Sunday dawned quiet in Takeshiro.
Gone were the sounds of haggling vendors or children darting through alleys. In their place came the gentle sweep of brooms, the creak of freshly oiled doors, and the soft murmur of the only greeting heard that day:
"May the Flame watch your steps."
It wasn't shouted. Never sung. Only spoken, like breath offered up to something older than time.
Ethan walked beside his family, buttoned up in dark formal wear with a white collar folded just right—thanks to Hana's careful hands. The weight of the locket in his pocket was oddly grounding. Aya trotted ahead in a silver-gray dress with flowing sleeves, her sketchbook tucked under one arm and her lavender ribbon carefully tied by Kaito before they left. Hana and Kaito walked side by side, Hana in a soft blue-gray kimono, Kaito in his formal haori, and both quiet.
They weren't the only ones heading uphill.
Other families made the slow walk through the cobbled streets—no one rushing, no one speaking more than a few reverent words. Every step felt deliberate, like the stones beneath their feet had memory. Even children walked quietly, sensing something sacred in the stillness. In Takeshiro, Sunday didn't just belong to the church.
It belonged to Solanar.
The path curved gently through town, past trimmed hedges and hanging banners embroidered with the seven-pointed symbol. The morning sun peeked through scattered clouds, casting dappled light on rooftops. No shop signs swayed. No bells chimed for sales. Only the faint toll of the sacred bell in the distance marked the passage of time.
At last, they reached the hilltop.
And there, waiting for them like a judgment older than the village itself, stood the cathedral.
The Church of the Seventh Gate – Takeshiro Cathedral
The cathedral rose at the far end of the village, seated atop a shallow hill like a crown on a bowed head. Its structure wasn't just large—it was deliberate. Measured. Built not to impress, but to instill submission.
The foundation was blackstone—ancient volcanic rock imported from the far eastern islands, rough to the touch and said to resist erosion for centuries. Above it, the walls climbed in staggered layers of pale sandstone, smooth and unnervingly pristine, giving the illusion that time dared not touch the place. Carvings ran across the lower levels—not saints, but symbols: closed eyes, sealed gates, blazing suns with tongues of fire curling inward. Nothing smiled. Nothing welcomed.
There were no stained-glass windows.
Instead, tall, vertical slits served as windows—barely wide enough to let in slivers of sunlight, like divine judgment filtered through blades. The light inside was never bright. Only thin and precise, like truth cutting into flesh.
At the highest point stood the cathedral's tower, octagonal and sharp, with a seven-pointed symbol etched onto every face. Each point represented a gate, each gate a layer of law, doctrine, and silence. A copper bell, darkened by weather and age, hung inside—its chime deep and resonant, shaking the lungs when it rang. It only rang on Sundays, during funerals, or if the town was in spiritual peril.
The doors were massive and made from dark heartwood, reinforced with iron. At their center was a circular carving of the Seventh Gate itself—depicted as a flame sealed behind an eye, with runic text etched around the border:
"Let what lies beyond remain unseen. Let silence keep the soul."
Flanking the doors were two statues, each twice the height of a man:
One depicted a hooded figure holding a chained scroll — the Scripture of Restraint
The other held a torch pointing downward — the Flame of Finality
No faces could be seen beneath the hoods. Only smooth stone where features should be. Worshippers were taught this was because the true agents of the divine had no identity, only function. Only obedience.
Even the courtyard before the cathedral was arranged to humble: a circle of stepping stones set into gravel, forcing all who approached to walk the same quiet, winding path—never straight, never rushed. Those who hurried to the church were seen as unworthy. Everything in the space made you slow down. Reflect. Shrink.
Birds didn't nest on the roof. Children didn't laugh in the courtyard.
And no one spoke above a whisper within three meters of the entrance.
The Takahara family stepped onto the spiral stones, each of them falling into step without speaking. Ethan let his hand drift across one of the runes etched into the path—just a brief brush, as if to prove the place was real.
Villagers gathered around them in reverent clusters. At the courtyard's edge, several Flamebearers stood in ceremonial robes—black and cream, each bearing the golden seven-pointed emblem on their backs. They bowed wordlessly to each entering family, offering slow nods and folded hands.
Aya leaned toward her mother. "Will we sit near the front again?" she whispered.
Hana gently placed a hand on her shoulder and gave a small nod. "If we arrive before the bell tolls."
Ethan looked up at the copper bell, silent for now. A flicker of anticipation stirred in his chest. Not fear. Not joy. Just... stillness.
Kaito placed a steady hand on his son's back. "The spiral teaches us that there is no straight path to truth," he said gently, quoting the Second Gate. "Only the journey."
Ethan nodded once, then followed his family deeper into the spiral—into the cathedral's shadow, into the silent arms of Solanar.