The grass turned brittle under my knees, my thoughts unraveled and my grip on Luminaris began to crumble.
I didn't have long with him.
"Luca… I'm sorry," I sobbed, clutching at his pearl-white clothes. "I wish— I wish you were here."
Tears spattered the grass. I lifted my face to him.
"Cassian… why are you sorry?" he asked. He smiled—sad, tired, gentle.
"Cass, I'll never die. You keep me alive."
He tipped his head toward the false sun above us. "The sun is such a beautiful thing."
The room shuddered. The light flickered like a candle about to gutter turning gold to white. Luca's body began to shrink in my arms, as if the world were pulling him through a pinhole and taking my hands with him.
"No… no, no—Luca, don't leave. Not again—please, Luca!" I shouted, tightening my hold as if force could slow the collapse. The room pitched; the garden smell went thin; the warmth went with him.
And my Luminaris broke.
I let myself fall back into the void and closed my eyes.
Just hoping—this once—someone would catch me.
When I opened them, the dark was still absolute, but a pinprick of white glowed below, drawing closer. It quickened—swelling from speck to circle—and then I crested its rim as if breaching the mouth of a crater.
I was seated before the white-stitched man.
He sat opposite, writing on parchment. He didn't look at me—at least, it didn't seem so behind that featureless face. He dipped his quill, lifted it, and blew. Somehow, air passed through the mask; the ink skim dried with a soft sheen.
I looked past him, ignoring the weight of his presence. A small office—tight but full. Bookshelves lining every wall. A low, chimney-style fire to my left, the heat gentle on my cheek. The place had a principal's-office feeling: tidy, patient, and already certain of my guilt.
The quill's scratching finally pulled my eyes to the page. I leaned in, reading the upside-down lines:
Name — Cassian? May be an alias.
Cassian is a stray. He possesses Luminaris.
"No peeking," he said, not lifting his head, the nib never pausing.
"Yes… sorry," I answered, too casually, like talking to a friend.
Ink, dip, scratch—time stretched thin. My palms sweated; patience frayed. At last he set the quill down and laced his gloved fingers on the desk. The crescent-stitched mask faced me—blank, precise. He cleared his throat.
"Hello, Cassian. I am the Keeper of Records for the Inquisition of the Purgy." He rose with formal ease and offered his hand. "It is very nice to meet you."
I stood and shook it. The glove was cool, perfectly fitted.
"It's nice to meet you, Keeper of Records. If thats the name you prefer?" I asked, surprised by the small ease I felt around him.
"For the record, Keeper will suffice." He squared the ledger to a perfect edge. "Now—let us proceed."
He slipped a silver coin from his pocket, flicked it into the air, and caught it on the back of his hand, palm covering the face. I stared, unsure.
"If this coin shows the moon," he said, "you are granted a single conversation with me—no repercussions, no documentation. If it shows the cross, every word is recorded, and every lie is nullified." A beat. "Do you accept this wager?"
"Uh… yes?" I said, not entirely certain what I'd agreed to.
He lifted his hand.
"It seems," he said, head tilting a degree, "it has landed on the moon?" The last word rose slightly, as if the featureless mask could look perplexed. The silver disk glowed dull and soft—crescent etched so fine it almost disappeared.
"Well then ask away." He said sitting back down.
I couldn't think. Not one question made it to my mouth.
The Keeper broke the silence first.
"Cassian, as a Stillkin, it is common to be a stray. All Stillkin have a chance to possess Luminaris. Beyond the Wall, however, Luminaris is… dormant." He exhaled. "The gods cannot see, hear, or touch your world. So the reason you wield this power would seem simple: you are a stray from a world without gods."
He paused, hands straightening on the desk.
"And yet I feel differently. As Keeper, I hold the records, documents, and histories the Purgy has obtained." A measured beat. "You are the one and only Stillkin within these borders. It does not happen—because all here fear and loathe them. Lord Qassi allowed you to remain knowing you might possess this power. He is not a merciful man. He does not often bend."
His gloved fingers tapped the margin once.
"So. May I ask the first question?"
"You may," I said, still reeling.
"What is your family name?"
I hesitated. He already knew I wasn't Qahir's son—and something in his poise said he knew what I really was.
"You can say it truthfully," the Keeper said. "You don't need to fear me. Remember the wager." His tone softened to pedagogy. "It is a pact between my god and yours."
He lifted the coin so the crescent caught the firelight.
"The coin only lands on the moon if you carry divine blood."
The room seemed to shrink around the word. My mouth went dry.
He waited—patient, precise.
"Your family name, Cassian," he said. "Say it." There was a live current under the calm, a quiet excitement for whatever answer I gave.
I shrank under the tension and finally let go of the truth I'd hidden too long. "It's Cassian… Cassian Sol."
I blinked and watched him. No flinch. No tilt. Only a light tap of one gloved finger on the ledger.
"Is that so."
Silence crowded the room. Nothing killed me. I let myself breathe.
"At any rate," he said, voice returning to even and dry, "a pact is a pact. I cannot repeat those words. But our conversation ends here."
He took the coin and stood it on its edge, balanced, ready to flip to the other side.
"Please—wait." The words rushed out of me. "I know nothing. I need answers. Why is my name both important and a burden? I need to know at least something."
I stood fast enough that my hands slapped the desk.
He set the coin spinning between fingertip and wood. "You are very pushy—and indescribably impatient. That will go in your file," he said, coin humming. "I will give you one answer to one question."
Now the questions came like a flood. A hundred at once—and none I could choose. I forced them back, sifted hard, until one rose clear.
"Who exactly is the Goddess of Sol?"
The Keeper sat up, ready—almost relieved by the simplicity. Grabbing a book from the shelf behind him.
"Per the record," he said, voice even, "She is the First Light—the source from which all else descends. She birthed three firstborn: two sons and one daughter—Kentaurus, Toliman, and Centauri. From them, the line branched outward; with each generation the potency diminished, as is the nature of emanations."
He turned a page
"In time, the firstborn grew restless. After aeons of creation without counterweight, they asked their Mother: Why permit only birth and never unmaking? She answered with silence."
A measured breath.
"Resentment took root. The three conspired, and by concord of their courts they bound Her within the sun—a radiant prison. Since then, all star-gods bargain, measure, and wage order beneath a sky fueled by the One they sealed."
He glanced at the coin, the crescent catching firelight once. "That is all the record holds on the First Light. Our conversation ends here." He flipped the coin, closing the book. "Now I must take my leave. Unless…" He rose, a touch of weariness in the motion. "I am tired—and require a drink. Since our talk ended early on account of your…" a regretful exhale, "confession… Would you care to join me? I'm very lonely in these false walls."
"False walls?" I asked.
He clapped once.
The office dissolved into a bar—polished wood, brass rails, bottles lined like soldiers. Not a tavern: too clean, too precise. A snap, and my chair remained; a table slid into being before me. Another snap: a second chair appeared. He sat.
Snap. A tumbler materialized in his gloved hand; another thumped down in front of me, beside a bottle sealed in red wax: Maker's Mark. The label was in English.
"Sorry, Keeper. I'm too young. I am starving, though," I said into the hush.
I'd never touched alcohol—Metania's spirals were warning enough.
"It's never too early to start drinking," he said mildly. Another snap, and a plated meal arrived: seared meat, vegetables set like a diagram. "If you don't want to, that is fine." He tilted the tumbler at his mask as if throwing it at himself. The liquid vanished on contact.
"How does your face… work?" I asked.
He set the glass on the table and folded his hands beneath his chin. "Not a strange question, when you see a Condemned eat or drink." He stripped the wax, uncorked the bottle, and poured. "I don't know how it works. I only know that it does. Everything but the physical sensation of opening a mouth—metal on teeth, glass on lips—functions." He threw the drink again. And again. Twelve, before I stopped counting.
I picked up the fork and started to eat.
"You… should try some of this Maker's Mark," he slurred gently, twirling the bottle like a bored child. "It comes from your world, this bottle. It is my favorite liquor of all."
I shook my head and kept eating. The food was real—heat, salt, the char at the edge of the cut. I tried not to think about how the bar wasn't.
But his persistence sparked my curiosity about how it tasted—the liquor.
"Hand me the bottle, Keeper. I'll try some."
"Better yet, I'll pour," he said, suddenly excited, tipping the bottle to fill my glass.
I lifted it in a small toast and set the rim to my lips.