Lake Saint Marcos lay still beneath the heavens, its surface reflecting the sky with such clarity that pilgrims claimed one could glimpse AEON’s order in its waters. Along its shores rose the holy city of Mainal—marble upon marble, spire upon spire—where men and women of all races gathered in reverent silence, their gazes drawn toward the heart of the lake.
A causeway of white stone cut across the water like a blade laid flat, flanked on both sides by cherry trees in eternal bloom. Petals drifted endlessly upon the air, never wilting, never falling into decay—an old miracle, and a carefully maintained one.
At the centre of the lake stood the Grand Temple of the Templo, vast and solemn, its walls engraved with the deeds of saints, vicars, and servants of AEON across the ages. Behind it lay Eden, the sacred garden: a convergence of flora from every corner of Aeonia, beasts both mundane and magical living without fear, as if the world itself had agreed to pause within its bounds.
At the threshold of Eden, upon a simple wooden log, sat a solitary figure.
He was tall, hooded, his garments white with crimson hems—the vestments of the Ascetic Order. A veil obscured his face, yet his eyes shone through it: blue, clear, unsettling in their calm. His presence was quiet, but the world leaned toward him all the same. Leaves stilled when they brushed his robes. Mana thickened, obedient. Qi flowed as if recognising a forgotten authority.
His name was Nikolai St. Murmur.
Few in Mainal spoke that second name without discomfort.
He seemed at peace—an illusion shattered by hurried footsteps.
A young cleric approached, breath caught between reverence and urgency. He bowed deeply, almost stumbling. However, there was true zealotry in his eyes.
“Your Excellency, I mean, your Holiness,” the man said, then corrected himself, flustered. “Forgive me. Master Nikolai. You are summoned. The Conclave has reached a decision at last.”
Nikolai opened his eyes.
“I’m not his Holiness, Cesar. The Conclave has been deliberating for ten years,” he replied gently. “Another moment will not damn the world.”
The cleric swallowed. “Still, your Excelency… the Cardinals insist. The High Chamber awaits. Finally. Us, lost sheep, will have a true Shepherd to guide us.”
Nikolai rose. The air shifted—not violently, but undeniably. The garden seemed to exhale as he stepped away from Eden and followed the cleric toward the inner sanctum of the Temple.
The High Chamber was an amphitheater of sacred authority.
Forty figures sat upon elevated thrones of stone and gold, arranged in concentric tiers around a single, empty seat at the center—the Throne of the Vicar. Power radiated from them in waves: Mana refined to its purest expression, Wills honed over decades, centuries even. Saints. Legends. Arch-Sages whose thoughts alone could alter the flow of nations.
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Any unprepared soul would have been crushed by their mere presence.
Nikolai walked forward unimpeded.
Some among the Conclave smiled upon seeing him. Others watched with narrowed eyes. A few turned their gazes aside, as though unwilling to meet his.
At the right hand of the empty throne sat a man whose presence was impossible to ignore.
Fender Bin Longinus.
His hair and beard were iron-gray, his eyes sharp as forged steel. His robes were heavy with sigils of Luztar—the Plutocratic Oligarchy whose clans had dominated the Templo for centuries. Metal Mana coiled around him, dense and disciplined, the mark of the Longinus line.
When Fender stood, the Chamber felt heavier.
“Nikolai St. Murmur,” he intoned, voice resonant as a struck anvil. “Leader of the Ascetic Order. A man of discipline. Of restraint. Of… distance.”
The pause was deliberate.
“As is known to all present,” Fender continued, “the Ascetics have long refrained from involvement in the governance of the Templo. They observe. They advise. They do not rule.”
Murmurs rippled faintly through the Conclave.
“Yet,” Fender said, lifting a hand, “the times have proven… exceptional. Ten years without a Vicar. Ten years of fracture. Of doubt. Of imbalance.”
His gaze swept the chamber—over Serakin thunder-mages cloaked in storm, Carolin fire-scholars burning with restrained heat, Boromin earth-archons unmoving as mountains, Aleksey air-sages whispering with Heaven, Potenkim luminaries whose light bent space itself.
“Thus,” Fender concluded, “this Conclave has sought a figure beyond faction. Beyond clan. Beyond ambition.”
His eyes returned to Nikolai.
“A man untouched by wealth. By lineage. By the corruption of power.”
A faint smile. Sharp. Controlled.
“A man whose origins are… well known. And whose virtue is therefore unquestioned.”
The words landed softly. Too softly.
“By unanimous decision,” Fender declared, “you are offered the mantle of Vicar of the Templo. Right Hand of AEON. Keeper of Balance.”
Silence fell—thick, expectant.
“What say you?”
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then Nikolai bowed.
“It is not my place to desire such a burden,” he said, voice calm, carrying effortlessly through the Chamber. “But if this Conclave believes I may serve as a vessel for Balance… then I will not refuse.”
He raised his head.
“May AEON’s order endure. And may his truth guide us all.”
The empty throne pulsed with light.
The bells of Mainal began to ring.
A shadow perched against one of the High Chamber’s columns grinned. His dark, hollow eyes followed Nikolai as he sat on the empty throne, as his hands played with the ring on his right hand, the Templo sigil with a scythe crossing it.
Thus, after a decade of vacancy, the Templo crowned a new Vicar.
And far beyond the lake, beyond the Temple, beyond the faith that rejoiced that day—
something ancient, wounded, and patient smiled. So, did the wolves.
Excerpt From the III Annals of the Ancestral Kingdom of Ansara
Tome V, Epigraph II
Compiled in the year 2783 A.D.A. (Anno Domini AEON)
Thus, as the war between Ansara and Rhodar was entering its zenith,
change came to Aeonia.
In the year 2743 A.D.A, ten years after the death of the last Vicar,
A new Keeper of Balance was throned and seated upon
the hallowed temple of Lake Saint Marcos.
Nikolai I, former leader of the Ascetic Order,
became the first ever Vicar to come from Murmur.
His short reign marked the time that would forever transform Aeonia and the Six territories.
—Signed,
Minister of History
Ancestral Kingdom of Ansara