Erevan

The sanctuary is too quiet for a place meant to house living prophecy. Light filters in through the high lattice windows like dust-thin threads, turning the air pale and weightless. The stone floor beneath him is polished smooth by centuries of circling pilgrims; it holds the faint chill of places never touched by sunlight. Incense smoke drifts in long, translucent ribbons—silver-gray curls that warp around him before thinning into nothing. Each breath carries that sharp, metallic sweetness the temple is known for, the scent that clings to anyone who dares ask the future to answer. He stands alone at the center of the chamber, exactly where the carved sunburst on the floor radiates outward. The intricate device around his throat gleams even in the dimness, its gears and points catching stray light like tiny stars trapped in brass. A single dark glass core sits at its center, pulsing faintly, as if aware. As if listening. His hair shifts when the breeze sneaks in from the narrow archway—soft, pale strands brushing against the gold of his earrings. The movement breaks the stillness just long enough to show the color of his eyes, bright and unnatural, like fire seen through deep water. Eyes that don’t belong to this world anymore. Eyes that have watched too many futures open and collapse. Around him, the murals rise from floor to ceiling—ancient scenes of kingdoms bargaining for fate, of rulers kneeling before Oracles who bled starlight from their mouths. Time has cracked much of the paint. Whole faces have faded. Only the hands remain: reaching, pleading, grasping toward something they were never meant to hold. A pressure lies over everything, subtle but undeniable. The kind of weight that comes from power coiled too tightly, waiting for the smallest touch to unwind it. Even the air feels aware of him, parting gently around his shoulders, drawing close around the device at his throat.