21. The Blow Beneath Doctrine
The Blow Beneath Doctrine
The Prismatum loomed before Auryn like a frozen fortress, its carved crystal spires rising into the golden mist of the Shields above the city, its walls veined with lines of white, gray, and indigo.
Every inch of blue marble was etched with the Doctrine’s ancient breath; a history not told, but carved into stone and flesh, much like Runesgrams into the Reskala.
No one greeted them. No Attendants in thick linen robes.
No Priests with their palms raised in supplication to the Sokar.
Not a single sign of acknowledgment or respect.
Only the Doctrine etched into every wall, reminding Auryn—with finality, rigidity—that to be adorned in light within the Polis was not a right. It was permission.
This place was the heart of the Selen District — its breath, its limbs, its epicenter.
Priests filed in and out of its Auralex, the wing reserved for clergy and rituals.
Worshipers were welcomed in the Oranthal, the central hall for gatherings and ceremonies.
And, of course, the Virelay housed Zeera and Thalune—the two Companions of Selen—when they did not reside at the Jade Lattice in preparation of Estar.
The Prismatum was fully equipped: a mess hall, an Aquivale with bathing pools, and healing halls overseen by the most talented mages. The Noctris had his own quarters here, traveling between his duties as healer of the royal bloodlines and mentor to the acolyte mages in the Hallowrest.
Auryn walked these radiant halls in silence, her boots muffled against the white-veined floor.
Lu’ma followed a pace behind, her cloak whispering with each step, eyes flicking from one crouched Destroyer effigy to the next.
They hunched in the alcoves above like scornful guardians, wings folded, fangs bared—watching always.
The Ascensory's pale glow shimmered to their left, rising through the center of the compound in lattices to grant access to each warded floor.
To their right, the arch of the Auralex echoed with the quiet shuffling of pages.
Priests. Some studying, others rushing about in preparation of the coming Grand Festival of Growth.
Ahead, the carved sigils of the Lustrate pulsed with wards and webs, tucked into a recessed alcove of ceremonial arches.
A set of double doors guarded entry to its inner halls.
Massive, reaching beyond the second story of the building itself.
Around their center pulsed a colossal ward.
Gold and amber in hue, tied with intricate ley lines and interfaced with three separate webs of sealing.
Auryn paused to glance at the words carved into the marble.
Through Order—freedom.
Through sacrifice—power.
Through lineage—sovereignty.
A mandate. A reality she could never escape. And the precise reason she was here now. To re-claim the sovereignty she was due—not to rule, but to survive.
Through dresses, ceremonies, influence, and sacrifice. For decades, I did not want to dance to the music of Krystopolis. But now I have no choice. Not after seeing what Estar truly means. Not after spending nights in his embrace and realizing I never want to be anywhere else again.
But the reclamation would not be a simple task.
The Pouring of Grace had been a footnote in the battle to come.
Zeera and the other Companions would do anything to stop the Sokar from interfering in the matters of the Council.
Of Estar. And now that Kailorien had taken her into his wing, things would only worsen.
She inhaled. Once. And stepped forward.
Auryn stood before the doors of the Lustrate without knocking.
She did not need to.
The absence of invitation spoke louder than any turned key or barred lock.
Lu’ma stood behind her, shoulders stiff beneath her shawl, hands signing sharp and fast, 'The gowns were due three days past. Why would this Crafter not respond to a summons from the Sokar’s Attendant?'
Auryn shifted—weight slipping from one foot to the other, a motion she hoped was imperceptible unless one looked closely.
Fever hummed beneath her skin like a whispered threat.
Her face, however, remained a mask. Her Sokar’s visage.
Untouchable. Unaffected. And yet inside, she raged at the weakness of her body.
That the affliction still hadn’t passed, even now.
Not after more than a week.
Not after Estar.
“We suspect,” she divulged, speaking formally, “that the gowns have not gone missing. Only...redirected. And that the Crafter was instructed not to open these doors for Us.”
Her gaze traced the carved archway.
'The Selen Companion?' Lu’ma signed, slow now. Tentative.
Auryn’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Who else? This feels like something Zeera might do out of boredom.”
The two Reskala flanking her said nothing, though one shifted his weight, watching the shadows of corridors beyond them. Auryn frowned at the two massive warriors, smaller than Kailorien in stature, but still fearsome with their spiked armor, glowing white eyes, and pulsing runes.
Her new and permanent guards. Hand-picked by the Resh’Agar. Instructed to shadow her every step, no matter how small.
How honored they must feel.
Warmth built in her chest at the thought of how much effort Kailorien had placed into measures regarding her safety and protection.
She hated being followed, but she was no longer hidden.
No longer merely a shelved tome in the Umbral Archives.
And that meant more eyes than ever watched her every move.
Someone was watching her this very moment.
Zeera, Thalune, or one of their Attendants.
Watching and waiting for her to stumble.
Auryn raised a hand. Lu’ma stepped in front of her and bowed, signing furiously, 'Your Radiance, this Nameless begs you not to use your power. Your Radiance is ill. Bad enough that Your Radiance walked here without transport from the Lattice.'
“The key sigil was tampered with as well,” Auryn sighed, glancing at the bracelet on her wrist. Five gems, normally lit up, hung dim there. “Only His Quintessence could have fixed the portal charges, and he is in the Iliri today. We didn’t have a choice.”
The pain in her side filled her ribs with glass. None of that mattered. Not now.
'This Nameless will file a formal grievance,' Lu’ma snapped with her hands. 'This is sabotage. That viper dares—'
“She dares much,” Auryn said, pressing a hand to the door frame. It was cool against her skin. “But We will not scream about broken threads when the loom itself is rigged against Us.”
Lu’ma's expression twisted, fingers flying. 'They see Your Radiance rising. That is why they tear at your seams.'
“Let them try,” Auryn whispered under her breath.
When she spoke next, her voice was steady, clear. “Whatever the reason may be, these gowns were ordered for Us by Our Resh’Agar. To sabotage them means to dishonor him, and We will not stand for it.”
Lu’ma started to sign something, but Auryn stopped her with a look.
“Stand aside,” she commanded, and Lu’ma retreated behind her in haste. Auryn glanced at the two Reskala. “Move behind Us. Now.”
The warriors blinked, their eyes devoid of emotion. Then complied.
Auryn raised both hands again. Silver and emerald magic rose to her fingertips, slipping into the seams and crevices of the ward like flowing water through a riverbed. This web was ancient. It remembered days when the Shields were larger and the Daesa Major wilder.
She traced its ley lines, her hands glowing with the silver of sovereign Weave. The first thread shifted. Then another. With every pull, the ward flinched, like a harp string plucked too hard. Each pushback singed her fingertips.
But Auryn did not pry—did not force or break. She unwove. She spoke to it through her presence, her intention.
You were not made for me.
For thieves. Intruders. Zealots.
But not me.
Still, it fought her, so she pressed deeper, teeth clenched as mana sparked from her palm to her wrist, burning lines up her arm. Pain licked through her ribs like a blade warming in fire. She ignored it.
Bit by bit, the seal gave way—light bleeding from the edges as the ward melted against Auryn’s will. The drain was noticeable, but manageable. The floor tilted, but she did not fall.
With a creak that echoed through the halls, the doors shifted and opened. Auryn didn’t miss a beat. She pushed it out of her way and walked into the Lustrate, chin held high, spine straight, and steps measured for control. Her heels clicked on the marble with each step.
Rows upon rows of crafting tables filled the ornate room beyond the runed threshold, all of them occupied. The Crafters looked up, their eyes flying wide, faces draining of color as the Sokar and her Reskala stepped into their midst.
Nobody moved.
None dared.
“We have come to claim what is Ours,” Auryn announced. “Bring the package that was scheduled for delivery to the Jade Lattice for the Sokar. Now. Or face a reckoning.”
A pause. The silence was not shock, but dread.
A middle-aged man stepped forward, greying hair tied back in a bun.
He wore dark green Crafter robes lined with gold tassels, the symbol of his Role stitched into his sleeves.
The neckline of his clothes opened to reveal a tattooed number on his neck—the Batcher identification that marked every citizen of Krystopolis.
His hands shook against the folds of his apron as he signed, 'Your Radiance the Lustrate was placed under direct lockdown this morning. The Resh’Agar himself cast that ward.'
Auryn blinked.
For one heartbeat, she said nothing.
Then, quietly, “The Resh’Agar?”
The man nodded, swallowing hard.
Kailorien…is going to be upset with me. But right now, I can’t afford to misstep. Think of Shu’Khan. He would never show remorse, even if he made a mistake.
The Crafter continued his explanation with signs, 'There was report of an intruder. Solutus in disguise. Instruction was given to remain. To await investigation. No one was to enter.'
He bowed his head low, words failing.