The hallway felt surgical. Too clean. The kind of sterile that made Elijah's skin crawl as his footsteps whispered against polished stone. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed with that persistent hum that wormed into your skull and stayed there.
Shimmen walked three paces ahead, his expression carved from granite. The fur-lined mantle draped across his shoulders swayed with each measured step, and he hadn't so much as glanced backward since they'd started walking. His jaw worked beneath his beard like he was chewing through something bitter.
Two guards flanked Elijah from behind. Big men. The kind whose boots hit the floor with purpose, whose shadows felt heavier than they should. Neither spoke. They didn't need to. Their presence alone was a threat wrapped in silence.
Through the glass panels lining the right wall, Elijah caught sight of the courtyard. The grass looked wrong—too vibrant, too perfect, like someone had painted it into existence. Five figures knelt there in absolute stillness.
Three women. Two wore the features and flowing robes of Arabian heritage, their skin deep bronze beneath sand-colored veils that draped from crown to collarbone. Leather belts cinched their waists, and their palms rested upturned on their thighs. The third woman's scarf marked her as Turkish—midnight blue fabric knotted tight, embroidered vest sweeping the grass. Her spine was steel.
The two men were studies in contrast. One built like a siege weapon, bald head gleaming, muscles carved into his bare arms. The other lean and robed in saffron cloth, hair bound back, face serene as still water.
All five had their eyes closed.
Then, as Elijah's group passed, their ears twitched.
Not human. Animal. Predatory.
Their heads turned in unison, tracking movement they couldn't possibly see. Eyes still shut. Faces angled directly at Elijah.
A chill threaded down his spine. Something in his skull clicked—an awareness blooming like ink in water. His eyes caught the light differently for a heartbeat, reflecting it back too bright.
Then they kept walking.
The corridor aged around them. Smooth walls gave way to rougher stone, darker and porous. The fluorescent lights dimmed into oil lamps that cast wavering shadows across the path. Even the air changed—dust and old wood and something older still.
Ahead, a structure grew from the passage itself. The upper half resembled a forgotten cabin, moss-stained beams jutting out at odd angles, reinforced with rusted steel brackets. Below that yawned an entrance, narrow and dark, like walking into the throat of something ancient.
"Inside," Shimmen said without turning.
The floor changed from stone to wood that groaned beneath their weight. The walls pressed in close enough to touch both sides if Elijah stretched his arms. Lanterns hung at intervals, their flames burning an unnatural green that made his skin look sickly.
Their footsteps echoed wrong. Too hollow. Too deep.
A figure materialized ahead.
An old man. Bald, with a neat gray beard framing his jaw. His skin sagged gently with age, but his back was straight as a young soldier's. Brown robes tied with simple rope. Eyes warm and curious, like a grandfather waiting to greet a long-lost grandchild.
Shimmen froze mid-step.
The guards became statues.
All three men went rigid, their faces draining of color. Fear—raw and visceral—crept into their eyes.
"…huh?" Elijah waved a hand in front of Shimmen's face. Nothing. He snapped his fingers beside the guard's ear. Not even a flinch. They'd stopped breathing.
*You're terrified of him?*
Elijah turned to face the old man.
Their eyes met.
Silence crashed into his mind like a wave, drowning everything. The director's whispers—gone. The fear that had clawed at him for weeks—vanished. Every blood-soaked memory, every accusation, every moment spent running—all of it muted beneath an impossible calm.
Someone had reached into his skull and pressed pause on the storm.
Then pain lanced through his forehead.
Sharp. Precise. Like something was cracking open between his eyes. Elijah's hand flew to his brow, fingers pressing against bone.
The old man's expression shifted. Surprise flickered across his features, followed by recognition, then alarm.
His grandfatherly warmth evaporated.
What replaced it was authority—cold, absolute, interrogative. His eyes became blades.
The peace shattered. Every fear, every whisper, every desperate thought came flooding back. Elijah's chest tightened as anxiety sank its claws back in.
The old man closed the distance between them in three measured steps, stopping close enough that Elijah could see the fine lines around his eyes.
"Brat." The word came out flat. Clinical. "State your name. Where you came from."
Elijah blinked, thrown. *Wait, aren't you supposed to be welcoming me? Why does this feel like an execution?*
"I—I don't know what's happening," he managed. "Caltheron is the only place I remember. The only refuge I know."
He fumbled for the golden seal and held it out with both hands.
The old man plucked it from his palm. His eyebrows shot up.
"Boy… this is the Keeper's seal. The sacred mark of sanctuary authority." His voice dropped an octave. "Where did you get this?"
The warmth was gone entirely now. What remained was something sharper—a voice that could peel back layers of truth and expose every lie beneath.
Elijah's throat went dry. "For as long as I can remember, I've always had it. I don't know how I got it."
Silence stretched between them like a held breath.
The old man's eyes narrowed. "So you're telling me you have amnesia."
Elijah nodded.
The shift was instant.
Power erupted from the old man's chest—a pinpoint of light that spun like a seed of lightning. Another appeared. Then another. They multiplied into a swirling constellation, forming a cyclone of radiant energy that made the air tremble.
Pressure slammed into Elijah like a collapsing building.
His knees buckled. Air became scarce, each breath crushed in his lungs before he could finish drawing it. He bent forward, powerless, his vision blurring at the edges.
*Is this how I die? Without even knowing why?*
He dropped to one knee, head forced down by an invisible weight.
Shimmen and the guards remained frozen in place, their terror now absolute.
The cyclone intensified, spinning faster—
The seal flared.
Not with sound. With *presence*.
An aura detonated outward—regal, absolute, undeniable. Rings of force rippled through the passage, stirring dust and loose stone. Pebbles lifted from the ground. Sand grains floated like suspended stars. Wind roared through the corridor, swirling around the old man in defiance.
The cyclone of light in his chest sputtered.
Flickered.
Died.
Elijah gasped, sucking in air as the crushing weight vanished. His lungs burned with the sudden relief.
The old man stared at the seal in his hand, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
Shimmen and the guards collapsed to their knees, driven down by the seal's authority. Their faces twisted with fear—but this time, they weren't looking at the old man.
They were looking at Elijah.
The seal's glow faded slowly, withdrawing its presence like a receding tide. The corridor fell silent except for Elijah's ragged breathing.
He pushed himself upright, shaky but standing, and met the old man's gaze.
Joy replaced the shock in those ancient eyes. Disbelief. Relief. Something close to reverence.
The old man turned toward Shimmen and the guards. "Stand."
They scrambled to their feet.
"Take Elijah to the best chambers. With Caltheron."
"Old Mas—"
The old man flicked his hand dismissively, then pointed down the hallway. "Go."
Shimmen swallowed hard. "Yes, Grand Warden."
He gestured for Elijah to follow. The guards fell into formation behind them, their movements stiff and uncertain.
Elijah's feet moved on autopilot, but he glanced back.
The old man stood alone in the corridor, cradling the golden seal in both hands like it might break. His gaze lifted briefly to Elijah's retreating form—filled with recognition, with understanding, with something that bordered on awe.
Then he looked down at the seal again, reverent and trembling.
The green lanterns flickered around him.
The passage grew still.