The Cradleless surged like a tide of grief and ash—
Their blades were not metal, but memories sharpened into weapons.
The sanctuary twisted with ancient flame and prophecy.
Seraphina stood at its heart, golden fire weaving from her palms.
> "You were warned," she whispered. "The cradle may tilt—but it does not fall."
One Cradleless acolyte lunged.
Seraphina moved with unnatural grace. A wave of gold — not flame, but life — burst from her palm, turning the acolyte into blooming ash.
They screamed — not in pain, but in awe.
> "She is awakening!" one gasped.
"The child is listening—"
A pulse.
The sanctuary itself shuddered.
Golden vines shot from the cracked cradle altar, wrapping around walls and invaders alike.
The Cradleless leader stepped forward now—
Her veil burned away, revealing empty eye sockets, and in their place: the black fire of the first betrayal.
> "You were never meant to carry the child," she said coldly.
"She is the end of all cradles, the unmaking of our design."
Seraphina raised her chin.
Ravon, behind her, was kneeling—clutching his side, fading into a strange trance.
The leader raised a blade of bone-fire.
> "We strike before the child takes breath," she whispered.
And swung—
—
Then everything slowed—
The blade neared Seraphina's throat—
But something stopped it. Not her hand.
The baby's light burst outward, blinding, ancient, defiant.
The Cradleless leader's hand shattered at the wrist—turning to dust.
She fell back with a cry that echoed like the fall of kingdoms.
And Seraphina whispered:
> "We are ashborn.
We do not burn alone.
But neither do we burn in vain."
The flame rose.
The remaining Cradleless fled, their robes smoking, curses hissing in the air.
Silence fell.
The sanctuary breathed again.
And Ravon, collapsed beside her, whispered something unintelligible…
His eyes fluttered, his fingers twitching—
> He was drifting into a dream.