The chamber beyond the cathedral gates was unlike anything mortal eyes were meant to see. It did not end or begin. It simply was — eternal, suspended in a realm where time held no dominion. Chains of pure light crisscrossed the vaulted space, anchored in starless darkness, converging at a single floating figure.
The sarcophagus hung in the air, cradled by chains like a marionette, its surface pulsing faintly with gold and ash. Within it lay Seraphim Ardent, the first cursed, the origin of the divine blight that had passed from flame to blood, love to ruin. His wings were shattered ruins, the bones twisted and charred, his ribcage scorched and hollow. But his heart still burned—not metaphorically, not symbolically, but literally. A constant inferno raged in his chest, bound by holy sigils etched into the transparent crystal that enclosed him.
