To Awaken under a lightless flame.....

The altar sank into the ground as grooves spread outward from the circular pit that had once surrounded it.

These grooves mirrored the pit's unseen depths—untraceable and unknowable. Even as the transformation took place, the surrounding space remained unchanged.

The wind did not alter its course, still whispering softly as it moved.

There was no grand phenomenon, no overwhelming aura. Yet the excitement of the worshippers knew no bounds.

Even the last figure, who had remained motionless until now, showed brief fluctuations as his body trembled more visibly due to the excitement he hid. 

The grooves carried with them the echoes of silent screams and the faint sloshing sounds that emanated from deep within. Meanwhile, the altar expanded, morphing into a massive crucible, smooth in its texture yet mundane in its make.

"Thank you, silent Lord. Thank you for your blessing."

A mournful wail escaped the bounds of reality for a few moments, only to be snuffed out so suddenly by an ancient might.

Silence returned to the cathedral.

Moments later, a large yet eerily muted crucible took shape, condensed from the Aether that shifted between veils. The Aether had neither form nor color; it neither shone nor cast darkness. It gave off no warmth, nor was it cold. It made no sound, yet there was no silence.

The crucible was a work of art—a masterpiece of simplicity.

If art could ever find beauty in something so bland.

For an altar of the Diearch, it was almost... disappointing.

Its formation was brief and unremarkable, neither divine nor ostentatious—yet the figures surrounding it only grew more solemn, their reverence deepening.

The leading figure, who had now been known as the Father to the only female in the Cathedral, stood before the silent crucible, raising his hands as if reaching for the heavens. Yet, above him, there were no skies, only the spiraling ceilings of the underground cathedral.

And there, lining the cathedral walls, lay the true source of horror.

Strung up along the simply adorned walls were grosteque beings of all shapes and sizes. Their forms were so monstrous that only the strongest of minds could bear to look upon them.

Captured fresh from the battlefield like livestock, these beings would curse the day they had set foot in Astrea.

They hung from chains, their limbs nailed into the walls by an unseen force. The mysterious chains left no marks upon the cathedral's walls, but they had long since bitten into the flesh of their captives, exposing gleaming bones of obsidian and corrupted bronze.

Some of the creatures dangled at sickening angles, their throats gripped by iron collars. The chains at their feet held them firmly, preventing them from plumenting headfirst onto the marbled floors of the cathedral, in the case where weight and gravity proved too much a nuisance. 

Their insides spilled forth, suspended midair by thick cords of flesh and sinew, refusing to give way to weight and physical laws.

What should have been a blessing—this durability—had instead become their greatest curse. A toll meant to extend their torment for as long as their vitality could them in the realm of the living.

They were trapped in eternal torment.

Yet no matter how much agony they endured, no scream ever escaped them.

Their tongues had been torn out, their throats slit and their vocal cords removed, in a brutal show of sanctity for the cathedral

And so they could only writhe in silent suffering, their bodies grinding against the very chains that bound them—tearing into flesh, scraping against bones.

They did not struggle to live; no, they struggled to die, to end their lives sooner, to end this horendous torment.

Whoever said that monsters did not know true horror once they set their eyes upon it? These people were the true horror!

Some had long succeeded. Their lifeless bodies dangled, limp, and motionless, but one could feel the final relief that hung around their corspes even in death.

They had escaped! If only to die.

But even death was no escape, for far worse awaited them on the other side of the Vale.

Their corpses soon dissolved, their former forms liquefying in a grosteque process before merging with the walls—dripping, flowing—until they joined the circular ditch that surrounded the altar-turned crucible. 

Becoming part of the hidden mysteries behind this ritual

The standing figure—the father—then turned away from the fresh sacrifices, his expression unreadable. Yet within him there was great satisfaction.

This surge had brought with it far better offerings than any other. 

And now, with his future son-in-law joining their fold and the potential buried within him. He was certain that unprecedented power would awaken within the young man under the Light of the Silent Lord.

After ensuring that everything was in place, he stepped away from the crucible.

He moved deeper into the shadows, his form vanishing into the darkness.

"You know what to do, Rena."

"I don't need to tell you to fulfill your role well."

His voice echoed through the cathedral, yet no reverberation followed.

The young woman bowed her head slightly.

"Yes, Father, leave it all to me."

"I will ensure Romeon's awakening goes smoothly."

"Good."

With that, the father's presence faded, swallowed by silence.

An oppressive atmosphere setled over the cathedral.

Even now, the other figure, who had remained kneeling, had yet to speak, yet to react as they discussed him in earnest.

His only movement was the faint trembling of his body.

But Rena did not concern herself with his thoughts.

Slowly, she rose to her feet.

With measured steps, she approached the crucible.

Her hips swayed with an elegance that carried an undertone of something far more dangerous.

Something bloodcurling in its allure.

And with each step, her form shifted. Her curves growing more pronouced, a sweet, intoxicating scent wasfted from her being.

The aroma spread through the cathedral, thickening the air and making it heavier—more... ambigious.

A fire ignited within the kneeling figure.

His thoughts blurred, his perception shifting between reality and desire. Fantasies unfolded before his mind's eye, so vividly real that he barely knew whether he was imagining them or being consumed by them.

And yet...

He did not resist

This was the Cardinal Princess

What man in his right mind wouldn't desire this temptress?

She was young, yet she was already the object of every man's longing.

And all he had to do to claim this untouchable woman was to become part of the Duke's family—her betrothed.

It was hardly a loss in his view.

Just as she neared the crucible, her hood slipped from her head, fallling like gentle waves cascading down her back.

Gliding off her body in the most seductive of sights.

Her golden braids spilled forth, radiant in the dim light.

Turning her head slightly, she glanced over her shoulder, her cheeks tinged with a soft, inviting blush

And then she spoke—her voice like silk, delicate yet heavy with meaning.

"So, Romeon..."

"Do you need an invitation?"