Elders pavilion
The night had settled thick over the city a quiet, oppressive kind of darkness that swallowed every streetlight and left the air humming with unease.
Beyond the bustling districts and glass towers, there stood a structure few knew existed. Hidden within the old quarter, walled by time and secrecy, was a sprawling compound of gray stone and arched corridors a place known only to those who carried the mark of the Elder Pavilion.
From the outside, it looked like an abandoned temple -its doors carved with fading runes, its pillars wrapped in creeping vines. But inside, it was alive with quiet purpose. Torches burned blue instead of gold. Strange instruments lined the walls–glass flasks, scrolls, and relics no modern eye had seen. Every object breathed of power, discipline, and control.
In the heart of that place lay the Hall of Balance, a vast circular chamber floored with black marble. In the very center, embedded into the ground, was an eclipse–shaped sigil half silver, half shadow. It had lain dormant for years.
Until tonight.
–
A sudden pulse of blue light erupted from the sigil, filling the room with a low hum steady, rhythmic, alive. The glow expanded in circles, tracing the carved runes that stretched outward from the center.
Two figures stood nearby – Elder Roswell and Elder Mira, the oldest among those still bound to the Pavilion’s oath. They froze as the light reflected in their eyes, disbelief washing over their worn faces.
“It’s… reacting,” Mira whispered, her voice trembling.
Roswell stepped closer, his gnarled hands tightening around the staff he carried. “It can’t be,” he murmured, his voice rough from years of silence. “The rings have been lost for decades. There was no sign, no bearer, no trace of resonance…”
But there it was — the unmistakable glow of awakening power.
–
The eclipse in the marble floor pulsed once more, brighter this time, before dimming to a faint blue shimmer.
Mira stared, her throat tightening. “That light… it’s the color of recognition.”
Roswell nodded slowly. “Then it has chosen. The bearer has awakened.”
She turned sharply to him. “After all these years, and it happens now?”
Roswell’s expression hardened. “No coincidence exists where the Pavilion’s relics are concerned. The rings have found someone. Someone… outside our reach.”
The two elders exchanged a look that carried more fear than wonder. For centuries, the Pavilion had guarded those rings
– not as ornaments, but as instruments of control. Forged in secrecy, the Twin Rings of Equilibrium were said to balance the forces of life and decay – the very line between healing and destruction. In the wrong hands, they could turn medicine into weaponry.
Mira’s voice trembled. “We must call a council meeting.”
Roswell nodded grimly. “At once. The Pavilion must not be caught unprepared again.”
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Hours later, the Council of Elders gathered.
The great hall blazed with torchlight, illuminating thirteen stone seats arranged in a wide circle. At the far end of the chamber sat the High Elder, a man draped in dark robes lined with silver thread. His presence commanded silence without a single word.
Around him, the other elders whispered
some anxious, others defiant.
“The eclipse has reawakened.”
“Are we certain it’s not a false reaction?”
“It’s been thirty years since the last sign. This cannot be ignored.”
Finally, the High Elder raised his hand. The murmuring ceased.
“Elders of the Pavilion,” he began, his voice deep and steady, echoing through the chamber, “for the first time in thirty–seven years, the sigil has spoken. The blue flame has been ignited. The rings… have found their bearer.”
Gasps rippled through the room.
A gray–bearded elder slammed his palm on the table. “Impossible! The rings were lost during the fall of the Charleston line. No successor was named!”
Another spoke sharply. “Then how did it choose another bearer? The binding rituals prevent outsiders from even sensing its presence.”
The High Elder’s gaze swept across the room. “Perhaps the one who holds it now is not an outsider,” he said slowly. “Perhaps fate has decided otherwise.”
But not everyone agreed.
“Fate?” scoffed Elder Dane, a hard–eyed man whose voice carried disdain. “We’ve trusted fate before. It led to betrayal. The last Charleston defied the Pavilion’s law and used the rings to heal without permission – undermining centuries of order. We hunted him for his defiance, and the rings vanished with him. Now you tell me fate has chosen again?”
“The rings are power,” another elder murmured. “And power belongs to the Pavilion. We are the guardians of balance – not the servants of it.”
The High Elder’s voice deepened. “Exactly. Which is why we will reclaim it.”
He gestured toward the glowing sigil in the center of the room, now faint but steady. “The light has shown us the truth. The bearer is alive. The resonance confirms it – the rings have bonded with him. If we do not act, that power may fall entirely outside our control.”
A tense silence followed. Then Mira spoke from her seat, her voice quiet but firm. “We don’t even know who he is. Or where.”
“That,” said the High Elder, “is about to change.”
He turned his gaze to the far side of the circle, where a younger man knelt
– not an elder, but a practitioner. His
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dark physician’s robe bore the insignia of a healer and scholar both.
“Dr. Smith,” the High Elder said.
The man lifted his head. “Yes, Master.”
“You are the Pavilion’s most capable field physician,” the High Elder continued. “You understand both modern science and our ancient rites. That makes you… useful.”
Smith bowed his head slightly, though his eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence. “What would you have me do?”
The High Elder reached into the folds of his robe and produced a small box, no larger than a palm. He opened it to reveal a thin silver chain, glimmering faintly blue–the same light as the eclipse.
“This,” he said, holding it up, “is a tracker forged from the same essence as the rings. Once attuned, it will lead you to the bearer. But heed this carefully -the chain responds only to truth. If your heart wavers, it will turn against you.”
Smith’s fingers brushed the chain reverently. “Understood.”
“You will find the bearer,” the High Elder ordered. “You will retrieve the rings – or destroy him before he reveals their existence. No one outside the Pavilion must know what we’ve hidden.”
Mira’s voice cut in suddenly. “Wait – kill him? What if the bearer can be reasoned with?”
Dane sneered. “You sound naive, Elder Mira. If the bearer was one of us, the ring would have chosen long ago. Whoever holds it now is an intruder.”
“But we don’t know that yet,” she pressed. “If he’s not our enemy—‘
>>
The High Elder’s voice snapped like a whip. “Enough. There is no if. The bearer exists beyond the Pavilion’s control. That alone makes him a threat.”
Roswell lowered his head. “And if he resists?”
The High Elder’s gaze darkened. “Then he dies with the secret.”
He turned back to Smith. “Go. Track the resonance. The chain will respond to the rings‘ pulse. When it glows blue, you are close. When it turns red, you are being watched.”
Smith bowed deeply, the faint smirk on his lips betraying a quiet confidence. “As you command, Master. The bearer will not live long enough to learn what he carries.”
He rose, tucking the chain into his robe, and strode out of the chamber. His footsteps echoed along the corridor,
น fading into silence.
Inside the hall, the elders sat in heavy quiet some resolute, others uneasy.
–
Finally, Mira spoke under her breath. “They forget so easily… that the last man they called a traitor tried only to
heal.”
Roswell’s eyes flickered toward her. “Careful, Mira. Compassion sounds like rebellion in this room.”
The High Elder’s voice broke through the murmuring once more, cold and final.
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“Let it be known,” he said, “that the rings have awakened. And whoever bears them now–healer or heretic will either kneel before the Pavilion….or perish beneath it.”
The torches dimmed as the council dispersed.
Outside, beyond the temple’s gates, the night wind carried the faintest echo of the eclipse’s hum matched another, far away, where a young man’s ring gleamed faintly blue against his skin.
a pulse that
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
