Memory 05: Anselm XI

The Chamber of Stella Maris was hushed, its vaulted ceiling casting long shadows over the polished stone. Thomas stood at the center, his robes new, his breath steady but slow. Before him sat Anselm XI, the potentate of Veloria, his gaze sharp and distant, as if peering through Thomas into the folds of time.

Nimue watched from the side, her posture composed, her heart not.

"You have submitted your letter," Anselm said, voice like still water. "Speak now of its contents."

Thomas bowed. "I wrote not of ambition, but of service to the world."

Anselm’s eyes narrowed. "The world is vast. And often unkind."

"Yes," Thomas said. "But it is full of people. And people are creatures that pray. I believe my calling is to walk among them. To listen. To answer. To be present where silence has grown thick."

"You speak of Halion the Bound."

"I do. He walked alone, but every village knew his name. Not for his sword, but for his flame."

Anselm leaned forward. "And what is your flame, Thomas Langton?"

Thomas looked up. "Conversation. Compassion. The kind that listens. The kind that answers."

A long silence followed. Nimue’s fingers curled around prayer shells.

"You will not be easy to place," Anselm said. "You will be watched."

"Then let them watch," Thomas said. "I will not hide."

Anselm nodded once. "You may go."

Thomas bowed again and turned. As he passed her, he glanced up. Nimue met his eyes. Her expression was unreadable, but her gaze lingered.

He smiled.

She did not smile back. But her hand moved—just slightly—over her heart.

Nimue and Anselm

The Chamber had emptied, but the light remained—soft and golden, filtering through the high windows like the last breath of tide. Nimue stood near the central dais, her robes gathered, her expression composed.

Anselm XI remained seated, his gaze turned toward the marble floor.

"He is not a threat," Nimue said.

"No," Anselm replied. "He is a mirror."

She stepped closer. "He will not serve the Chamber. He will walk the world."

"And the world will listen."

"Yes."

Anselm looked up. "You care for him."

"I do."

"Then you must warn him."

"I have. I will."

Anselm’s fingers tapped the armrest. "He speaks of Halion. Of flame. But flame draws moths. And shadows."

"He knows."

"Not yet."

Nimue’s voice softened. "He will learn."

"And when he does, he will burn brighter."

"Or dim."

Anselm stood. "You are wise, Sister Nimue. But wisdom does not shield. It only prepares."

She bowed her head. "Then let me prepare him."

Anselm turned to leave. "Do so. But do not protect him from pain. Pain listens."

Nimue remained in the chamber long after he had gone, her hand resting over her heart, the prayer shells cool against her skin.