A guttural roar surged from the Plaza of Reverence. No, do not press forward! Guards, hold the line! Look, over there! Citadel Wardens, their armor gleaming dully under the noonday sun, grappled with the surging mass. These public appearances always drew a crowd, but today was different. Today, an Archon would grace the common gaze. Years, generations, they had waited for such an event. Archon Lyra, Scion of the Moonstone Weave, was to deliver a rare blessing. Her name alone stirred the very aether, promising miracles. Some would surrender their life’s savings for a single glimpse. Whispers spoke of devoted cults, followers willing to defile sacred ground just to touch her shadow. News of her attendance had transformed the normally orderly Plaza into a tempest. Still, this fervor transcended expectation. Wardens shouted until their voices frayed, some hacking coughs tearing from their throats. Despite their valiant efforts, aspirants clawed at the temporary barriers, seeking any weakness. They pushed back the tide, while also scanning for the bolder opportunists, granting no moment of reprieve. A single thought echoed in every guard’s mind: Let this arduous duty end. Lesser dignitaries had arrived, their gilded carriages pulling away from the Processional Gates. But the True Archon, the heart of this spectacle, had yet to emerge. If only she would appear, offer her blessing swiftly, and retreat. That would ease their burden. Beyond their desperate prayers, the throng swelled. Within the Archon’s personal transport, a conveyance crafted from polished obsidian and enchanted glass, the air hummed with a different kind of tension. Kael, positioned near the entrance, kept his gaze fixed on the shifting reflections outside, his grip firm on the pommel of his storm-forged blade. “Two hours at most, Blade-Brother Kael,” Acolyte Seraphina stated, her voice calm, a stark contrast to the distant din. “They have also requested the Archon display the Aetherium Armlet. A simple gesture, a brush of her silver hair, should suffice. It was crafted specifically for her, Archon Lyra. Does it please you?” Seraphina cast a quick, deferential glance at Lyra. The Archon, still as a statue, finally lowered her gaze to the intricate artifact circling her wrist. Crafted from polished obsidian and shimmering moonstone, ancient glyphs pulsed with a faint, internal light, drawing all focus. “It serves its purpose,” Lyra murmured, her voice a whisper of starlight and distant bells. That was all. Seraphina offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Lyra turned her gaze back to the reinforced viewport. The dark tinting offered more a reflection than a view, yet she always looked out. Perhaps observing her own ethereal face was more compelling than the passing panorama of the Citadel’s outer districts. Kael had long accepted the Archon’s profound detachment. He understood its genesis, too. He had served as her personal Blade-Brother for years, and even now, a chill often stole over him when her eyes, pools of liquid silver, rested upon his. He was grateful for her usual silence. Days could pass without a single pronouncement, and he thanked the Elder Gods for that. If she spoke more often, her words woven with arcane power, Kael was certain his unwavering focus might falter, his duty compromised. Lyra leaned against the upholstered bulkhead, her chin resting on one slender hand. Her eyelids, delicate as moth wings, slowly descended. That gave Kael a chance to study her profile, albeit through the corner of his eye, his primary senses always alert. Her pale features, appearing serene, were cast in soft shadows that accentuated her exquisite bone structure. He had guarded countless noble scions, faced countless horrors, but never had he encountered a visage so utterly captivating. Though her robes of deep indigo and silver thread were fastened high, giving her a formal appearance, something about her still felt strangely unbound, wild. Her fingers, resting languidly on her thigh, were long and elegant, each nail perfectly shaped. The first time he had seen them, he had imagined those fingers, crackling with raw aether, tightening around his spirit. Fortunately, such a fate had never befallen him. Not a single aspect of her was less than breathtaking. Though he hesitated to use the word ‘beautiful’ for an Archon, a living conduit of divine power, he struggled to find a more fitting description that did not diminish her. A short, almost inaudible sigh escaped her lips. Her eyes, luminous as twin moons, reopened. The driver’s voice, filtered through a ward of silencing, announced their approach to the Plaza. Both Seraphina and Kael tensed. Now, they must shield this Archon from the frenzied devotion. Carelessness here could lead to grave injury—or worse, a breach of sacred protocol. There was no alternative. The conveyance gradually slowed. Just then, Lyra whispered something. “*…Ves’tarr-na…*” Her voice was so low, barely a breath, that Kael could not discern the full words, only a fragment of an ancient tongue. Assuming it was merely an Archon’s customary utterance or a private prayer, he chose to ignore it, as always. Lyra did not repeat herself. As the vehicle settled to a complete stop, the roar of the multitude intensified. Seraphina drew a deep breath and braced herself for the inevitable. A Blade-Brother, designated for the task, stepped out first, his armored form a blur as he scanned the immediate perimeter. He quickly unlatched the door on Seraphina’s side. As she exited, she immediately moved to position herself beside the vehicle. The expectant throng already knew who was to follow. Among the tightly packed bodies, an inexplicably sweet, ozone-like scent, a byproduct of so much raw emotion, hung heavy in the air. The screaming surged even louder. “Archon Lyra…!” The desperate cries threatened to rupture Kael’s eardrums. And at last, she emerged. The sun, blazing from the zenith of the Obsidian Citadel, struck Lyra’s silver-white hair, making it shimmer with an otherworldly brilliance. Standing at a height that commanded attention, her lean form was clad in the Archon’s indigo robes, which seemed to cling to her as if they were spun from her very essence. As she stepped onto the hallowed red carpet of the Plaza, she briefly scanned her surroundings. A flicker of something, perhaps weariness, crossed her features, but she remained silent. Slowly, deliberately, she raised a hand. Her slender fingers brushed through her soft, lustrous hair, revealing the glowing Aetherium Armlet on her wrist. Sensor-crystals clicked frantically, their mechanical staccato lost in the chaos of the deafening adoration. Archon Lyra took only five steps onto the crimson pathway before it happened. Blade-Brother Joric, struggling at the forefront of the defensive line, seemed to falter. A surge of collective spiritual energy, too potent to withstand, washed over him. He lost his footing. And just like that, the fragile barrier, the last line of defense, crumbled in an instant. The crowd surged, an unstoppable wave of flesh and fervent desire, directly towards their Archon. Kael moved.

A Glimpse of the Ascendant