The scent of burned cedar lingered in the air when Omel entered. He didn't knock—he never did anymore. Not with her.
Seraphina sat by the window, veil drawn over her hair, back straight as she watched the morning mist rise from the temple roofs. She didn't turn to look at him, but she felt him approach. The soft rustle of robes, the weight of age in his steps.
He sat beside her without a word, the silence between them no longer strained but familiar. Heavy.
For a time, they watched the mist together.
Then, Omel spoke.
"You've chosen them."
She nodded. "They are strong. Loyal."
"They are young. And still, it's not enough," he said, quietly.
She turned at last, veil shifting slightly to reveal her face. Calm. Expectant.
"Even if they trained every hour of every day until their hands bled, it would not be enough. Not against what waits beyond those gates."
Seraphina's expression didn't change. "Then what do you suggest, Omel? Should I do nothing? Should I remain safe and sacred while the world rots beyond our walls?"
He looked at her with tired eyes. "No. I suggest you understand the danger."
She said nothing.
He continued. "Do you remember the stories? Of the First Flamebearers? Of the Saints who walked through war surrounded by light?"
"I memorized them."
"Then you know this: those Saints were never alone. Their guards weren't just swordsmen. They were paladins. Touched by the Divine."
Seraphina's breath caught. She turned fully to him now.
"Divine aura," she whispered.
Omel nodded. "Yes. It's more than myth, Seraphina. They say those touched by true faith could channel a fragment of the Divine. That in the presence of a Saint, their souls lit like a spark to dry wood."
"Then why—"
"Why don't they exist anymore? Why have none awakened in over a century?" He sighed. "Because the Temple fractured. Because greed took root. Because sacred rites were buried, and when the Great Fire came, the texts that taught the process… were lost."
Seraphina swallowed. "All of them?"
"All that we know of. Burned with the old archives."
A long silence stretched between them.
Omel leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled. "Those boys they are powerful. But they are not enough. If the heretics find you, they won't hesitate. If the South still burns with plague, if warlords still prowl its borders... strength won't be enough."
Seraphina stared at the floor, shadows dancing along the stone.
Omel continued, softer now. "You walk into a battlefield without armor. Not spiritual. Not divine. And if the Divine truly favors you, then perhaps you can awaken it in them. Perhaps."
She raised her eyes to him. "And if I can't?"
Omel looked away. "Then the moment you step beyond the temple walls... you will die."
The words hung in the room like smoke. Heavy. Inevitable.
He exhaled, rubbing his temple. "They've called for your presence. Queen Isolde of Everthrone has arrived—with her son, the Fourth Prince."
Seraphina stood, adjusting the veil across her shoulders with a grace that had become second nature. She was used to these visits—nobility seeking blessings, counsel, a glimpse of the divine. She followed the summons without hesitation, heart steady.
Until she saw him.
Prince Kaeven Cassimir of Everthrone stood beside his mother in the temple's receiving hall, tall and poised, yet radiating a warmth that defied the cold politeness of courtly presence. He had dark hair, thick and windswept, like it had defied a comb just to spite his attendants. His eyes were a piercing blue. His features were chiseled with the kind of elegance usually only sculptors managed to capture: high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and a mouth that almost—almost—smirked even when at rest.
He bowed low, one hand over his heart. "Lady Seraphina. It is an honor."
She stared for a second too long.
Her heart fluttered—and it wasn't from divinity.
Queen Isolde was graceful and regal, speaking in polite terms about their long journey, their hopes for an audience. But Seraphina's mind kept drifting back to the way the prince stood—not with arrogance, but curiosity. Like he saw through the layers of silk and light. Like She wondered, for a brief foolish moment, if she was like all the others—charmed by a handsome face. For the first time in her life, she liked what she saw. And still, she greeted them.
She wondered, just for a moment, if she was like the others—charmed by a handsome face. For the first time in her life, she liked what she saw. That thought alone unsettled her, but she pushed it aside and greeted them with the same grace she offered all others.
They were led to a quieter chamber—a room often used for private blessings or noble offerings. Tea was served in delicate cups, steam curling between them like unseen threads of tension. Queen Isolde took her seat with practiced elegance, while Prince Kaeven lowered himself opposite Seraphina, his posture far more relaxed.
Pleasantries were exchanged—praise for the temple, gratitude for the audience, observations about the recent bloom in the inner gardens. It was all routine. Polished. Expected.
Until he spoke again.
"They say you don't speak often," the prince said, swirling his tea, his tone deceptively casual. "Is that choice or command?"
Seraphina met his gaze calmly. "Reverence."
He tilted his head. "So it's an act."
Queen Isolde coughed lightly, a warning.
Seraphina didn't flinch. "No. It's a vow."
The prince leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice low. "And what would it take to make you break it?"
That was the moment it shifted. The flutter in her chest stilled. The warmth he radiated dulled. There was an edge to his curiosity now—something almost taunting.
He wasn't here to admire.
He was here to challenge.
And Seraphina had no interest in entertaining pride dressed in charm.
She lifted her cup, the movement fluid, calm. "I only break vows for the Divine."
Queen Isolde smiled, strained. Prince Kaeven said nothing.
But Seraphina had already turned her gaze away.
Whatever intrigue he stirred was gone.
Burned to ash beneath the weight of his arrogance.