Chapter 246: A priest named Castor

Meanwhile, atop the Great Cedar tree...

High above the plaza, perched among the thick, fragrant branches of an ancient Great Cedar that had stood since the founding of the Sanctum, a figure sat hidden from the world.

He was draped in the white silk of the high clergy, but his movements were far too fluid and restless for a man of the clergy.

He sat with one knee hooked over a branch, his white head-wrap discarded and lying carelessly on the branch next to him.

This was Castor.

He leaned forward, his breath hitching as the silver carriage door opened. He had heard the whispers for months—of a ’Saint’ whose soul had been deemed even purer than the popes.

He had expected to see a fanatic, probably old man who was already getting proud of the title that he, Castor, wasn’t sure he earned.

But instead of a prideful old man, he saw Julian.

From his vantage point, Castor saw the stark, beautiful contrast of ink-black hair against a pale, determined face. He watched the way the man held the child—not as a holy relic, but with the fierce, protective grip of someone who loved something more than he loved their god.

Castor felt a strange, sharp pull in his chest, a sudden warmth that had nothing to do with the prayers he had been taught since birth or the holy power he possessed.

He couldn’t look away. There was something about this stranger, a weight of humanity that made the shimmering marble city below look like a cheap, fragile toy.

He reached up, mindlessly running his fingers through his own hair—a rich, deep chestnut brown. It was the color of his natural hair which he hid beneath his wraps as per the ’rules’, a piece of his own self that hadn’t yet been bleached away by the coming ordination.

"So," Castor whispered to the wind, his eyes tracking Julian’s every step as he followed the priests across the plaza. "That is the man the heavens have blessed."

His heart hammered against his ribs, a wild drumming. He didn’t understand the feeling; he only knew that for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to look at the sun. He only wanted to see where that dark shadow was headed.

He watched until the East Spire doors swallowed Julian and the boy, leaving the plaza empty and white once more. Only then did Castor realize he was trembling.

He looked down at the white wrap on the branch beside him, then at the locks of his own brown hair peering in front of his vision, and felt a sudden, violent surge of resentment toward the silver that was waiting for him.

He hoped... that the black hair that had made his hair skip would not also be bleached by this white world’s influence.

...

Julian followed the priests deeper into the East Spire. His boots clicked against the floor, a sharp, solitary sound that echoed through the vast, open space.

​The interior was nothing like the palace in Viremount, which was heavy with gold and royal history, or Alaric’s manor, built of dark wood and stone to trap the heat.

This place had a serious obsession with white and glass. There were no tapestries on the walls to muffle the sound or keep out the chill—just endless, polished marble.

The pillars weren’t solid stone but fluted quartz that caught the sunlight and funneled it into the hall, leaving nowhere for a shadow to fall.

​Julian walked with a straight back, his expression neutral. He felt exposed, the only dark thing in the building, but he didn’t let his discomfort show.

​"The Young Lord’s chamber is through there," one of the silver-haired priests said, gesturing with a graceful sweep of his hand toward a side door. "The High Altar has ensured it is prepared for his comfort."

​Julian paused, offering a slight nod.

"I appreciate the hospitality. However, we have already established the arrangements with the Purifier Elian. Lucius will be remaining in my quarters. I’m sure you understand the importance of consistency for a child in a new environment."

​The priest’s pale eyebrows twitched. He looked at Julian’s black hair, his gaze lingering a second too long, as if the color itself were a distraction.

"The Light is strongest in the center of the spire, Saint. It is intended to... refine the spirit of those who dwell here."

​"A thoughtful gesture," Julian replied smoothly, his voice calm and melodic. "But for now, I find the Young Lord’s peace of mind to be the priority. If you could have a second bed prepared in my room, I would be most grateful."

​The priest hesitated for a second, then bowed his head. "As you wish, Saint."

The purifier opened the door and Julian walked in.

The room was circular and massive, dominated by a balcony that overlooked the entire city. The bed was draped in white silk—of course it was—and the air hummed with a low, constant vibration from the Sanctum below.

As soon as the silver doors shut, Julian let Lucius go. The boy didn’t look at the toys they had left out—white-painted blocks and silver puzzles. He stayed right by Julian’s leg, his hand fist-deep in the dark fur of Julian’s cloak.

"It’s alright," Julian whispered, kneeling to unfasten the child’s heavy outer layers. His own pulse was jumpy, but he kept his hands steady for Lucius.

He walked to the balcony to see the setting sun.

He wondered how far Alaric and his men had gone. He hoped they would at least be able to find an inn before the day grew darker. Like the inn they stayed at before they set off this morning.

But it was quite the distance.

If they couldn’t find an inn on time, they would have to camp outside. Well, the carriages were comfortable so Alaric wouldn’t have an issue. Still... as time goes by, they are further and further away from each other.

Julian sighed.

Below him, the White City stretched out like a forest of bone-colored spires that even the setting sun danced beautifully on the surface.

Aside white and silver, the only color allowed seemed to be the green grass and trees, a gift from nature and life itself.

He could see the Great Cedar in the distance, a dark green smudge against the white marble.

Julian had felt a prickle at the back of his neck when he had gotten down from the carriage, like someone was spying on him.

But there were several curious eyes on him, so it was actually harder not to feel the prickle with so many eyes.