Seraphina
The morning bells were louder here.
Not like the soft chimes from the sanctuary garden—the ones the wind played like songs. No, these bells commanded. They echoed down the golden halls of the temple like orders, reverberating through the marble until they settled like a weight in Seraphina's chest.
She dressed slowly, tugging at the stiff sleeves of the ceremonial robes they gave her. Cream and gold, silk-lined, embroidered with suns and stars she didn't recognize. They weren't hers. Not like her old cloak with the one frayed corner and the little frog pin Kael gave her last spring.
She missed the frog pin most of all.
The knock came, soft but expected.
"Lady Seraphina?" one of the temple aides called. "Your first lesson begins in ten minutes. May I enter?"
She didn't respond.
Didn't have to.
The door opened anyway.
The lesson chamber was enormous. Cold. Too white. Books lined the walls, but they weren't for reading stories or drawing flowers. They were thick and old and smelled like dust and ink and pressure.
Three priests waited, seated behind a long polished table. They bowed as she entered, too deeply, like she might strike them with lightning if they didn't bend far enough.
"Blessed child," said the eldest, Priest Variel. "Welcome. Today, we begin the sacred education of the Chosen Flame."
She frowned. "My name is Seraphina."
He smiled tightly. "Of course. Seraphina, chosen vessel."
She sat on the stool across from them. It was too tall. Her feet didn't reach the ground.
They spoke of scripture.
Of prophecy.
Of how the Divine once walked among mortals, and how they believed she was His echo. How she had been born with the mark, how miracles bloomed in her footsteps, how she was destined to heal the land, unite the kingdoms, restore the world.
She didn't remember any of that.
"I like gardens," she said at one point.
The priests chuckled politely.
"But you must learn more than flowers," Variel said. "Your purpose is vast. You will be revered, adored, obeyed. People will travel across kingdoms just to see you."
Her brow furrowed. "That sounds lonely."
"Not at all. You will be surrounded by advisors. Guards. Worshippers."
"Not friends?"
Silence.
Then, the younger priest—Tomas—offered, "We are all your friends here."
But they weren't.
They bowed every time she blinked.
They never looked her in the eye.
And when she tried to ask them questions—about who they were, what they liked—they only smiled like she was a doll asking why the moon was made of cheese.
So she stopped asking.
She memorized the names of the old kings.
She repeated the parables from the Book of Flame.
She said the lines they gave her.
And each time, the room got colder.
When the lesson ended, she hurried back to her room without speaking. A pair of acolytes followed at a distance—never too close, but never far enough for comfort.
She pulled the blanket over her head as soon as she was alone.
Only when she was sure no one would hear, she whispered to the pillow:
"I miss you, Aveline."
Kael
He didn't like the way the outer walls had grown quiet.
Not the good kind of quiet. Not the peace that came from faith or rest.
The wrong kind. The kind before a storm.
Kael stood at the northern terrace, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other resting against the cold railing. From here, he could see the city just beyond the temple walls—its rising spires, its crowded streets, the smoke from too many chimneys.
And the people.
They gathered in greater numbers each day. Not just pilgrims. Not just the desperate.
The curious. The greedy. The dangerous.
He'd seen more strangers skulking near the merchant quarter. Men with eyes too sharp. Ears too tuned to whispers. They asked too many questions.
At the gate this morning, a man dressed as a priest tried to enter using forged documents.
Kael had thrown him out himself.
He didn't kill him.
He should have.
"Your hand hasn't left your sword in hours."
Kael turned slightly. Omel stood a few feet away, robes fluttering in the wind.
"That's because the danger hasn't either," Kael muttered.
Omel stepped beside him, staring out over the stone balustrade. "The city is watching."
"They always watch."
"Because they're waiting."
"For what?"
Omel's eyes never left the horizon. "For her to become what they want her to be."
Kael's jaw clenched. "She's not a symbol. She's not a torch to wave around. She's a child."
"She was a child," Omel corrected. "Now, she's something more."
Kael turned fully, voice low. "Don't say that to me."
Omel looked at him then. "You think I don't care about her. That I see her as a tool."
"You don't know her."
"I don't need to. I know what she represents."
"That's the problem."
They stood in silence.
Then Kael said, quieter, "She cried last night."
Omel's expression flickered.
"She's starting to understand," Kael added. "That this place was never built for her. It was built around her. As a shrine."
"She's the only hope people believe in."
"And how long before that hope eats her alive?"
Omel didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
That night, Kael stood outside her chamber door longer than usual.
He didn't knock.
But she opened it anyway.
She always knew.
Her eyes were tired. She didn't speak—just stepped aside and let him in.
He sat beside her on the cushioned bench.
"Did you memorize the story of the Six Trials?" he asked gently.
She nodded. "And the names of the First Flamebearers. And the three sacred mountains."
He smiled. "You're getting too smart for me."
She leaned on his shoulder. "I don't want to be smart. I just want to go home."
His voice cracked. "Me too, little star."
They watched the moon rise over the temple walls in silence.
And somewhere outside, past the gates, past the city...
Eyes were watching.
And waiting.