The incense had long run dry.
Still, the high priestess knelt.
Her knees had grown numb, molded to the cracked marble beneath her, bones sharp beneath thinning skin. Time had bent her body, but not her will. The grand chamber around her, once resplendent with gold-veined columns and tapestries that reached the heavens, had withered into silence. The candle sconces were rusted, walls damp with creeping moss, and above the altar, the mosaic of the Divine's visage was chipped, half-forgotten. His eyes no longer watched the faithful. His hands no longer blessed.
And yet, she remained.
For two full months, she had knelt beneath that broken gaze, whispering her prayers. Her voice had gone raw. Her lips cracked. Her robes, dyed once in shades of sunrise, had dulled to the color of ash. But her spirit—her flame—remained unquenched.
"Please," she whispered, as if the god she once knew could hear through dust and silence. "Please, remember us."
No answer.
There had been no miracles in over two hundred years. No sign. No voice. No flame from the heavens, no sacred visions in dreams. The Sanctum Solis, the grand heart of religion in the realm of Caethera, had fallen from a glorious cathedral to a hollow tomb. Once, kings knelt before her. Now, not even beggars came to pray.
She exhaled, watching the cloud of her breath vanish into the cold air.
"We are killing each other," she said softly, as if confessing. "And there is no one left to stop it."
It had begun slowly, the unraveling. The faith had started to crack when the crops failed, when the rains fled the skies, when the kings turned greedy and the noble houses began to war over territory instead of tending to the people. As the Divine grew silent, so too did the sanctity of the world. Borders dissolved. Empires fractured. The great republics now stood as little more than war camps. Even the eastern monasteries—once their allies—had sold their relics for bread and steel.
The people turned to idols. Then to coin. Then to blood.
She had buried more acolytes than she had blessed in recent years. Disease. Famine. Execution. Some had defected, turning their faith into weaponized control—twisting sermons to serve lords instead of souls.
And still, she prayed.
Footsteps broke the silence.
At first, she thought it a trick of memory. She had imagined it before—a phantom echo, a desperate hallucination formed by hunger and exhaustion. But this time, the sound was sharp, real. Armor against stone. Heavy and urgent.
Her spine stiffened. She reached for her staff, fingers closing around the ancient wood of Solaris, worn smooth by time and reverence.
The grand doors slammed open with a force that sent a gust of cold air rushing down the chamber.
A paladin stood there, dust-covered and out of breath. Young—no older than twenty-five—but bearing the wear of one who had seen too much. His armor bore the faded sun sigil of the Sanctum, scuffed and cracked, yet he wore it with pride.
He dropped to one knee.
"High Priestess Aveline," he gasped, his voice thick with awe and something else—fear, perhaps. "I bring news."
She did not speak. She simply stood, slow and unyielding, like a mountain rousing from centuries of sleep.
He continued. "A child. In the ruins east of Braelith. A newborn. Alive, untouched, surrounded by nothing but death."
Her fingers tightened on the staff.
The east. Braelith had been reduced to ashes decades ago, burned in one of the early civil wars. The land there was cursed now—raided by slavers and warlords, soaked in blood.
"She glowed, Priestess," the paladin whispered, as if uttering a secret. "Not metaphorically. Her skin shimmered. Her eyes were golden. When she cried, the sound—it was like song. Like choir. The villagers who found her... they dropped to their knees. Some wept. Some fled."
Aveline's heart stuttered. She had not felt its beat so loud in years.
"They say... they say she carries the Mark," he said, breathless.
He reached into his satchel, pulling forth a torn parchment. A sketch, hastily done, charcoal and ink. A symbol—ancient, unmistakable.
The Sun pierced by the Crescent.
The Mark of Reclamation.
The final prophecy.
No one had seen it in over four centuries.
Aveline stared. The mosaic behind her seemed to flicker in the corner of her vision.
"You saw her yourself?" she rasped.
The paladin nodded. "I did. The child was left alone in a chapel ruin. Her cloth was not dirtied, nor was she cold. Animals stood in a circle around her—wolves, deer, birds. None dared touch her."
He shook his head, still stunned by what he'd witnessed. "The ground beneath her had blossomed. A patch of green in a dead world. The air smelled of honey and sun."
The priestess staggered back. Not from fear.
From hope.
She turned, staring at the shattered altar behind her. "He answered."
"My lady?"
Aveline exhaled slowly. Her entire frame trembled, though her soul felt steadier than ever.
"Not me. I prayed for two months, and heard nothing. I thought... perhaps I was the last. That the Divine had gone where no prayer could reach."
She touched the altar with shaking fingers. "But He answered them. The helpless. The lost. The world itself."
A pause.
And then, slowly, she began to smile.
It wasn't joy. It was something deeper. Something fierce.
"We will bring her here," she declared. "At once."
"My lady—there are... obstacles."
She turned. "What kind of obstacles?"
The paladin hesitated. "Word has spread. Some say she's a holy relic to be sold. Others believe she's a harbinger. The warlords near Braelith have already dispatched riders. And the Black Regime—the slavers—they've placed a bounty."
Her blood chilled. "How much?"
"Enough to feed an army for three years."
Aveline's face hardened.
"Then we must send ours," she said. "Every remaining sword. Every faithful blade, rusted or not. She must not fall into their hands."
"We are few," he said, quietly. "The last of the Sanctum guard. Some of us haven't seen battle in years. Some of the first ones to arrive have secured the child."
"But we believe," she said, eyes burning. "That is more than the others can say."
He looked up at her—this bent, aging woman—and nodded.
"She will be protected," he said. "With my life."
She stepped forward, laying her hand on his shoulder. "Not with your life, child. With your faith."
He bowed deeply. "Yes, High Priestess."
As he left the chamber, his armor clanging in urgency, Aveline turned back to the altar.
The air felt warmer now.
Behind her, the forgotten candle—unlit for years—flickered. Once. Twice. Then bloomed into flame.