The Tower Record: Civilian District - Cosmos Cathedral, 3 years ago.

  The morning artificial light filtered weakly through the stained-glass windows of Zephyr’s chamber, casting diffused hues of lavender and blue onto the polished stone floor. Her room was a sanctuary of quiet austerity. The stone walls, etched with faint sigils of the Cosmos Religion, glowed softly under the flickering light of a single luminary orb. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of incense and old stone, a reminder of the sacred weight of this place.

  The bells of morning prayer had rung, but the tones felt hollow today—like something sacred had slipped away during the night and no one could name it aloud.

  Zephyr stood by the open window, bare feet on cool marble, eyes tracing the blurred edge of the lower districts. The silence had teeth this morning.

  Brother Cain… gone.

  She did not weep. There were no tears in her. Not now. Only the still lake of her mind, disturbed by a ripple that refused to settle. Why would you leave without a word?

  Her hand moved to the folded vestment at the foot of her bed: the divine stole—long and regal, woven from enchanted sapphire silk, ethereal in light, heavy with meaning. Silver threads stitched the emblem of the Cosmos Religion at each end: a celestial eye encased in a radiant crown, watching and waiting.

  With a slow breath, Zephyr lifted the stole and placed it upon her shoulders. It draped down her front and back, whispering across her skin. The deep, open sides left much of her torso bare—her arms, her ribs, the elegant curve of her waist. A stranger might see provocation. A believer would see purity unarmored, soul uncloaked.

  This, she had been taught, was the vow: Faith over steel. Devotion over armor.

  Her body bore no scars—only strength, trained precision, and serenity etched into her form. But serenity was not certainty. And strength did not mend absence.

  First Arthur, now Cain. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the stole as it swayed softly. The stars are dimming.

  She sat on her bed, knees bent, and reached for her high sabatons—silver like moonlight, shaped to fit the lines of her calves and heels. She slid them on with practiced ease. Then came the greaves, buckled firm over her shins, each strap tightening like a promise.

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  Cain had always helped her buckle them when she was younger. “You tighten these too high, Zeph,” he’d teased once. “You’re not made of granite, you’re made of clouds.”

  That warmth in him… she had loved him. Not with fire, but with open hands and trust. Like one tree leaning into another during the wind.

  She pressed her lips together. Her voice didn’t tremble, even in thought. Kindness should not be so easily snuffed out.

  She tightened the last strap, her greaves gleaming against her skin, and stood, feeling the subtle weight of her heel-high sabatons. They grounded her, a reminder of her purpose.

  Standing now, she moved to the small table beside the window, her bare hip brushing the cool edge of the stone. The armor on her arms came next—vambraces polished and etched with the constellations of the Creator’s path, the gauntlets layered with sacred glyphs. Her hands slipped inside them slowly, as if reluctant to lose the feeling of skin on stone.

  And still, no cuirass. No chestplate. Nothing to shield her heart.

  She had never worn them.

  But today, she felt… hollow under it. Like something had pierced her, unseen.

  If Cain was taken… what is it that hunts Paladins? What wants us unguarded?

  She looked at herself in the polished steel mirror by her door. The stole glimmered faintly, its open sides swaying with the soft breeze from the window behind her. The cloth whispered against her skin. Her eyes—clear, pale like a sky before storm—met her reflection.

  I do not doubt. I cannot. If I waver, others fall.

  And yet… there it was. The crack.

  Not in her belief. But in herself.

  Zephyr often mistook stillness for strength. She had never allowed herself the chaos of grief, the unbalancing of anger or sorrow. Serenity was her sanctuary and her shackle.

  She reached for the loaf of bread—what the Old World called a baguette, tearing off a piece with practiced efficiency. The bread was simple, its crust crisp, its interior soft, like so much in the Cathedral. She ate quickly, standing, her thoughts racing as she chewed.

  Lord Thorne will know more. He must. The Holy Cosmos Paladin has guided me through every trial. If there’s a pattern to these vanishings, he’ll see it. She swallowed, brushing crumbs from her fingers, and straightened. The stole shifted slightly, its silk whispering against her skin. She adjusted it, ensuring the Cosmos logo rested centered over her chest, a beacon of her faith.

  The marble beneath her feet echoed softly as she left her chamber. She passed through the corridor, where incense hung like ghosts and murals of past Paladins watched with painted eyes.

  This is no time for doubt, she thought, her jaw tightening. Cain and Arthur deserve better than my grief. If the Creator wills it, I’ll find them—or whatever took them.

  Her every step struck the floor with clarity—bare thighs between armored greaves, shoulders bare beneath the falling sapphire cloth, a gauntlet of purpose wrapping her hand.

  Zephyr was a Paladin, a vessel of divine will, and she would face this grave situation with the clarity of faith.

  She was a paradox: zealous and untouchable. Vulnerable and invincible. Worshipped not for perfection, but for walking the edge between mortal fear and divine trust.

  But today, the edge felt thinner than ever.

  She did not falter.

  She only walked faster.