The old man in the iron cell stepped forward, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. As he approached, the flickering lantern light painted his face in slow, deliberate strokes—shadows dancing across age-worn features.
He stood about 5'11", with the posture of someone who had once carried pride and authority, now bent beneath the weight of years and regret. Deep lines framed his piercing blue eyes, and his long, tangled gray hair hung like a forgotten banner of a fallen knight. A faded, ashen-gray robe draped over his thin frame.
Michael, who had been casually leaning against the far wall, stiffened the moment their eyes met. For a second, he pressed his back flat against the cold stone—reflex, instinct. But then he shook it off, stepped forward, and raised the lantern he held, its warmth pushing back the creeping dark.
He moved slowly toward the cell, each step whispering against the ancient stone. When he reached the iron bars, he stopped.
The old man smiled—a tired, crooked thing.
"Well, well," he rasped. "Look what the light dragged in. Long time, brat."
Michael snorted. "Nice to see you too, Tom. Still not dead?"
Thomas Dias. Once called the Mind Walker. A name spoken with awe—or dread—depending on which coast you stood.
He had once been the Pope of the Morning Cathedral, the grand seat of worship for the God of Light, the Eye of the Maker—one of the Five Old Gods in the Twelve.
The Twelve Gods were divided into two: the Old Gods and the New. The Old Gods were the first five, birthed before the sun, before the world itself—pure aspects of creation. The New Gods came after the world's shaping, protectors of what had been formed. Though weaker than their predecessors, the New Gods were known for their compassion, their closeness to mortals. It was said they once walked among men, shaping the world and enforcing the Maker's will.
And then—one day—they vanished.
The Astrion Imperium, like much of the world, worshipped only the New Gods. Only one exception remained: the God of Light.
Unlike the Blood-born Walkers, Thomas had not inherited ancient magic through bloodline. He was one of the rare exceptions—a Walker chosen, not born. A noble by birth, clever and silver-tongued, with a strange glint always flickering in his eye. The God of Light had seen something in him. Chosen him. Blessed him.
And through that divine will, Thomas had awakened.
A true Walker—not by blood, but by miracle.
Where Blood-born Walkers progressed by breaking inherited seals, Walkers like Thomas had no such chains to shatter. Their power either emerged at birth or arrived as divine blessing. Only a true Walker—not one born of lineage—could ignite such a spark of rebirth.
Thomas was the only man in recorded history to be awakened by the God of Light himself.
He was a Mind Walker—a type of divine anomaly. Those like him didn't possess seals, making them more akin to Binders, who used the structured form of new magic, than to traditional Walkers. The difference? A true Mind Walker could mimic the abilities of mythical creatures by manipulating raw, ancient magic.
Thomas had mimicked the powers of the giant serpent of the Frozen Bloody River in the North.
Not that it mattered much in the old Celesto of the Imperium, where the Luminath family held dominion as Light Walkers by blood. And the Centarious family, where Michael's own kin bore the Sun-blessed lineage.
But in the forgotten north and east, where divine miracle or half-blood never flowed and the churches had no popes, Thomas had been more than a legend. He had been a shepherd. And a symbol.
Until he went mad.
It happened after a journey north, to a distant church on the edge of the blood-frozen lake. When he returned... he wasn't the same.
Something had twisted.
He slaughtered every believer in that Morning Cathedral in the valley of Calvary Mountain. 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."