Sins of our Creators

You are sitting in a dimly lit chamber, the air is thick with lavender incense, making it just that bit harder to breathe. Veritas, a seasoned cult member of the Inner Circle sits across from you with a stern face. You want to look away, but Veritas’ gaze is mesmerizing even though it makes you feel small and unimportant. They finally break the excruciating silence, their voice deliberate and stern.

“You’re hesitating. I see it in your eyes. That flicker of doubt, that longing for the world outside. What do you hope to find? Love? Security? The world you miss is a decaying corpse gift wrapped in lies, it’s promising warmth but it will devour you whole.”

“You were nothing out there, cast aside and forgotten. And yet, in your hour of distress, we found you, picked you up, clothed you, sheltered you. We gave you a name, a path and a purpose. Do you think they will do the same? No. They will look at you with pity or scorn, whisper behind your back and push you aside once more.”

Veritas falls silent for a moment before you hear them sigh deliberately, the disappointment impossible to miss, which almost hurts you more than the accusation itself.

“But here… Here, you are, trying to leave your tarnished life behind. Ready to evolve. The past is a chain, rusted and weak. It  binds you to an illusion. Do you truly want to go back? To be a weak sheep like the rest of them? We have freed you. You should be thanking us.”

The tension in the room is almost unbearable as you shift uncomfortably. You want to speak to defend yourself, but Veritas won’t leave room for you to get a word in, their voice silken, coaxing almost.

“Ah… you think you feel something, don’t you? Guilt? Fear? That is the echo of what you once were. A dying gasp of a lesser being. You are still human, frail and broken, but you are on a path. A Path you  have chosen to be on. A path that will guide you beyond such weakness. They call us monsters, but that is their fear speaking. We are not monsters. We are Perfection.”

Veritas’ voice hardens, their presence suffocating you.

“And yet, you hesitate. Have I not lifted you higher? And now… you would drag me down with you? If I falter, if I fail, do you not understand? That will be your burden. Your failure. My progress is your responsibility. My ascension, your duty. If I stumble, it is because you let me fall. And that… that is the greatest sin of all.”

“Good. You understand now. The Path to Perfection is not easy, but nothing of worth ever is,” and then, after a short pause, with a cold smile: “But, as you must understand now, this show of weakness has consequences. So tell me: what do you think would be fitting for this lack of faith?”

A heavy silence falls, leaving you with unsteady breath. As you swallow hard, your mouth dry as you realise the truth: you have failed. Veritas, who seems to notice your defeat, leans back, satisfied.

You stare at the other faces, 5 in total. Different in every sense of the word. One you could immediately tell was arrogant, entitled to being here and planning on becoming first on whatever competition would be thrown their way. Next to them a bundle of anxiety, fear in their eyes with tears to seal the deal. A pretty one, a business like one, a bored one. And you, chosen. You have 24 hours in this room, before you are allowed to continue to… well…  it. 

The Community…

The Family…

The Path… 

You gaze around the room, filled with anything you could want for a day. Snacks, drinks… drugs? There are games in every variety, books of every genre. Is this a preview of the rest of your life? You could get used to that. But you also can’t get rid of the nagging in the back of your mind. It feels like some sort of test, of which you didn’t get the rules. Will everyone in this room be allowed to move on? Could you just… leave if you felt like it? Is there going to be a voting round maybe, or something more… definitive? The clock is ticking and as you feel a pang of fear yourself, you hope when it strikes 12 again, you will still be left standing.

The sweet scent of herbs and myrrh in the ritual chamber is a palpable reminder that as of yet, I am still among the living.

My mind wanders for a moment, wondering whether I will remember, when all is said and done, to actively breathe. To force myself to notice the squalor that lesser beings are forced to live in, to allow the prickly odors of human food to mark the passage of time… to enjoy the remnants of yesterday’s perfume on the cooling skin of a well-groomed lover-for-a-night.

The luxurious texture of the white silk on my skin sends shivers down my spine. The exhilarating sensation draws my attention just enough to rein in my distracted fantasy-turned-memory. I need to focus, I admonish myself – stay in the here and now, cherish every moment. I must remember the pain, the pleasure, the burning desire to live that I am suppressing with all my will. I must lay still and prove myself to be fearless, for only by committing myself to death can I hope to transcend it.

Rites are important, and none more so than this one. Hieratos told me – repeatedly – that rites are often an observance of a transition, a shift in identity… and no such shift could be greater than the one I am now experiencing. I feel his eyes on me, as my body and soul cling to life and my dying brain drags me into a hallucinatory vision of what came before. I smell my own perfume; I am the cooling, beautiful corpse from my own imagination now. My veins are now hollow and my heart is empty; there is no fear in me as I close my eyes one final time.

Long have I dreamt of this night.

This is what it’s all been for. This night, tonight, right here, is about me. And even though most nights are, really, this one is different.

The Gift that I am in the process of receiving was paid for in blood; my own, as well as that of many others. Part of the transformation is a cleansing; a last look back at that which we willfully leave behind. As I inch closer to the end of this life, I submerge myself in it for a final time.

The memories come, vivid and intoxicating. The faces of friends, family, lovers. Foes. A childhood unfulfilled. A life of strife and struggle, but always, always dignity. Preparing for this night, I recently realized I had always known I was destined for greater things. But greatness demands a toll, and I paid it several times over.

I never fit in. I loved “the wrong people.” I was “too wise” for my age. I tried “too hard” to make friends. Yet even though at times I came close, I never let them make me smaller – never let them convince me the fault was mine… and yet, I must admit there were moments, alone in darkness, when it all seemed too much, and the darkness seemed ready to embrace me…

Enough. The tears come unbidden, and it is no longer befitting my station to dwell on the past. I refuse to spend my final moments alive as a vessel of regrets.

I do not know how long I have been here. I am done dying, I think. But why, then, am I not being transformed?

Doubt grips me. Will they pull me from the precipice in time? Are they even planning to?

Was it all a cruel joke? Have I failed a test? Am I being punished?

I am cold. I am afraid.

And I am, I see now, small.

Please, please, please feed me. Pour the pure heat into me, grant me the embers of the fire of life itself. I beg of you all; though I have no more voice, I know you can hear me. I need to be warm. I need the strength to open my eyes and see…

I need… to taste… more of life…

I… I need…

I try to watch them only from afar, I try.

Their presence is overwhelming, an aura of controlled power, sharpened purpose, and cold superiority that suffocates lesser beings like myself. Only the Founders burn brighter. Only they outshine the Chosen.

The Chosen… together with the Founders they form the Inner Circle.

They have risen through the Path, carved themselves into something greater, refined weakness into strength until they stand just below the pinnacle. I am but a Bound, one step above a Tarnished, still clinging to the remnants of my flawed former self. They stride like gods while I crawl like an insect.

Each of them appears so composed. So disciplined.

They carry their roles like weapons, precise and indispensable. Together they uphold the balance of our community, they are all in charge of a task circle. Not one of them is expendable; each is a pillar that keeps the rest of us directed and controlled by purpose.

And yet…
The dark corners of the compound whisper otherwise.

Whispers of ambition.

Whispers of betrayal.

Whispers of cracks in the very perfection they claim to embody.

For all their power, they are still seekers on the Path. Still short of Ascension. They battle their own imperfections, silently and within a cloak of secrecy, because to fall is to expose the weakness of those bound to serve them. And just as we elevate the Founders, so too must we elevate the Chosen. Their failure becomes our shame. Their faltering, our sin.

But power invites danger.

Proximity to greatness burns.

Not long ago, there were eight Chosen.

One faltered, some say through disloyalty, others through hidden weakness and they kissed the sun for their disgrace.

Burned…
Purged…

Forgotten…

Now there are seven… and one empty place within the Inner Circle.

A void draws ambition the way blood draws hunger. Some of the Embraced whisper of claiming the vacant seat quietly, venomously plotting how to display strength without revealing hunger. How to appear perfect while not showing the desire for power.

And among the seven, there is one who has not even been granted the Embrace. A Bound deemed so loyal, so unyieldingly devoted, that they were elevated regardless, entrusted with watching over the Sleeper. A task of profound honor… and profound danger.

I can only dream of such an exalted burden.

The road to Perfection stretches before me, long and merciless. But in my still heart, I know even the Chosen once stood where I stand, weak and uncertain. They simply refused to remain so.

If they can ascend, perhaps I can too.

Perhaps weakness can be carved away.

I too can earn Perfection…

You have barely slept in days. Since the moment the news reached you, your body has been humming with restless energy. The Inner Circle had noticed your work, your dedication. A Patron had stepped forward. Tonight, you will shed your Tarnished life and rise into the ranks of the Bound.

You remind yourself, some wait months to hear those words of acceptance, others only weeks, even days. It does not matter, time is irrelevant: you have reached the goal you set, a goal that many of your kin never see fulfilled. You have watched fellow Tarnished falter, break, or die before even placing their first trembling foot upon the Path. But not you, you endured, you proved yourself strong and worthy.

Now you dress, white ritualistic robes. The cloth scratches against your skin, a reminder that tonight is no ordinary night. You want to savor each breath, each sound, each flicker of candlelight, but you cannot. Your mind is a storm, excitement and dread twist together until you can no longer tell one from the other.

Tonight is the Night

You enter the chamber, you have seen rites before, from the shadows, your eyes drinking in each detail in preparation for this very moment. No rite is ever the same. You remember Kelufos, ever close to the Ritemaster, telling you once: “Perfection is never found in repetition. We change, we evolve, we refine until one day the Path itself is perfected.”

The words echo now, as you glance about the gathered assembly. The Rite of Binding is not a mandatory gathering, yet many have come. You search their faces:

The Tarnished, your peers, though not for long. After tonight, will you still acknowledge them? Or will you cast them aside with the rising sun?

The Bound, some smiling, eager to welcome you. Others stare, resentment simmering from old conflicts.

The Embraced, aloof, assessing, as though they are wagering silently on your fate.

And the Chosen, two of them, silent, their gaze alone a weight upon your chest. They are here to watch and to remind you of fear.

The Ritemaster’s voice cuts through the air, commanding and the rite begins. And then, they arrive….The Founders.

Tonight is the Night

You stand at the center, the circle closing in around you. Behind you, you feel Dignari, the Philosopher of the Path, your Patron. Their presence radiates like heat, heavy and undeniable. Incense curls in the air, chants ripple from the crowd, hands weave gestures that seem older than memory.

The Founders take their places. One holds a book. One holds a cup. One holds a knife. They speak in turn: 

“The teachings of the Elder guide us toward Perfection.”

“The cup of the Founders is the foundation of ascension.”

“The blood of the Patron shall open the way to transcendence.”

The knife draws crimson from Dignari’s flesh. Blood trickles from the wound and mingles with the substance in the cup, thick and dark. Dignari steps forward, offering it to you. You lift it with trembling hands, trying to drink with measured reverence. But restraint abandons you, the taste overwhelms.

It is more than sweet, it is alive, each drop burns with raw emotion, ambition, shame, fear, guilt, passion, lust, all surging through you, unshackled. Memories you thought caged flare to life. You feel consumed and consuming, torn apart and remade and in the chaos, you glimpse it, on the horizon of your soul, a flicker, a shining point….Perfection

You reach for it, yearning, almost desperate, but it vanishes before your fingers close.

You collapse, the stone floor greets you, cold and merciless. Dignari looms above, their expression unreadable. Their voice drips with patience, the tone of a teacher instructing a child.

“Welcome to the Bound. You know nothing.”

I will never forget, nor will he let me. I see him in my dreams and feel him in my soul as he infiltrates my mind. 

He is.. was.. is the instigator, the enabler that led to this Community. We met long before the Path was spoken about, when I had been wandering and searching for something for so long already. A transcended being of immense strength, speed and presence. The being that became known as The Elder of the Path. 

Ancient in years and unyielding in conviction, they were a creature of faith without cloth, once bound to a sect, yet never truly belonging. In time, even that bond withered. Endless wars and hollow ideologies revealed themselves as rot. To the Elder, outsider politics were decay masquerading as meaning. Perfection could not be found within existing orders. It demanded severance. Isolation. A beginning cut clean from the past.

It was in this disillusioned state that we met. 

I spoke in visions, fractured memories, broken dreams, and half-remembered truths that clawed their way into waking thought. Through these revelations, a design took shape, a Community severed from all known sects, hidden beyond the reach of tarnished politics. Together, we conceived the Path as a living experiment, one not merely followed, but endlessly refined.

The formation of the Community was truly my work and they would call me the Dreamer, the Weaver. 

While the Elder shaped doctrine and law, I slept and dreamed. In those dreams, chosen followers were revealed. Each member was selected through restless nights and intrusive visions, drawn together by symbols they could not yet name. Every role, every function within the Community’s structure was foreseen and placed long before the first rites were ever enacted.

Thus, the Elder of the Path became the Mind, author of rules, keeper of doctrine, and architect of the Path’s narrative.

I, Lanifica, the Dream Weaver, became the Soul, chooser of founders, gatherer of believers, and the unseen hand that bent fate into shape.

Around us gathered the Founders.

Pietas, transformed by the Elder of the Path, became the Voice of the Path, who preserved the stories and wove them into living lore.

Mendacium, the Shaper of Ceremony, who designed the rites through which belief was made flesh.

Gregarius, the Shepherd, who tended the flock, feeding what was needed so others might grow.

And just as the Path was laid and the foundation built, the Elder of the Path vanished. 

The Architect’s departure came abrupt but willingly, the Elder had transcended the physical world to observe the Path from beyond. In time, the Elder became myth, invoked in scripture and ceremony, a distant but guiding presence. It was said the Elder had Ascended.

Now we Founders walk in the Elder’s shadow, seeking that very same transcendence. Our followers elevate us along the Path, believing that through devotion and sacrifice, we too may one day Ascend and in doing so, carve a way forward for countless others to follow.

But we never speak aloud whether Ascension is a gift… or a price to be paid. But I feel our Dream will soon come true, the only question that remains.. Who will be there to witness it at the end?