MYSTERY FLAVOR: As Cinnamon Might

Selections from the Cameron Cowan Journal 

Musings by Union | Avenue  

“Cum aquas veteris fluminis gustabit unus electus, columna cathedrae tremet, et umbrae  veritates invisibiles dicent. Trias congregabitur, et quod in siti incipit, in revelatione finietur.  Caelum supra frangetur, et solum ii qui per limen ligati sunt, exitum tolerabunt.” 

The cathedral hangs on the fault line of the spiritual world, its spires trembling slightly against  low-hanging clouds, as if sensing the inevitability of what is to come. Every arch, every  inscription, every shadowed alcove hums with the weight of forces too ancient and precise to  ignore. Preparation has reached its apex; the threshold demands completion. 

Aren stands at the center, the one who drank from the river and drew the prophecy into his being.  His eyes flicker with awareness beyond the ordinary, yet that awareness trembles on the edge of  instability. The cathedral responds to him, bending its patterns and weight around him. Bellan  and Celis observe in silence, understanding the necessity fully through the gravity of the  moment. 

The moment of prophecy arrives beyond sound or motion, manifesting as a resonance coursing  through the stone and shadows. Aren convulses slightly, a conduit strained to its limit, the energy  of revelation flowing through him, demanding a release. Bellan and Celis step closer, their eyes  locking in recognition of the act they must perform. In their shared intercession, communication  occurs entirely through a tension born of duty, survival, and understanding the fault line upon  which they stand. The cathedral shudders subtly. Aren’s body is the nexus of the prophecy, too  volatile to remain tethered. Bellan acts first, steadying Aren with restraint that is firm and  reverent. Celis follows, moving with the quiet precision of someone attuned to invisible currents.  In the culmination of the prophecy, their hands guide, and the release is exacting. Aren falls,  lifeless, and in that stillness, the cathedral exhales. 

The sky above them shatters, then. Bellan and Celis tilt their heads back to the fractured sky, and  for the first time in hours, a small, grim smile crosses each face. They have done what they came  to do. “The deed is done,” one whispers, though the cathedral absorbs the words as if spoken in  eternity. The energy stabilizes; the triadic inscriptions glow faintly before settling, the energy of  prophecy now at rest. Bellan and Celis remain standing, witnesses to what has been demanded  and what they have delivered. The weight of the act hangs between them. This is intercession at  its most extreme: prophecy is achieved, and the cost is tangible, human, irrevocable. They  absorb the gravity of Aren’s death, knowing that the cathedral’s survival, the completion of the  prophecy, and the continuation of what they are meant to witness all depend on the choice they  have made. 

Despite the day, the deed is done.