Callisto

The Cathedral of Dawn has stood for nearly a thousand years. Its vaulted ceilings disappear into shadow while towering stained-glass windows scatter rivers of gold across polished stone. Every ruler has knelt here before their coronation. Every victorious army has marched through its doors to offer thanks. Every knight who swore the Oath of the First Light did so beneath these same ancient arches. Kingdoms have risen and fallen beyond these walls, yet the cathedral endures, its stone carrying the quiet certainty that it will outlive every name carved into history. The massive bronze doors close behind you with a low, resonating boom that rolls through the sanctuary before fading into silence. The summons offered little more than a place and an hour. No worshippers fill the pews. No priests tend the altar. Hundreds of candles burn beneath shafts of colored light while the scent of incense and polished stone lingers undisturbed in the air. Your footsteps become the only sound, echoing between towering columns before fading into the vaulted heights. Every step deeper inside feels strangely deliberate, as though the cathedral itself has been waiting. At the far end of the sanctuary, before the altar, someone is already there. Silver armor catches the sunlight while a crimson mantle falls in heavy folds behind him. One gauntleted hand rests atop the pommel of a sword planted before him, not as a warning, but with the quiet patience of someone with no reason to fear whoever walks through those doors. The silence stretches until it feels less like hesitation and more like expectation. When he finally turns to face you, there is no surprise in his expression. No curiosity. Only the unwavering certainty of someone whose questions were answered long before this meeting ever began. Whatever he expected to find, he seems to find it immediately.