence. Lazarus leans back again. "Good. The matter is settled. The Order has spoken.”

  The chamber remains silent, save for the quiet shuffle of robes and the faint creak of chairs as the Archbishop's rise. The decision has been made, and its weight lingers in the air. The heavy door swings open again, spilling brilliant white light from the halls beyond. The contrast is stark—a world outside, untouched by what has just taken place.

  Solomon adjusts his cuffs, his quill forgotten on the table. Lucian steps past without a glance, his mind already moving elsewhere. Eldrich lingers for a fraction longer, his gaze briefly settling on Enoch. “Good luck, lad”, his only words before he too turns away.

  One by one, they step into the light and are gone.

  But Enoch does not move. He stands in the centre of the chamber, motionless. His breath is shallow, his mind racing to catch up with the moment. “I can’t believe this. Archbishop. Master of Prophecy. Beyond the Imperial Wall. Find the Mother.” His hands tremble at his sides. He clenches them into fists, forcing himself to feel something real—something solid, something that can help ground him. “How did it come to this?”

  A soft shift of movement. A presence approaches that startles Enoch from his thoughts. Helion. The Sol Elf moves with fluid grace, stepping away from his post by the fireplace. Firelight plays across his white and purple Imperial attire, catching in his golden hair. He does not look at Enoch. Instead, his gaze remains fixed on the open doorway, on the white light beyond. For a moment, neither speaks. Then—Helion offers—words crafted just for Enoch.

  “I understand your fear. Perfectly natural. Just take a deep breath,” he murmurs. “This moment will settle soon enough.” Enoch's throat tightens, leaving him wordless. Helion tilts his head slightly, acknowledging him without looking. “Don’t go too far.” Enoch pauses, focusing on Helion. “Your night isn’t over yet.”

  A chill runs down Enoch’s spine.

  He turns, searching for meaning in those unreadable features. But Helion has already begun to step past him, his attention shifting, his gaze now settling on Lazarus. Enoch forces himself to move. He takes a deep breath, steadying his footing. He is still trembling, but he walks. The doors wait for him. The light feels foreign against his skin as he steps forward, leaving the chamber behind.

  Behind him, Helion remains in the darkness with Lazarus.

  The chamber doors close with a final thud, sealing the hall behind Enoch. The echoes fade into silence. The fire crackles softly in the great chamber, the warm air stills. Lazarus exhales. His night isn’t over either, and he knows it. His fingers tighten briefly against the marble table before relaxing once more. He turns to Helion. "You’ve been quiet." A statement, not a question. "Have you nothing to say?"

  Helion gracefully shifts, his expression unreadable. He studies Lazarus like an unfinished puzzle. His voice is smooth, flawless, "I’m just deciding which words would be worth your time." A smirk. Small, but there. Lazarus does not react. "Speak your mind, Helion."

  Helion’s head tilts slightly, golden eyes flickering like candlelight. "You’ve sent him to die, but you know this. A sign that your plans are becoming too complicated," he gestures faintly toward the sealed doors. "The Father truly believes in his findings. You saw it in his eyes. You've made him believe this promotion will give him the recognition he craves. But yet…" He lets the silence breathe. “You play him like a pawn. That much is clear. Which means something else is already in motion."

  Lazarus leans back, folding his hands together. "There is still much about faith you don’t understand yet, Helion. Sometimes, even fools can present useful results. Besides, confusion is dangerous in times like these." Helion hums. "Spoken like a man who holds the board but doesn’t see all the pieces." Lazarus exhales sharply, his patience wearing thin. "Why think so highly of him? What do your eyes see that we miss?"

  Helion smiles slightly. He takes a slow step forward, his gaze sharpening. He studies Lazarus, his expression shifting into something... deeper. Calculating. "I was instructed to attend these meetings and was expecting a scholar’s delusion. But I saw something else entirely. Something that I wasn’t expecting to see."

  Lazarus sighs, dusting his table, unamused. "Should you not be troubling yourself with politics instead of prophecy?” Dismissive. “What about the Father’s claims interests you so much?" "Not about the Father," Helion laughs silently, moving his focus back to Lazarus. "About you.”

  Lazarus finally meets his gaze. "You’re reaching for something where there is nothing, Helion." "Am I?" Helion steps closer, his voice dipping. "You, your Archbishop’s, you know something about this prophecy. Something the Emperor does not."

  Lazarus doesn't answer. His jaw tightens as he forces himself to remain still, trying not to reveal anything. But his heart quickens, his breathing grows shallow. He fights to calm himself, to not let Helion's words penetrate him. But Helion watches. He notices all. "Ah… So there is something." A whisper. Not a question. Not a guess. A certainty.

  Lazarus swallows, shifting in his seat.

  "There are many things that happen within the Order that the Emperor does not know," he says, his voice measured but slower now. "We cannot enlighten his Greatness on all matters. Somethings must remain in the hands of the Faithful."

  Helion steps forward, slow, controlled. The distance between them shrinks.

  "Ah, of course." He nods, his eyes never leaving Lazarus. He understands, better than anyone, that Lazarus will not speak freely. "The Emperor must not be burdened with the weight of inconvenient truths." His tone is carefully neutral.

  Lazarus watches him, wary now. He forces his hands still against the marble. A muscle in his jaw flickers—barely—but Helion sees it.

  "The Emperor has questions, Lazarus. Questions about the passing Red Eclipse." A moment of stillness. "He sent me to find answers." Lazarus does not blink. "I’d rather bring him something of value than wasted time." The words hang heavy between them. Lazarus looks at Helion, “I have all under me working on answers, Helion. I assure you, once we have something tangible, his Greatness will be the first to know.”

  Helion sees right through him. He knows he's hiding something. The subtle change in stance. The frequency in his voice. The tightening of his skin. Perspiration. The smell of changing hormones, sweet adrenaline. The way he holds his gaze against me. All these tiny hesitations. So obvious. The quiet inhale before control is found again.

  It is enough.

  Helion tilts his head, confirming to himself that Lazarus won't speak further. "Very well," he says, smoothing the fabric of his sleeve. "Perhaps it is a minor issue." Suddenly acting as if disinterested. But Lazarus does not relax. Helion already knows. The Sol Elf turns, walking toward the door with unhurried grace, but carrying an absolution. His parting words are chosen carefully, designed to cut deeper than any blade. "I’ll see you again soon, Grand Inquisitor." He does not need to look back to know that Lazarus is shaking beneath his robes.

  Helion steps into the bright vast halls of the Church, where the air feels lighter, cooler. The distant rhythm of rain filters through the ancient walls—a soft percussion that seems to underscore the weight of secrets exchanged in the chamber behind him. He inhales deeply, tasting the lingering scent of incense mingled with the distant storm.

  His gaze catches movement ahead—Father Enoch. The priest lingers near a towering wall of Imperial maps, his silhouette small against the massive cartography of the known world. Helion observes him for a moment, noting how Enoch's eyes trace the heavy black line marking the Imperial Wall—the final boundary before the wilds. The unknown.

  Helion approaches with deliberate steps, neither hurried nor hesitant. He doesn't announce himself, merely slides into Enoch's periphery like a lingering thought. Present. Unshakable "I can see you've slightly eased with the gravity of the task before you," Helion says, his voice carefully modulated—sympathetic without pity. Understanding without indulgence. "The weight of the coming task still sits heavily on your shoulders. But you’re starting to find your feet."

  Enoch stiffens, then exhales slowly. His posture straightens as he turns to face the Sol Elf. The initial panic that gripped him in the chamber has dulled his nerves to something more manageable—a dread that has settled rather than one that threatens to drown him. "Each man receives his test," Enoch replies, his voice steadier than he expected. "This seems to be mine." The words feel hollow in his mouth, rehearsed, but they give him something to cling to.

  Helion steps closer, his gaze lifting to the map. He doesn't look at Enoch as he studies the sprawling territories. A landscape of order, control, dominion. But his attention is drawn elsewhere, seemingly captured by something specific. Enoch watches him, unable to help himself from following Helion's line of sight to the Northern Imperial Outposts—small dots of civilization clinging to the edge of the Empire.

  Helion's eyes remain fixed on one particular point, unflinching, deliberate. His voice drops to barely above a whisper, but the word carries as if he had shouted it. "Backwater." Enoch's gaze snaps to the highlighted outpost on the map—a tiny notation almost lost in the vastness of the charted lands. His breath catches. He doesn't speak, afraid to break whatever moment is unfolding between them.

  A slight smile curves Helion's lips as he finally breaks his gaze from the map to look at Enoch directly. "Consider it a place to start."

  The sentence hangs between them, loaded with meaning that extends beyond the simple words. Enoch feels it settle into him—a direction where, before, there was only the terrifying expanse of possibility. The fear doesn't leave him but reshapes itself into something navigable. He stands a little straighter, the weight of Elven wisdom lending him a borrowed confidence.

  Helion smiles to himself, noticing in full view how his words subtly settle Enoch. "Your journey will be challenging," Helion continues, his tone measured. But not impossible. Write to me personally when you can—share your progress and your findings." A pause. "It may help steady you when the path becomes unclear."

  Enoch exhales, then steps back. He lowers his head—not just in respect, but in gratitude. "Thank you," he says, the words simple but genuine. Something in Helion's guidance has anchored him—given form to the formless task ahead. Helion watches as Father Enoch turns away, purpose now evident in his stride. The priest knows what he must do, where he must go. The uncertainty that crippled him moments ago has begun to transform into determination—fragile, perhaps, but present nonetheless.

  "Safe travels, Father," Helion calls after him, his voice carrying the perfect notes of sympathy and encouragement. "May you find what you seek."

  Only after Enoch disappears down the corridor does Helion's carefully constructed expression fade. His eyes return to the map, to the tiny notation marked "Backwater," and a different kind of calculation settles over his features.

  He too, is moving his pawn across the board.

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