And the sky remained still.
Songs drifted through the morning air. The scent of fresh bread, ritual blossoms, and synthetic incense mingled with the sterile breeze filtered through the Dome’s vents. Everything shimmered. Everything smiled.
Kael moved slowly down the main ramp, eyes unfocused, arms slack at his sides.
Around him, children raced with trails of light wrapped around their wrists — photonic ribbons that flickered as they ran. They laughed beneath painted masks, dressed in costumes stitched with ancestral symbols. Mechanical birds flew overhead, casting luminescent patterns on the glass walls of the enclave. Flags lined every street. And the word Unity hung on every surface like a prayer.
But Kael saw only shadows.
The Festival of Unity was meant to celebrate the “eternal harmony” between the three Clans.
A beautiful lie. Rehearsed. Recited.
The tournament beginning tomorrow was officially described as a sacred dance — an offering of courage and excellence.
But Kael was beginning to understand otherwise.
A group of young trainees practiced nearby in a circle. One of them, shirtless, carved fluid arcs into the dust with a training blade. His movements were sharp, deliberate. The others clapped and whistled. Kael recognized a girl from his cohort among them. Her smile was too bright to be honest.
“He’ll be chosen for sure. Flame Clan’s backing him this year.”
“His sister fought, remember?”
“She never came back.”
Silence. Brief. Uncomfortable.
Kael turned away.
He walked on, toward the Square of Offerings. At the center stood a great circular altar, veiled in translucent cloth. Twelve urns sat in a perfect ring, each one containing tightly rolled scrolls, sealed with shimmering glyphs in every color of the spectrum.
A little boy ran up, dragging his younger sister by the hand.
He pointed at one of the urns, beaming.
“Look! That’s Aunt Mera’s name!”
The girl frowned.
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“Mama said we shouldn’t read the names out loud…”
“But she was chosen, right? She left this morning. That’s what Mama said. The gods needed her.”
Kael felt his stomach twist.
He remembered Mera. She had rocked him to sleep when his mother was away.
She wasn’t old. She wasn’t sick.
She was simply… gone.
Offered.
And no one mourned her.
He walked away.
Farther on, near a pool of ceremonial water, two hooded figures poured a translucent liquid into the basin. One of them whispered to the other — words too soft to catch. Kael watched as the water curled into a faint blue whirlpool. Then stilled.
A sharp, acrid scent stung his nose.
Poison?
No. Not here.
…And yet.
He stepped back slowly. No one seemed to notice.
Behind him, voices rose:
“This year, we need to meet the quota before the second trial.”
“The Council was clear. No exceptions — not even for the younger ones.”
Kael turned his head. Two elders, masks lifted, were speaking in low voices. Their eyes passed over him, distant, empty. They did not see him.
He became silence.
He drifted onward.
Down a narrow side street, he caught a glimpse of her: Lyra.
He knew that walk — like she was always one breath above the ground.
Lyra, daughter of the Root Clan’s Chief. Distant. Untouchable. Always watching before she struck.
She wasn’t wearing her ceremonial uniform yet. Just a plain white tunic, unmarked by any insignia. Her hair was pulled into a neat twist. Her eyes moved across the crowd, sharp and calculating.
Then she saw him.
And she didn’t smile.
She didn’t look away.
And something in Kael’s chest shuddered.
A heartbeat. But not his own.
Later, at the training esplanade, the elite of his age group performed ritual combat forms. They moved in a perfect circle, blades slicing through the air like choreography. Each movement was greeted with cheers from the watching crowd.
Kael did not join them.
He sat on a low wall, far from the center.
He recognized the moves. He had been trained in them. He knew how to turn, how to breathe, how to simulate grace.
But today, every motion seemed hollow. Scripted. Mechanical.
In the crowd, a man with pale hair stood watching him. Tall. Still. Hands clasped behind his back. No insignia marked his robe, yet he radiated power.
Kael looked away.
The final exhibition match was announced. Two fighters stepped into the ring: a muscular boy, body tattooed — and Lyra.
She entered the circle.
Silence fell like a curtain.
Then came the blur: metal clashing against metal. The boy roared. Lyra said nothing. Her movements were fluid, composed, almost slow. But then — all at once — the boy collapsed to one knee, gasping, defeated.
No blood.
But something had broken.
A ripple passed through the crowd.
“He didn’t last?”
“They say he fainted this morning…”
“His flask… wasn’t it supposed to be pure water?”
Kael felt a chill creep down the back of his neck.
At the center of the circle, Lyra raised her gaze.
And this time, he understood.
She had been sent.
She was watching him.
He rose, silently. Faded into the crowd like mist.
Above him, the sky still shone. Motionless. Unchanged.
But Kael…
Kael was breathing.
And each breath felt heavier than the last.
The tournament had not yet begun.
And already, the war had begun within him.
— The Architect of the Dome