Upon entering the old stone building, Kael was met with a lively, bustling atmosphere. The vast, open space stretched upward, its ceiling towering tens of meters above. Rows of market stalls lined the hall, each overflowing with goods as merchants called out to passersby. The air buzzed with overlapping voices, some engaged in casual conversation, others locked in heated bargaining. Children, brimming with energy, darted through the crowd without a care, forcing bystanders to step aside as they rushed past. Each wall of the open space was adorned with three massive stained-glass windows, their vibrant colors casting shifting patterns of light across the stone floor. The intricate artwork depicted scenes from a long-forgotten religion, the images arranged in a sequence that seemed to tell a story.

  The first window depicted a man standing alone in a barren field, his head bowed beneath a broken black halo. Cracks ran through it like fractured glass, with tiny fragments and black dust constantly shedding from its form. His face was carved with sorrow, and though his expression never changed, tears poured endlessly down his cheeks. In his trembling hands, he held a golden bag, its surface marred by long, deep scratches, as if something inside had tried to claw its way out. Above him, the sky swirled with faceless figures, watching in silence.

  The second window showed the man kneeling before a great black tree, its roots writhing like serpents beneath the cracked earth. The golden bag lay open at its base, its contents spilled upon the ground, something dark, writhing, and indistinct, seeping into the soil. His hands were outstretched in supplication, though no one could say whether he was offering or begging. His tears fell into the blackened roots, and the faceless figures had drawn closer, their forms stretching unnaturally.

  The third window revealed the tree bearing fruit, luminous and red, like swollen hearts dripping with thick, black veins. The man, his halo shedding more fragments with each passing moment, reached for one. Behind him, the faceless figures loomed, and for the first time, their mouths were visible, gaping wide, screaming in soundless agony. His tears did not cease.

  In the fourth window, the man had taken a bite of the fruit. His body was splitting open down the middle, hollowed like a husk, yet he did not fall. From the gaping wound in his torso, golden light spilled forth, twisting and writhing until it took the shape of an inhuman figure with many hands. The faceless figures had now prostrated themselves before it. The man, his black halo still cracking and crumbling away, only continued to weep.

  The fifth window was the most disturbing. The tree had withered, its once-reaching branches now twisted into clawed hands. The many-handed figure had turned upon the kneeling masses, and they were burning, flames of white and gold consuming them from the inside out. The man, still standing, remained untouched by the fire. His tears had become rivers, flowing into the open mouths of the dying, as if his sorrow was the only mercy left to give.

  Above his head, the black halo continued to crack, never stopping, never ceasing. Jagged fractures split across its surface, and with each moment, tiny fragments flaked away, dissolving into dust that rained down in an endless, silent cascade. Yet, despite its constant shattering, it never crumbled, never broke entirely—never lost its form. It simply cracked, over and over again, as if bound to an eternity of breaking without end.

  The final window showed the man with the black halo alone again, standing in the same barren field as before. The golden bag had returned to his hands, bound shut once more. The faceless figures had vanished, replaced by nameless gravestones stretching endlessly into the horizon. The sky above was empty. And still, the man wept.

  As Kael walked through the repurposed church, he arrived at a small stall displaying handcrafted jewelry made from a variety of materials. The vendor, an old man with deep wrinkles etched around his eyes, was carefully carving a delicate piece from bone. Noticing Kael’s presence, the man offered a warm smile and a polite nod.

  Kael returned the gesture with a simple nod of his own before sliding a small paper ticket across the table. The old man glanced at it briefly before tucking it into the breast pocket of his shirt. Without a word, he retrieved a small cloth sack and handed it to Kael. He weighed it loosely in his palm, then turned and walked away.

  —

  Tossing the cloth sack onto the table, a few gold coins spilled out, rolling across the surface. Kael made his way to the bathroom, turning on the tap for the bathtub. He sat on the edge, absentmindedly holding his finger under the stream, waiting for the water to reach the right temperature.

  As he waited, he let his mind drift, his thoughts wandering to meaningless places, slipping between fragments of memory and idle speculation. The steady sound of flowing water filled the quiet space.

  Once the temperature was just right, he let the tub continue to fill before leaving the bathroom and heading toward the kitchen.

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  Reaching the kitchen, he grabbed a few simple ingredients, intending to throw together a quick meal to satisfy his hunger. As they hit the hot oil in the pan, a rich aroma filled the air, spreading through the kitchen in warm, inviting waves.

  As the meal sizzled and cooked, the warmth of the kitchen made the space feel momentarily comforting. He plated the food without much thought, eating in quiet solitude, letting the simple flavors ground him in the present. The rhythmic clinking of his utensils against the plate was the only sound accompanying him.

  Once finished, he set the dish aside, rinsing it briefly before stepping away. The distant sound of running water reminded him of the bath still filling.

  Returning to the bathroom, he turned off the tap, steam curling into the air, wrapping around him like a thin veil. Slowly, he shed his clothes and stepped into the tub, the heat sinking into his skin, easing the tension from his muscles. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, letting the warmth envelop him as his mind began to drift once more.

  After a long while, he opened his eyes and raised his hand above the water, summoning one of his motes in its true form. At his silent command, a faint, shimmering sensation stirred deep within him, deeper than his abdomen, as if it resonated from the very core of his soul. The warmth unfurled, spreading from within, trailing up his spine, through his shoulders, and down his arm before finally pooling in his palm.

  Within his palm, golden sparks flickered into existence, swirling around an unseen center as if drawn by an invisible force. They spiraled inward, guided by a pull beyond understanding, converging into a single form. The sparks wove together, coalescing into a small sphere no larger than a pea.

  At first glance, the mote appeared to be woven together by thin threads, no thicker than a strand of hair. Yet, upon closer inspection, the true nature of those threads became elusive, a puzzle beyond comprehension, as if they existed on the edge of perception, their substance shifting between reality and something far more unknowable. The mote cast ever-shifting shadows across his palm, their shapes twisting and morphing in ways that defied comprehension.

  Motes were the very essence of the earth, embodying the countless laws that governed this world, mystical fragments of reality itself. Yet, among all living beings, only humans had the ability to wield them.

  Unlike beasts, who acted on instinct alone, humans possessed something more—consciousness, reason, and the capacity for will. They could reflect, dream, and impose their desires upon the world. It was this very spark of awareness, this defiance against the natural order, that allowed them to grasp the motes and shape their power. Beasts could bear strength, speed, and ferocity, but they could never command the laws themselves. That privilege belonged to humanity alone.

  If Kael were to summon the mote beyond its true form, it would take the shape of a golden rod, reaching two arm’s lengths in perfect balance. Its surface held a muted glow, not from reflected light, but from something within, a quiet radiance that never flickered. Both ends were flat and smooth as if cut by an impossibly sharp edge, too precise, too seamless to be made by mortal hands.

  Faint patterns traced along its length, shifting subtly like whispers caught in metal, their meanings just out of reach. Though it felt weightless in his grip, there was a sense of density to it, as if it carried more than just its physical form. Not quite a weapon, nor just an ornament, but something in between, an object shaped by the unseen forces that governed the world.

  Throwing it one last glance, Kael dismissed the golden rod, already willing his second and final mote into its true form. At his silent command, the familiar warmth flared to life, flowing through him like a slow-burning ember before pooling in his palm. Sparks flickered into existence, delicate and erratic, dancing in the air as they obeyed his will, weaving together as the mote slowly began to take shape.

  In his hand, a fractured obsidian shard took shape, a jagged sliver no larger than a fingernail, yet impossibly sharp. Its surface was riddled with fine cracks, shifting ever so subtly, as if it existed in multiple places at once, slipping between reality's seams.

  Kael didn’t dare to touch it directly, so he dismissed it and instead summoned it in its bound form. No physical object appeared in his hand, yet he felt its presence in his fingertips, an acute awareness that went beyond mere touch. Every sensation became heightened, refined to near perfection.

  If his fingers brushed against his clothes, he could perceive each individual thread, how they intertwined, how they shifted with the slightest movement. If he rested his palm against the bathtub, he didn’t just feel its smooth surface, he understood its density, the resistance it offered, the precise amount of pressure needed to crack it. Had he placed his hand upon his own chest, he would have known the rhythm of his heartbeat, the flow of his blood, the expansion of his lungs with each breath.

  After dismissing his second mote, Kael sank into deep thought once again. At a glance, these motes might not have seemed particularly special, but to Kael, they were invaluable. These were the two motes he had received upon awakening, and becoming a luminaire, his soulbound motes.

  Throughout the world, there were countless motes, each carrying unique abilities, each shaping the fate of those who wielded them. But the motes granted at one’s awakening were different. They were not chosen, not earned, but bestowed, an intrinsic part of one's being, as if the world itself had whispered its decree into their soul.

  These motes were special for one simple reason. While all other motes remained unchanged from the moment they were obtained, these alone had the ability to evolve. As a Luminaire grew stronger, their soul bound motes grew with them, adapting, refining, and deepening in power alongside their wielder. They were more than mere tools; they were a reflection of one’s very essence, mirroring their growth, struggles, and victories. Because of this, every Luminaire held their core motes closer than anything else, treasuring them as an irreplaceable part of themselves, an extension of their soul, bound to them for life.