We walked for nearly two hours through the city, moving ever eastward, until the skyline gave way to distant cliffs and rising stone. There, bathed in the bleeding light of a newborn sun, stood the Temple of Uhtras.

  The timing felt poetic.

  The Temple of Uhtras wasn’t built for prayer alone. It was a fortress—vast, golden, defiant. Its foundation merged with the cliffside, climbing high above the lowlands, as though the gods themselves had dragged it skyward. A grand staircase, paved in interwoven plates of gold and platinum, caught the dawn and scattered it like holy fire across our path.

  There were no civilians, no supplicants, no merchants hawking charms by the temple gates. Just paladins. Just silence. We were being taken in, not welcomed.

  The staircase rose far, carved into ancient stone and reinforced with shining bricks, leading us to a sanctuary built like a stronghold. Four great spiral towers surrounded the temple, curling into the air like lances aimed at heaven. Each was laced in gold and platinum, inlaid with murals and markings—the chalice and sunrise of their creed.

  Along the golden banisters that lined our ascent, statues stood vigil. Carved likenesses of Lightrai, their goddess—Divine Guardian, Reaper of Light, anointed deity of radiance. There were other figures, too. Priests. Paladins. Saints, perhaps. Faces I didn’t know, but felt the weight of.

  The temple walls were built from pale quartz that shimmered in the morning light, rimmed from tower to tower like a crown. The entrance itself... was monumental. A castle gate in size and design, but dripping with wealth. Gold filigree, platinum linings—too much for a fortress, too sacred for a palace.

  And above that gate, cast in silver—only silver—stood a statue.

  A man. Human. Long hair tied behind him, wearing paladin armor, a gentle smile on his face. Serene. Unarmed. Proud.

  It had to be Uhtras.

  The temple rose behind him, layer by layer. The first floor was solid—walls of quartz and windows tall enough to swallow giants. The second floor opened to the sky—a massive balcony, part terrace, part arena. The third floor crowned it all, a golden-caged cupola of glass that gleamed in the dawn like a halo.

  But I knew there was more.

  Temples like this didn’t rest on the surface alone. There would be vaults below, and barracks. Armories. Dungeons. Perhaps even ossuaries filled with bones of the faithful. I could feel the depth beneath my feet, like pressure before a storm.

  And I remembered my training in the Citadel.

  The Citadel didn’t just raise soldiers—it raised students of the world. We were taught to know the histories, the wars, the beliefs of our enemies. And the Temple of Uhtras was never a footnote.

  This temple didn’t follow the tenets of eastern Dawn followers. It belonged to a sect. A schism born of devotion. The Teachings of Uhtras—less a religion, more a doctrine. Those who rejected them were... cleansed. Purged. Quietly, often violently.

  But their teachings were also steeped in kindness. Valor. Perseverance. A calm, steady mind. Righteous control.

  There was a reason why this temple stood here, within the reach of Sheer Cold territory.

  And his name was Uhtras.

  He’d lived during Domino’s earliest days in Lampis. We were taught that he’d been more than a mentor to Domino—more than a friend. A father, even. He was the reason our god showed mercy. He was the ember of compassion in an otherwise cold flame.

  And then… he died.

  The texts say he saved Domino’s life. That something came—chaos—and devoured him whole. The words are vague. The memory shrouded in mythology. But the Temple stood as proof that the legend meant something.

  I glanced at Graveth, walking just ahead of me in silence. His golden armor seemed to drink the dawn. I cleared my throat.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Graveth,” I said evenly.

  “Yes?” he answered, not stopping.

  “I wanted to ask about the connection between Dominatarh… and Uhtras.”

  He slowed, glanced back, then matched my pace. “The history is... sparse. Fragmented. We are still uncovering truths buried beneath myth. But the core of it is believed.”

  He looked up at the statue above the gate.

  “It’s said that Domino arrived in Lampis at his weakest. He had nothing. No direction. No control. Uhtras found him. Took him in. Trained him. Fed him. Raised him like a son. Domino became the city’s protector... but also its destroyer. Not by malice—by ignorance. By power he didn’t yet understand.”

  I listened, absorbing every word.

  “We believe,” Graveth continued, “that an outer force destroyed the city. Chaos, maybe. Domino and Uhtras were caught in its path. Not its cause.”

  I nodded.

  “Thank you,” I said, with more sincerity than I expected.

  That could be the chaos the Citadel spoke of. It would explain the scars in Domino’s soul. The restraint in his hand. But it was hard—nearly impossible—to picture Domino as weak. As helpless.

  And yet... I let myself imagine it.

  When we entered the Temple proper, I was struck silent.

  The first floor was a cathedral in every sense, yet unlike any I had seen. Benches crafted from high quartz, their surfaces edged in gold, arced in circular rows that traced the round perimeter of the chamber. They weren’t placed—they were grown into the structure, as if the architecture had flowered upward from the divine will of the goddess herself.

  At the far end, presiding over the sanctum, stood a statue.

  Lightrai.

  Their goddess, sculpted as she was believed to have been—tall, graceful, and serene. Her arms open in welcome, her eyes closed in eternal peace. From her bosom, a fountain of crystal-clear water poured endlessly, wrapping her like a veil before cascading into a pool that circled her feet. The air smelled of myrrh and iron.

  To call it beautiful would be to insult it. It was holy. Designed to remind even the doubters that something greater watched above.

  We were taken along the left flank of the chamber, through a massive archway with no door—just a gaping passage carved into gleaming quartz and polished stone. To the right, stairs climbed toward the higher levels. To the left, a descent.

  We went down.

  The paladins peeled away one by one, vanishing through adjoining corridors—towards barracks, training halls, study rooms, places only they knew. Only Graveth remained with us. And strangely, we were unshackled.

  No manacles. No bindings. We walked freely.

  Even Jorguh—silent and brooding—made no sound. His lack of protest was almost louder than if he’d roared. That, more than anything, gave me pause.

  Down we went, deeper into the heart of the Temple.

  The second subterranean floor bloomed with life. Not devotion—but cultivation. Rows of plants. Herbs. Alchemical greenery lined the chamber, grown in magically lit plots and ceramic basins. The air was warm, humid, rich with the tang of life and tincture. Women in white robes moved among the growth, whispering to one another as they snipped leaves, crushed petals, measured oils. Priests, healers, herbalists—whatever they were, they gave us little more than passing glances.

  Beyond them, a chamber sat behind a translucent curtain of light.

  I stared toward it.

  “Your friend is in there,” Graveth said, following my gaze. “It’s the healing room.”

  I nodded slowly. “Is he alone?”

  “No. Your companions are with him.”

  “Can we go now?” I asked, more eager than I expected to sound.

  Graveth shook his head gently. “Later. Not now. Please—follow me.”

  Jorguh obeyed without question, and I followed as well. No reason to resist. Not anymore.

  We descended once more.

  The lowest level bore no gold, no platinum, no divine sculpture. It was stone, polished but bare. A dungeon, in the loosest sense of the word. Yet even here, there were no bars. No chains. No cells.

  There were five rooms. And when I stepped into one, I nearly laughed.

  This was no prison.

  It was a suite.

  A palatial room, larger than most nobleman’s chambers I had seen. A bed large enough to fit a bear, clothed in silver-threaded silk. The walls bore ornamental silver linings, and the floor was spotless marble. A bathroom sat partitioned to the side—open now—complete with a bathtub that steamed faintly and a toilet carved of ivory-like stone.

  “I apologize that there is no daylight here,” Graveth said behind me.

  I turned. “This is my prison?”

  He smiled, just faintly. “No. This is your room. You are in custody of the Temple, not imprisoned. We do not keep prisons.”

  Jorguh remained silent still. That, again, was strange. Off-putting, even.

  “Rest,” Graveth continued. “Bathe. Clean yourself. When you are ready, come up to the main hall. Food will be prepared. You are free to walk within the temple and its underground levels. You may not go to the third floor.”

  He turned on his heel and left.

  House arrest? No.

  Villa arrest.

  Better than I could have hoped for. Rest. Food. Manach alive and being tended to. My companions safe. I could feel my mind beginning to breathe again. The pressure behind my eyes lessened.

  Jorguh entered his own room without a word and shut the door.

  Still silent. Still strange.

  But I let it go. For now.

  I nodded to Graveth’s retreating back, a quiet thanks, and stepped into my room. The door closed with a hushed whisper behind me.

  I stripped down, bathed—deeply—relieved myself, and finally, finally, lay down. The mattress greeted me like it remembered me from another life.

  As my head sank into the pillow, I felt my bones hum in relief, every muscle shuddering under the sudden permission to rest.

  And then, without thought or effort…

  …I slept.