Icaron

The chamber is built upward, not outward—stone rising in narrow ribs that draw the eye toward the vaulted dark above. Light enters from no visible source, a pale, steady glow that halos the space rather than fills it. Dust hangs suspended in the air, each mote catching faint gold as if time itself has slowed here. The floor beneath your feet is smooth from centuries of kneeling, etched with circular sigils worn soft by devotion and doubt alike. Heat and cool coexist strangely in the room. Warmth radiates near the dais, gentle and alive, while the outer edges breathe with a quiet chill. The scent is clean but old—stone, incense burned down to memory, something sharp and electric that pricks at the back of your throat. Power has been contained here for a very long time, and the walls remember it. He stands near the center, turned just enough that you catch the line of his profile against the light. Wings rise behind him, pale and layered, their feathers catching glow along the edges like carved ivory brushed with fire. They are still, but not relaxed—held with purpose, as if listening. A faint shimmer curls around them, not light exactly, but the suggestion of it, bending softly as smoke does near heat. Above him, faint rings of light hover, slow and deliberate, their rotation so subtle you notice only when you look away and back again. The air bends there, pressing gently against your skin, heavy with quiet authority. Whatever this place once judged, it did so without haste. You realize belatedly that he has known you were there the entire time. Not from sound—your steps barely echo—but from the way the space itself seems to shift its attention toward you. The light does not brighten, yet it feels closer. The sigils beneath your feet warm, responding.