The chamber was dim.
Just as she liked it.
Candles flickered at the edges, their flames dancing in the breath of incense trailing from the burner at her side. Her prayer mat faced the small window carved into the eastern wall—the one no one else was allowed to use. Through it, the rising light of the sun fell in soft slivers across her folded hands.
She had been praying for hours.
Her knees ached.
Her head was bowed so long the blood drained from her face.
And yet, she didn't move.
Her lips moved in silent rhythm, repeating the same words she'd whispered for days:
"Divine one, tell me what more I can give."
She had healed.
She had fasted.
She had served.
But there had to be more.
Something deeper. Something worthy of the power that hummed endlessly beneath her skin, begging for direction.
She asked again, her fingers pressed to her chest.
"Let me help more. Show me where to go."
Then—
Voices.
Not divine.
Not thunder.
Whispers.
From behind the curtain that separated her sanctum from the handmaidens' quarters.
Naia's voice, sharp with quiet warning.
"Lina, stop talking so loud."
"But she's asleep," Lina whispered back. "She always is at this time."
"She is never asleep when she prays," Imara said softly. "And even if she were, it's not your place to speak of rumors."
Seraphina didn't move.
Didn't speak.
She only listened.
Something about the tone tugged at her heart—different from the usual reverence. There was tension. Hesitation.
Something new.
"I'm just saying," Lina said again, a bit lower, "the people in the south are starting to talk. They don't believe in her anymore. Some of them never did."
Naia's voice stiffened. "That land has suffered much. It's not their fault they've lost their faith."
"No," Imara added, "but it's not fair to her, either. She's given everything, and they still call her a fraud."
Lina sounded hesitant. "They say the crops haven't returned. That their rivers are still empty. That the Temple only heals the rich and noble."
"That is not true," Naia said at once.
But her voice wasn't angry. Just… tired.
"They say," Lina continued, "that if she were really divine, she would have gone to them by now."
"Enough," Naia snapped. "You speak too freely."
Silence.
A shuffle of movement.
Then—
"She's not angry," Seraphina said quietly, lifting her head.
The curtain stilled.
"I'm not angry," she repeated, standing slowly, her veil falling back into place. "I just want to know."
The three women turned as she stepped through the veil of incense, her presence quiet, glowing, unreadable. Not because she intended to hide—but because she had become so much more than human in their eyes that even her stillness made them tremble.
Naia bowed at once, spine stiff. "Lady Seraphina, we didn't mean—"
"I asked the Divine what more I could do," she said softly, approaching them. "And then I heard you."
Imara lowered her gaze. "It was not meant for your ears."
"Then perhaps the Divine meant it for my heart."
Lina knelt before her, voice shaking. "I didn't mean to question your grace, my lady. Only—only to repeat what others are saying—"
"I want you to," Seraphina said.
The three women looked up, startled.
"I want to hear all of it."
Naia hesitated. "Lady Seraphina…"
"Please."
She rarely begged.
They knew that.
Naia straightened slowly. Her face, always calm, seemed older now. She took a breath, then gave a slow, reluctant nod.
"The southern provinces," she began, "have suffered the most since the last drought season. Their crops died three winters ago. Their wells ran dry. Salt crept into their soil. The rivers dropped. Fishing failed. Whole villages had to burn their boats for warmth."
Seraphina listened in silence.
"The people feel forgotten," Naia continued. "The Temple's reach doesn't extend that far. Not anymore. Roads were cut off during the war. Bandits raid the trade paths. No tithe has come from the southern region in years."
"And so," Imara added quietly, "the High Priests no longer send offerings there. The nobles avoid it. Even the caravans turn back at the borders."
"They say," Lina murmured, "that you belong to gold now. Not to them."
Seraphina blinked.
It didn't hurt to hear it.
Not quite.
But it made something twist in her chest. A knot of guilt. A thread of something that felt dangerously close to shame.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
"They've kept it quiet," Naia said. "To protect you."
"Or to protect themselves," Lina muttered.
"Lina," Naia snapped again, sharp. "Show respect."
But Seraphina stepped closer to the kneeling girl.
"No," she said gently. "Let her speak. She's telling the truth, isn't she?"
Imara finally looked up. Her eyes glistened. "They think you were never meant for them, Lady Seraphina. That you're only here for the cities. The nobles. The banners that rise on paved streets."
Seraphina took a breath.
Then another.
Each one tighter than the last.
"Has no one gone to them?" she asked.
Naia hesitated. "…No."
"Not even with prayers?"
"No messengers have returned. The last caravan disappeared before reaching the lower valley. The temple… gave up."
Seraphina's hands tightened at her sides.
She closed her eyes.
And the warmth inside her began to pulse again—not in rage, not in fear, but in purpose.
This was not a coincidence.
She had prayed for more.
Asked for direction.
Begged for the Divine to speak.
And He had.
Through Lina's nervous whisper.
Through Naia's weary honesty.
Through the pain of a forgotten people.
This was her answer.
"I want to learn everything about the southern provinces," she said at last, opening her eyes.
The women looked at her in stunned silence.
"I want the names of the villages. The histories. The maps. I want to know why the crops died. Why the fishing stopped. I want to read the letters they never received and the prayers they whispered in vain."
Naia took a slow breath. "…That will not be easy to gather."
"I don't want easy," Seraphina said, her voice as steady as stone. "I want truth."
She turned, her white veil fluttering as she stepped back toward her prayer mat.
Her knees found the cushion once more.
But this time, she did not pray for direction.
She knew now.
And somewhere beyond the marble walls, beyond the gilded arches and whispered hymns, the Divine stirred in the quiet corners of the world—
Waiting.