The old man in the iron cell stepped forward, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. As he approached, the flickering lantern light began to paint his face in slow detail—shadows dancing across age-worn features.
He stood about 5'11", with the kind of posture that had once been proud and commanding but now bore the weight of time and regret. Deep wrinkles framed his blue eyes, and his long, tangled gray hair hung like a forgotten banner of a fallen knight.
Michael, who had been casually leaning against the far wall, stiffened the moment their eyes met. For a second, his back pressed flat against the cold stone behind him—reflex, instinct. But then he shook off the tension, stepped forward, and reached for the lantern that still glowed warm in his hand.
He walked slowly toward the cell, each step scraping softly across ancient stone. The light danced between them, pushing away the gloom as he stopped before the iron bars.
The old man cracked a tired smile. "Well, well. Look what the light dragged in. Long time, brat."
Michael snorted. "Nice to see you too, Tom. Still not dead?"
Thomas Dias. Once known as the Mind Walker. A name spoken with awe—or dread—depending on the coast you were standing on.
A former Pope of the Morning Cathedral, the grand seat of worship for the God of Light—one of the Twelve, the fifth in rank and one of the most powerful among the pantheon.
Unlike the Blood-born Walkers, Thomas hadn't inherited ancient power through lineage. He had been born a regular nobleman, with nothing more than a sharp mind, a silver tongue, and an unusual glint in his eye. But the God of Light had seen something in him. Chosen him. Blessed him. And through that divine will, Thomas awakened.
A true Walker—not by blood, but by miracle.
While Blood-born Walkers could progress by breaking their inherited seals, Walkers like Thomas had no such chain to shatter. Their powers emerged either by divine blessing... or by devouring the heart of a Blessed. And only Blessed Walkers—not blood-born—held the spark strong enough to spark such rebirth.
Thomas was the only one in history ever awakened by the God of Light himself.
Of course, that didn't matter much in the southern Imperium, where the Luminath family reigned as Light Walkers by birthright. Or in Centarious, where Michael's own family bore Sun-blessed blood. But in the northern and eastern reaches, where no divine blood flowed and the churches had no pope, Thomas had been their symbol. Their shepherd.
Until he went mad.
It happened after a journey north, to a distant church on the edge of civilization. When he returned... he wasn't the same.
Something had twisted.
He slaughtered every believer in that church. Man, woman, child. No sermon. No warning. Only light—and then ashes.
The Imperium was shaken. The Church tried to erase the incident, but rumors never die. Especially when the murderer was once the holiest man in the land.
Michael's father had personally locked Thomas in the deepest cell of the Blood Keep, unsure whether to pity him… or fear him.
And now here Michael stood, face to face with that same man, the "Mad Pope" himself—grinning at him like they were old drinking buddies at a tavern.
"Still grinning, huh?" Michael said, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't expect holy genocide to leave you so cheerful."
Tom chuckled, low and rasping. "Oh, I've missed that silver tongue of yours."
Michael smirked. "And I've missed your charming hobby of mass murder. Really keeps family reunions spicy."
Tom leaned in, eyes sharpening. "You didn't crawl down here just to trade barbs."
"No," Michael said, the humor sliding from his face. "I came looking for someone. But instead, I found you."
"Maybe," Tom said softly, "what you're looking for is already here. Just... not the way you expect."
Michael frowned. "Cut the cryptic crap, old man. You're creeping me out."
Tom laughed again, the sound echoing off stone—too loud, too long. "Still so easy to rattle, Little Fang."
Michael sighed. "Don't call me that."
"How long do you think I've been down here?" Tom asked suddenly, tilting his head.
Michael crossed his arms. "Since you went off the deep end and lit up a congregation like a bonfire."
"Careful with that tone," Tom said, his grin sharp. "You're not nearly as clever as you think."
"Lucky for me, you're not nearly as sane as you used to be."
They let the silence sit. The lantern crackled, casting dancing shadows across the iron.
"Alright," Michael said finally. "Let's get to it. Who else have you seen down here? Who came before me, and where the hell did they go?"
Tom's face shifted. The amusement drained out, replaced by something still and watchful.
"I'll tell you," he said. "But why do you care?"
Michael started to speak—"The thing is—"
"Don't lie," Tom cut in, tapping his temple. "Mind Walker, remember? I'll know."
Michael rolled his eyes. "Alright, fine."
He gave the condensed version. The maid. Her eyes. The attack. He left the story vague where it needed to be, but enough of the truth slipped through.
Tom listened, then burst into laughter so hard he had to lean against the bars. "A maid tried to kill you on her first day? That's so like you it hurts. I love her already."
Michael stared flatly. "You do know I could starve you, right?"
Tom wiped at his eyes. "And miss our delightful chats? Don't be cruel."
Michael stepped forward. His voice was low now, serious. "You said two people came here. Who?"
Tom's smile twisted—warped into something crooked and unnatural.
"They went down," he said softly.
Michael tensed. "Down where?"
Tom's eyes reflected the lantern's glow. For a heartbeat, his pupils narrowed to slits.
"Below the Keep. Below the stone and the blood. Into the hollow," he murmured. "Where the light won't go. Where the Dream sleeps thin."
He leaned close, close enough for Michael to catch the faint scent of incense and rust.
I warned them," Tom whispered. "The girl had stars in her blood. The boy... he cast no shadow."
Michael blinked. "What the hell does that even mean?"
Tom grinned wider. "You'll see."