She had grown into her silence.
It had not been forced upon her, not chained or beaten or preached until it was burned into her skin. No—Seraphina had chosen it, willingly, gently. Like folding a favorite blanket over her shoulders. Like kneeling into the warmth of stillness and knowing that nothing would hurt her there.
She was ten years old now.
But most forgot she was a child at all.
The temple walls had never felt like a prison again—not since the day she gave herself over fully to the Divine.
It happened slowly. A soft surrender. Like pouring herself out, day by day, thought by thought, until all that remained was prayer.
She loved it.
She craved it.
On days without lessons, she spent hours in the sacred chapel—the one with silver floors and no windows, where light came only from the fire bowls and the quiet songs of the ancients carved into the domes.
She would kneel in the center until her legs numbed.
Hands folded.
Head bowed.
Her lips moved, but she never made a sound.
She had long since learned that the Divine heard her best when she spoke with no voice.
Sometimes it would be four hours before someone brought her food.
Other days—eight.
Naia would find her sitting in the same place where she had been at sunrise, eyes closed, still breathing like someone asleep on their knees.
They never rushed her.
They never dared.
No one but her three handmaidens saw her face now.
That, too, had been her decision.
The veils had started as ceremonial. Worn only during high mass, during rare appearances in the Hall of Stone.
Now they never left her.
White silk in the morning.
Pale gold at midday.
Twilight blue after dusk.
She wore them like armor.
To protect others.
From her.
Because something had changed in the years since Kael's death.
She had changed.
Her presence was too much now. Even when she hid her light, even when she tried to keep her body dim and her hair covered—people trembled near her. Could not meet her eyes.
And if they tried…
Their knees buckled.
Some wept.
One priest fainted after brushing her fingertips while passing a scroll.
She had not meant to frighten anyone.
But she had stopped apologizing for what she was.
Even her three handmaidens—Naia, Imara, and Lina—rarely looked her in the eye for more than a moment.
They dressed her, washed her hair, prepared her tea and oils and incense. They listened when she recited the scripture she had long since memorized.
But they bowed their heads often.
Not out of fear.
Not even reverence.
But awe.
Seraphina wished they wouldn't.
But she never told them to stop.
She still went to mass when invited.
Once a month.
Sometimes twice, if the outer city sent offerings.
The Hall of Flame would fill with priests, paladins, children, commoners who had waited for hours just to catch a glimpse of her.
They never saw her face.
She would emerge veiled in gold, hands folded in front of her, flanked by Naia and Imara, while Lina walked just behind. No guards. She didn't need them.
No one dared come close.
People whispered in her presence.
Some sobbed openly.
Mothers clutched their babies. Elders bowed until they shook.
And she…
She just prayed.
Kneeling before the altar in silence, glowing softly through her veil, as incense filled the hall and voices lifted her name into something sacred.
Seraphina.
The Flame Reborn.
The Child Who Lived.
She never spoke at mass.
She never addressed the people.
She didn't need to.
Her presence alone was enough to bring order to chaos, peace to fear, tears to stone.
And still, when the ceremony ended and the doors closed behind her, she would return to her chambers…
And curl her knees beneath her on the cushion by the window…
And whisper prayers to the willow tree she had not seen in five years.
Her room was different now.
Larger.
Simpler.
The temple had tried to gild it—statues, stained glass, velvet thrones—but she'd sent it all away. She slept on a mat of woven reeds. Ate from clay bowls. Refused gold.
The only light came from the lamp by her prayer mat and the soft fire in the hearth.
The walls were plain stone.
The only luxury she allowed was a stack of old books and the tapestries her handmaidens stitched for her in secret.
She never asked for gifts.
But she kept those.
Especially the one Lina made—threaded with wildflowers and stitched with the words:
"You are still you."
Sometimes she dreamed of Kael.
Not the blood.
Not the sword.
Not the end.
But the quiet moments.
He would sit beside her at the edge of the garden. Tell her the shapes of clouds. Chase away the bees. Laugh at her riddles.
In dreams, she was five again.
In dreams, she was still whole.
She would wake from those dreams with tears on her cheeks and a still heart in her chest.
But never fear.
Never anger.
Only longing.
Naia brushed her hair every evening before sleep.
She did it slowly, reverently, whispering prayers as her fingers moved through the strands. The glow never hurt her. But it made her eyes shine.
"You could sleep in silk," Naia said once, half-smiling. "You could have a palace."
"I have a temple," Seraphina said.
"You could rule a kingdom."
"I would rather pray."
Naia never argued.
She prayed not just for the faithful, but for the frightened.
Not just for the living, but for the ones she had burned.
She prayed for peace.
For silence.
For a world that did not need her.
Because if the world did not need her—
Then maybe, just maybe…
She could stop being more than a girl.
Maybe someday she could be just Seraphina.
And until that day came, she would keep her light veiled.
And her grief folded into her prayers.