By the time she turned fifteen, Seraphina no longer remembered what silence sounded like.
There was always sound now. Whispered prayers. Choirs in the distance. Gold bells ringing in reverence. Silk shoes shuffling behind her. Pages flipping through books bound in white leather, all filled with her name. Her miracles. Her words.
She didn't remember saying any of them.
But they were hers now.
They belonged to her.
Or rather—she belonged to them.
She never walked through the temple alone anymore.
Every step she took echoed against marble surrounded by at least twelve others—handmaidens, silent guards, two scribes from the Temple Record, and a girl who carried the incense orb, which never stopped smoking.
Every time she stepped out of her chamber, someone bowed.
Every time she passed through a doorway, someone whispered.
They didn't see her.
They saw a veil of white.
A body of light.
A holy girl whose feet never quite seemed to touch the floor anymore.
And Seraphina… didn't mind.
She loved her life.
Truly, wholly.
She loved waking to the soft sound of Naia's voice, now steadier and older. She loved Imara's gentle fingers as she wrapped the silk veil around her head just right, and Lina's quiet humming as she lit the daily offering candles.
She loved her chamber—the same one she had chosen to keep even as the temple grew three times its size. She refused the grander quarters, the jeweled basins, the velvet beds. She slept on woven matting and soft wool. Her walls were draped in fabric painted with verses. And the tapestries remained.
Especially Lina's first one.
"You are still you."
She was.
She believed that.
Even as the world turned her into something more.
The rituals changed.
She didn't heal just anyone now.
No, those days had long passed.
Not because she said no.
But because the temple said yes too many times.
And others had noticed.
Nobles. Generals. Foreign lords.
Everyone wanted a miracle.
And miracles, like everything sacred, became rare once they were desired too deeply.
So now, they were structured.
Controlled.
Sanctified.
The sick were no longer brought to her in quiet rooms.
They were chosen.
Washed in ritual baths scented with myrrh and thyme.
Wrapped in white cloth.
Anointed in oil.
Then, barefoot and silent, they were brought into the Hall of the Flame, where Seraphina waited behind the altar, veiled and kneeling beneath an arch of gold and ivory.
She didn't see their faces anymore.
They were kept bowed.
Heads low. Eyes lower.
They didn't speak.
They only knelt and held out their hands.
And Seraphina would rise, barefoot herself, trailing light behind her as she approached.
She would lift her hands—so much longer now than when she first learned to pray—and touch theirs.
That was all.
Her fingers to theirs.
Her skin to skin.
And the light would flow.
Without pain.
Without effort.
Without sound.
When she pulled away, they always gasped softly.
Some wept.
Some laughed.
All left changed.
And she—
She returned to her chamber, heart full.
Because this was her joy.
Not the altar. Not the ritual. Not the song they sang for her afterward.
But giving.
She was a vessel.
And she had long accepted the beauty of being empty.
The parades had started when she was thirteen.
A once-a-year celebration.
Now it was four times a year.
Then every two months.
Then monthly.
She was carried now—never walking. Draped in gold, her veil woven with celestial thread that shimmered like sunlight on water. The people lined the temple square, reaching, sobbing, praying aloud in desperate unison.
She heard them.
She loved them.
She prayed for them every night.
But she never looked into their eyes.
She wasn't allowed.
The scribes said it was too much. Her gaze too divine.
They said it frightened people now.
She wasn't offended.
She was… grateful.
Her eyes were for the Divine.
And the Divine—He had never spoken back.
Not in all her years of prayer.
Not in dreams.
Not in light.
But she never doubted Him.
Because when she prayed, she felt peace.
And when she gave, she felt whole.
And when the world fell silent as she passed, she felt loved.
Wasn't that enough?
Wasn't that all she'd ever wanted?
Sometimes, late at night, after rituals, after incense, after she was bathed and veiled and alone once more, Seraphina would sit by the hearth and trace her fingers over the frayed corner of an old gray cloth.
It was Kael's.
His cloak.
She had hidden it beneath her prayer mat for ten years.
It smelled of nothing now.
But she remembered the scent.
Steel. Dust. Home.
She pressed it to her chest and whispered, "I'm still me."
Because even though no one had said otherwise…
She was afraid one day someone would.
She did not leave the temple anymore.
Not even for the garden.
Not even to see the stars.
The light in her skin was constant now.
The veil wasn't protection anymore.
It was mercy.
The last time a priest caught sight of her face by accident, he had burst into tears and refused to speak for three days.
She had held his hand, whispered a blessing—but he only wept harder.
She had apologized.
But the scribes told her not to.
They told her she had transcended.
That her voice was to be used only for prayer now.
So she listened.
And she remained silent.
She did not see mirrors.
She asked that none be placed in her chamber.
Not because she hated what she saw.
But because she loved what she was.
And feared the moment she might not.
Every night, before bed, she whispered to the dark corner of her chamber.
The one untouched by light.
The one where a willow might grow, if given space.
She pressed her palms together.
Closed her eyes.
And murmured:
"Divine one, let me still be worthy tomorrow.
Let my hands heal.
Let my voice stay quiet.
Let my heart not forget
That I am not the light—
I only carry it."
And the wind outside the chamber stirred like a soft breath.
As if something—far beyond marble and gold and veils—
Still listened.