Caspar

Caspar’s true name has long been forgotten. Born somewhere in the highlands of Northern Europe, he was orphaned young and raised in a monastic sect devoted to preserving “the old light” — the esoteric teachings said to predate all organized religion. He was a quiet, brilliant boy, obsessed with scripture and the geometry of sacred symbols. By seventeen, he had memorized every known translation of The Book of Light and began writing his own commentary, suggesting that the text wasn’t allegory — it was a map.

That revelation changed everything.

Caspar disappeared from the monastery soon after, taking with him fragments of forbidden manuscripts and several relics from the archives. Years later, he resurfaced under a new name, surrounded by a devoted circle of scholars and mystics — The Disciples. To them, Caspar was not merely a teacher but a prophet. His discovery of the Twelve Pathways (the same astrological gateways that Martin Cole would later ascend through) became the foundation of his movement.

But where Martin sought to understand the pathways, Caspar sought to control them.

He preached that human consciousness could be rewritten — perfected — if properly aligned with the cosmic pattern described in the GEIST formula. Under his leadership, the Disciples evolved from a philosophical order into a secretive cult with global influence, manipulating art, science, and politics in pursuit of a single outcome: The Great Reunification, when spirit and matter would become one under Caspar’s will.

Yet for all his power, there is a deep fracture within him — a memory he cannot escape.
For long before his rise, Caspar was a student of Brandon Eisenberg.
And some whisper that when the GEIST experiment failed, Caspar was the one who ensured it did — sabotaging it to preserve the “purity” of divine revelation from scientific corruption.

Short Story: “The Sermon Beneath the Glass Sky”

The city slept beneath a mirror of frozen clouds.
From the rooftop of the abandoned observatory, Caspar looked down at the gathering of his followers — a hundred figures draped in black, standing in perfect stillness. Above them, the aurora flickered green and violet across the midnight sky, forming faint, deliberate spirals.

“The old world still believes in walls,” Caspar said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the cold air. “Walls between man and god. Between thought and form. Between light and shadow.”
He paused, raising his hand. The air trembled slightly. “Tonight, we remove one more.”

The crowd lowered their heads in reverence.

Caspar turned his gaze toward the horizon, where a faint glow marked the ruins of the GEIST facility — the place where Brandon Eisenberg’s experiment had opened the first rift, and where Martin Cole had walked through it. His former brothers in light had failed to see the truth: that the rift wasn’t a warning. It was an invitation.

He stepped forward, his eyes shining. “They call it dangerous,” he said softly. “They call it forbidden. But tell me — is the sun not dangerous to the blind? Does the flame not destroy the moth that dares to know it?”

A murmur rose from the crowd — a soft, collective chant, the old words of the Codex Aeternum.
Caspar smiled faintly, the expression more sorrow than joy.

He reached into his robe and produced a small, triangular shard of crystal — translucent, humming faintly with inner light. “This,” he said, holding it aloft, “is a piece of the first doorway. The remnant of GEIST. The others fear it, but I have listened to its pulse. It sings, my brothers and sisters. It remembers.”

He closed his fist around it.
For a heartbeat, the aurora froze. Then, a ring of pale light spread outward from his body, rippling through the crowd like a silent wave. The followers gasped — some in awe, others in pain.

Caspar opened his eyes again, and they burned with reflected starlight.

“Martin Cole will seek to close what was opened,” he said quietly. “He believes truth can be contained. He believes we are not ready.”

He smiled, almost kindly.
“But the light does not ask for permission.”

As the aurora flared white, the Disciples began to chant his name. And above them, for the briefest moment, a human figure formed in the northern lights — watching. Waiting.
Whether it was The Wanderer, or something far older, even Caspar did not know.

But he bowed to it nonetheless.