The sun, if it still existed above the dense clouds of the city, was hidden. For Isaac, the idea of light was something he knew only from ancient accounts, paintings, and stories that felt more like myths than real memory. He walked alongside Henrik Kormann, absorbing every detail of the noble district, an area that seemed frozen in a time that no longer existed.
The streets were wide, paved with regular stones that reflected the yellowish glow of the lanterns. The facades of houses and palaces displayed intricate mosaics, domes, and ornate columns, arches upon arches, as if every detail had been planned to impress and, at the same time, intimidate. Isaac recognized the style immediately — he remembered ancient texts about the empire of Byzanthar. That architecture, that order, that weight of history… it was the same aesthetic as empires that had fallen centuries ago, yet still insisted on existing through stone and glass.
"Curious," Henrik said, his voice low but firm, keeping his gaze on the street ahead. "How the city changes depending on where you are sitting."
Isaac did not answer immediately. He watched. Always watched. There was something in the shadows, in the closed doors and windows with heavy curtains, that spoke more about the world than any conversation ever could.
Henrik continued without looking away. "Here, everything seems… organized. Civilized. Predictable. Hard to imagine that, just a few blocks away, someone was murdered today."
Isaac felt the weight of the statement. Not from surprise, but from the way Henrik said it, as if it were natural. "The city stays the same," he replied, "only those who can ignore certain parts of it change."
Henrik smiled faintly. "You speak like someone who has been on the other side many times."
"I have," Isaac said, letting the silence fill the space.
As they walked, Isaac noticed a small commotion in the distance. A noble, upright and richly dressed, was pushing a young maid against the stone wall of a palace. She screamed, but carefully, as if she knew that any stronger reaction would result in even harsher punishment.
Henrik seemed not to notice, or perhaps pretended not to. But Isaac stopped. Something inside him tightened, a mixture of indignation and curiosity. He walked discreetly toward the maid.
Her arm was injured, superficially but painfully, and tears were beginning to form at the corners of her eyes. Isaac touched the wound lightly, feeling the warmth of blood mixed with pain. An impulse crossed his mind, and without thinking, he let the Professing Faith flow.
The touch was subtle. No glow, no supernatural sound. Yet the wound began to close slowly, the skin knitting itself without visible scars. The maid looked at him, surprise and relief mixed, unable to fully comprehend what had just happened.
Isaac stepped back silently, maintaining his composure. No noble seemed to notice the intervention. It was almost as if the world allowed small acts of justice to pass unnoticed, if subtle enough.
They continued walking, Henrik resuming the conversation, but now the silence between them carried more weight. Isaac looked at the streets, observing the noble citizens and their servants. The city had the appearance of static beauty, yet there was something in the air that unsettled him: a strange silence, a sense that nothing truly changed, that everything had been frozen for decades.
At every corner, he saw signs of the same stagnation. Ordinary workers were treated almost as objects, their movements regulated, their voices contained. Children played under the distant supervision of servants, yet their joy seemed filtered, controlled, as if the city itself had imposed invisible limits on what was permitted to feel.
Isaac thought about time. How long had this place been like this? How long had no one tried to change the status quo? The curse of humanity, he reflected, was this: a self-imposed stagnation, a silent acceptance of injustice and indifference.
The sky above was familiar and indifferent. A shroud of darkness dotted with stars that he could count as friends only from memory. The Sun, he knew, existed, but he had never seen it. The starry sky was normal, yet insignificant. Still, seven stars shone brighter than the rest, intense, almost provocative. Isaac noticed them without yet knowing what they meant, but their contrast with the rest of the firmament seemed important, as if something superior watched from above, patient and silent.
They entered a narrower street, and the atmosphere shifted. Shadows lengthened, buildings grew taller, and the weight of indifference became almost palpable. Isaac felt the constancy of the world, the repetition of suffering and neglect. Every act of cruelty, every unnoticed injustice, contributed to the perpetuation of this human curse.
He reflected on the maid he had healed earlier. Small gestures, discreet miracles, could alter a moment, perhaps save a life, yet the world remained the same. This reinforced his perception: stagnation was not only physical but moral. Evil did not need to be grand to exist; it only needed to be continuous, repeated, invisible, accepted.
Henrik, ahead, spoke little but enough to provoke thought. Every comment, every observation about order, civility, about who lived and who suffered, was like a rope pulling Isaac to reflect, to measure the weight of morality, to feel how thin the line between justice and indifference really was.
The first part of the walk ended in a central square, clean, with statues of ancient figures seemingly observing passersby with stern eyes. Isaac allowed himself a pause, looking around, absorbing every detail. The beauty was there, but it was empty, controlled, without life of its own.
Deep down, Isaac understood the silent lesson of that place: the world does not change on its own. The human curse, the stagnation and indifference, was stronger than any individual effort. Yet he also knew that, within that space, small actions could still exist, even if invisible, and that these were seeds of change, however minor.
The touch of the Professing Faith on the maid had not been grand, but it was a declaration: even in a world trapped in shadow, morality, justice, and care could still bloom, albeit discreetly, silently.
Isaac settled back into the carriage, observing the movement in the square as Henrik conversed with some of the palace servants. Every gesture of Henrik's was measured, every word carefully chosen. He seemed to command the space effortlessly, yet Isaac perceived in the subtext a subtle strategy, a veiled form of teaching.
The city continued to breathe slowly around them, its rhythm almost mechanical. The streets were clean, the noble citizens walked with confidence, the servants moved with precision. Everything seemed perfect, but something was off. The perfection was merely superficial.
Isaac thought about the world he had known since birth. A world covered in shadows, a sky without a real sun, without direct light, where day merged with night and what was normal for others was just too dark to comprehend. He knew what the Sun was, yet had no personal memory of its light. He knew what the warmth of day meant, but only from accounts and images. For him, darkness was not an absence of light — it was a natural condition. Humanity had learned to coexist with the shadow.
And yet, Isaac thought, there were patterns that remained unchanging. Corruption, indifference, abuse, violence… the noble district seemed a microcosm of this universal truth. He remembered the injured maid. Small injustices went unnoticed every day, invisible to eyes that did not want to see. Small actions, small miracles, were swallowed by routine and time.
As Henrik guided the carriage through increasingly narrow streets, the ancient architecture caught Isaac's attention again. Ornate domes, intricate mosaics, arches that seemed to float above the stone — it was the same aesthetic of the Byzanthar empire, a style he recognized from history books, though impossible to imagine ever walking among its living replicas. The architecture was beautiful, yet carried a coldness, a sense of immutability that fit perfectly with the city's atmosphere: everything was grand, solid, and paradoxically lifeless.
Isaac's thoughts were interrupted when Henrik commented, "Notice how even here, power shows itself in silence. No one needs to shout, no one needs to display. Simply existing is enough."
Isaac nodded, though he did not speak. He understood the truth behind the phrase. The world, in this corner of the city, functioned like a well-oiled machine, but only for those who knew its gears. The others, the commoners, the invisible, were merely smaller pieces, moved by force or neglect.
They passed through a darker side street. Shadows stretched, reflected by stone facades and lanterns casting circles of light that barely touched the ground. Isaac breathed deeply, feeling the weight of the city's constancy. The curse of humanity was clear: stagnation was not only social but existential. People accepted imposed order, silent oppression, as inevitable. And by doing so, they perpetuated evil and indifference.
The carriage passed a square where children played under the distant watch of servants and nobles who barely cared. Isaac observed every gesture, every contained smile, every cautious glance. Everything seemed normal, but he knew how profoundly artificial that normality was. The world did not protect them, did not offer freedom. It only kept them within invisible limits.
As he watched, Isaac noticed again the seven stars in the sky, shining brighter than the others. For a moment, a shiver ran through him. Something in those lights called to him, or perhaps merely reminded him that there was more than he could comprehend. They were silent beacons, enigmas in the firmament, and he could not shake the feeling that they were significant — somehow, even if from afar.
Henrik slowed the carriage as they passed through a narrow street, and began speaking to Isaac indirectly. "Tell me, Isaac… do you believe immutability is inevitable? That men are incapable of changing what time has consolidated?"
Isaac pondered. "It's not inevitable. But the world learns to resist any change. The longer time passes, the harder it is to alter the status quo."
Henrik leaned slightly, as if testing Isaac's reaction. "And you, coming from a place where nothing was guaranteed… do you think this resistance is just?"
The question struck Isaac directly, even though unspoken. He thought of the maid's abuse, of passersby ignoring the world around them, of the very killer who eliminated nameless lives in the lower city. Everything pointed to the same conclusion: humanity accepts injustice if it becomes part of the normal fabric of things.
"It's not just," Isaac finally replied. "It's only constant."
Henrik remained silent for a moment, observing him. "Then, if someone tries to change it, if someone acts amidst the shadow, that person is alone."
Isaac looked at him. "Alone, but not powerless. Small acts can exist, even when invisible, even when ignored. They do not change the world completely, but they change something. Enough for someone."
The carriage moved on, passing stone corridors and Gothic arches, each detail reflecting ancient discipline, rigid order. The city was beautiful, but artificial. Perfect, yet dead. Isaac reflected that humanity's curse was not external. It was not imposed by rulers, nor by forgotten gods. It was internal. Self-imposed. Silent acceptance of fear, indifference, stagnation.
When they reached a bridge over a narrow canal, Isaac looked at the dark water. The reflections of the city lights seemed to dance, yet were only illusions. Below, nothing truly moved. Everything was appearance. He thought about what he had learned so far: the Professing Faith was not about grand miracles, but about small, conscious gestures that altered reality within invisible limits. Healing the maid was one such gesture. Subtle, almost imperceptible, yet real.
Henrik, noticing Isaac's gaze on the canal, commented, "The world does not wait for heroism. It expects you to survive."
Isaac breathed deeply. "It's not about surviving. It's about what you do while you still have time."
The carriage moved through the noble district, and Isaac continued observing. Every detail spoke of decades, perhaps centuries of immutability. Stagnation was tangible, embedded in every stone, every column, every impassive face. He thought of humanity's curse: the inability to act against what is already consolidated. A curse that, perhaps, was inevitable, but not absolute.
And as he looked again at the sky, the seven stars shining with distinct intensity, Isaac felt a pang of certainty. Something greater watched, something that saw every action, every lost life, every small act of care. And in that moment, he understood the city's silent lesson: even amidst shadow, acts of kindness, courage, and justice could exist.
The world did not change on its own. But those who moved, even silently, could plant seeds that would bloom much later. Small miracles, small decisions, small rebellions against indifference.
And even in a city frozen in time, even under the constant cloak of darkness, Isaac knew there was room for the Professing Faith to act. A subtle act, a touch, a thought — and the constancy of shadow could be challenged, even if almost imperceptibly.