The ritual space doesn't announce itself.
There's no circle of candles, no chanting voices, no dramatic rupture in the air. One moment I'm standing in a service corridor between tiers, the city humming softly around me—and the next, the hum slips half a beat out of time.
That's all it takes.
The lights don't dim. They hesitate. The walls feel farther away than they should be, like perspective itself has loosened its grip. My breath sounds too loud in my ears.
The deck responds immediately.
Not by pulling.By aligning.
"This isn't a breach," the observer says quietly. "No alarms."
"I know," I reply. "This is an invitation."
The space ahead resolves into something that wasn't there before: a shallow chamber folded into the corridor like a page tucked between others. Its boundaries are indistinct, edges blurring whenever I try to focus on them directly.
A ritual pocket.
Not constructed.Accreted.
The woman with the goggles swallows. "No authorization markers. No summoning signatures."
"Because no one called it," I say. "It formed."
The deck hums once, low and deliberate.
I step forward.
The moment my foot crosses the threshold, the city recedes—not vanishing, but dimming, like background noise losing priority. The chamber firms up around me, its floor resolving into etched metal layered with symbols that don't belong to any single system.
They're older than the Crown.Older than Virelis.
They're Veil-adjacent.
The observer stops at the threshold. "Elias—"
"You can't follow," I say gently. "Not this one."
They hesitate, then nod. The woman backs away without argument, her device already muted, as if instinct has told her it would be useless here.
Inside the chamber, the air feels heavy but stable. Not oppressive. Expectant.
I'm not alone.
At the center of the space, a woman kneels on the etched floor, hands clasped tightly together as if in prayer. Her dark hair hangs loose around her shoulders, and faint symbols—half-burned, half-healed—mark her skin like scars that never decided what they were meant to be.
She's trembling.
Not from fear.
From restraint.
The deck reacts sharply, one card sliding forward before stopping, its surface flickering without locking.
PARTICIPANT: SERAPHINE VOSSSTATUS: PARTIAL ALIGNMENT
I draw a careful breath.
"Seraphine," I say.
Her head snaps up.
Her eyes meet mine—and I feel it instantly. Not pressure. Not pain. Echo. Divine residue clinging to her perception like static after lightning.
"You can see me," she whispers.
"Yes," I reply. "And you can hear more than you should."
She laughs softly, the sound breaking around the edges. "They said I was blessed."
"They usually do," I say.
The chamber tightens slightly, symbols along the floor glowing faintly as the ritual stabilizes around us. Not active yet. Holding.
Seraphine looks down at her hands. "I didn't mean to open it. I was just… praying."
"To what?" I ask.
She hesitates. "I don't know anymore."
That answer hurts her more than any confession.
"I served a minor authority," she continues, words spilling out now that they've started. "Mercy. Closure. Gentle endings. I thought it was safe."
The deck hums, low and uneasy.
"And then?" I prompt.
"And then it stopped answering," she says. "But the silence didn't leave. It stayed inside me."
I see it now—the hollowed space in her record where something almost settled. A god that withdrew before finishing the overwrite. A vessel left half-emptied.
That's worse than completion.
"You're not a priest anymore," I say carefully.
She flinches. "I know."
"But you're not free either," I add.
The chamber reacts to that truth, symbols brightening briefly before settling again. The ritual isn't about summoning.
It's about containment.
Seraphine presses her palms against the floor. "They keep watching," she whispers. "Not speaking. Just… weighing."
I feel it too now—a distant attention, not focused enough to manifest, but present enough to matter. The deck remains still, refusing to escalate.
Good.
This is a conversation, not a confrontation.
"You don't belong to them," I say. "But you're resonant. That's why this space formed."
"Because of you," she says.
"Yes," I admit. "Because I'm unfinished in a way they recognize."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Then you're—"
"I'm not a god," I interrupt. "And I won't replace one."
Relief and disappointment cross her face in equal measure.
"Then what do you want from me?" she asks.
I step closer, careful not to disturb the chamber's balance. The symbols beneath our feet hum softly, responding to proximity rather than command.
"I want you to survive," I say. "And for that, you need anchors that aren't divine."
She laughs weakly. "You make it sound simple."
"It isn't," I reply. "That's why it costs."
The deck shifts. A card slides free at last, its surface stabilizing just enough to display intent rather than outcome.
RITUAL TYPE: RECORD ANCHORINGCOST: MEMORY / FAITH / IDENTITY (VARIABLE)
Seraphine stares at it, understanding dawning in her eyes.
"I'll forget things," she says.
"Yes."
"Important things?"
"Eventually."
She closes her eyes, breath shaking. "And if I refuse?"
The chamber tightens.
The distant attention sharpens by a fraction.
I don't soften my voice. "Then the gods will finish what they started. And you won't be you when they do."
Silence settles between us.
Then Seraphine exhales slowly and nods. "Do it."
The deck hums, approving but restrained.
The ritual space begins to shift—not flaring, not collapsing—locking into place around a single purpose.
I brace myself.
Because this isn't just the first ritual.
It's the first time I help someone step away from divine authority.
And I know—deep in my accumulated records—that gods do not forgive losses quietly.
The chamber accepts the decision before I act.
Not eagerly. Not kindly. The etched symbols beneath our feet dim and then reconfigure, lines shifting into a tighter geometry that feels less like invocation and more like constraint. The ritual pocket narrows its purpose, sealing off everything except what is absolutely necessary.
Containment over communion.
The deck rises slightly, cards spreading just enough to reveal depth rather than quantity. None of them glow. None of them announce power. They simply align, forming a structure that mirrors the chamber's intent.
Seraphine kneels straighter, shoulders trembling as the air thickens around her. "I can feel it," she whispers. "They're pulling back."
"Yes," I say. "Because this space doesn't belong to them."
I kneel opposite her, placing my hand flat against the etched floor. The metal is cool, almost soothing, and the hum beneath it resonates with the deck's weight in my chest.
This isn't a prayer.
It's a record adjustment.
"Listen carefully," I say. "You don't resist them. You don't reject them. You reframe."
Seraphine's breath catches. "How?"
"By deciding what part of you they don't get to finish."
The chamber responds immediately. Symbols brighten along the perimeter, forming a boundary that presses inward—not to trap us, but to define us. Outside attention dulls, blunted by layers of recorded intent.
The deck slides one card forward, stopping between us.
Not blank.
Not complete.
A surface etched with partial impressions—faces half-remembered, words blurred mid-syllable, moments stripped of emotional weight but still recognizable as hers.
Seraphine stares at it, eyes wide. "Those are—"
"Memories," I say. "Not all of them. Just the ones tied to divine alignment."
Her hands shake. "I won't remember why I believed."
"No," I agree. "But you'll remember that you did."
The distinction matters.
She swallows hard, then nods. "Do it."
I don't rush.
Rituals fail when they're hurried.
I place two fingers against the card's edge and draw it slowly toward the center of the chamber. The symbols beneath us shift again, lines locking into place with a sensation like a seal snapping shut.
The pressure builds.
Not in my head.
In my chest.
This is the cost I don't talk about—the way anchoring someone else always adds weight to my own accumulation. Another partial ending, another adjustment folded into my record whether I want it or not.
Seraphine gasps softly as the card dissolves into light, its impressions lifting from the surface and threading themselves into the chamber's geometry.
Her body arches forward, breath stuttering.
"Stay with me," I say firmly. "Say your name."
"Seraphine," she breathes. "Seraphine Voss."
"Again."
"Seraphine Voss."
The chamber hums, stabilizing.
Outside the ritual pocket, something shifts.
Not violently.
Displeased.
I feel it as a distant tightening, like pressure redistributing across a vast structure. The gods don't intervene—but they note the loss.
Seraphine cries out softly as the last impressions lift free. Her shoulders slump, breath ragged, eyes unfocused.
Then—stillness.
The symbols dim.
The ritual locks.
The deck settles heavily back into place.
Text flickers briefly at the edge of my vision.
[Record Anchoring complete.][Residual alignment severed.][Cost registered.]
I exhale slowly, every muscle aching as if I've been holding myself together too tightly.
Seraphine sways.
I catch her before she collapses, easing her down as the chamber begins to unfold back into the corridor it borrowed itself from. The walls regain solidity. The city's hum returns, tentative but present.
Her eyes flutter open.
She looks at me with confusion—real, unguarded confusion.
"Why am I… here?" she asks.
The question lands exactly where it was meant to.
"You were praying," I say gently. "And it went wrong."
She frowns. "Praying to who?"
I don't answer.
She doesn't press.
That's how I know the ritual worked.
The observer steps forward cautiously as the last traces of the chamber fade. "Status?"
"She's anchored," I say. "And free enough to make choices again."
The woman with the goggles kneels beside Seraphine, scanning rapidly. Her device flickers, recalibrates, then steadies. "Divine resonance is… gone. Completely."
She looks up at me, shaken. "That shouldn't be possible."
"It is," I reply. "It's just expensive."
Seraphine pushes herself upright, blinking as if waking from a long, uneasy sleep. "My head hurts."
"That's normal," the woman says. "You lost something important."
Seraphine nods slowly. "I can tell."
She looks around the corridor, then back at me. "I feel… lighter."
Relief twists in my chest, sharp and fleeting.
Behind it, something else settles.
Another layer.
Another adjustment folded into who I'm becoming.
The observer watches me closely. "You realize what you just did."
"Yes," I say.
"You demonstrated a method for removing divine influence without substitution."
"Yes."
"And the gods will see that as—"
"A theft," I finish. "Or a threat."
Seraphine looks between us, unease creeping into her expression. "What aren't you telling me?"
I meet her gaze. "That this means you're safer now than you were before."
"And the rest?"
I don't lie. "It means you're connected to me."
The deck hums faintly, acknowledging the bond without celebration.
Her eyes widen—not with fear, but understanding. "Then they'll watch you instead."
"Yes."
She exhales slowly. "Good."
That surprises me.
"They were never gentle," she adds quietly. "Not really."
We escort her away from the corridor, the city resuming its rhythm around us. No alarms sound. No systems escalate.
But I can feel it—faint, distant, undeniable.
Something ancient has updated its expectations.
Ghosts learned first.Gods noticed second.
Now they know I can take something back.
And that knowledge, once recorded, never truly fades.