The wind was sharp today.
Elena stood still at the base of the cathedral steps, the sea breeze fluttering the hem of her dark cloak. Her gloved hands twitched at her sides, and beneath the silk—the quiet spark of magic pulsed, erratic, nearly slipping control.
She clenched her fingers to still it.
A warm hand pressed gently to her waist. The other wrapped around hers, firm, grounding.
Seamus.
She glanced at him, offered a small, unsteady smile. His presence calmed her some. Only a little. She hated this place—the towering cathedral, all arches and judgment and holy stone. It loomed above them like a monument to past pain.
But this had been their decision.
Face the Church directly.
If the Church refused to recognize their union, then let the people recognize it instead. But first—bureaucracy.
They walked forward together, hand in hand.
Elena didn't know why her body trembled so. She'd faced her mother's wrath, death threats, and even the Inquisition once… hadn't she? The memories were slippery. Shrouded. And yet, this—this walk toward the Church doors—frightened her more than she cared to admit.
"Are we sure we have to do this?" she whispered.
Seamus nodded, squeezing her hand tighter.
"We can do this. You can do this."
Inside the stone-walled chamber, time seemed to slow.
They were seated across from a high-ranking priestess, thin-lipped and tightly coiled in violet robes. Her skin was parchment pale, her eyes sunken with age. She wore the weight of a thousand unanswered prayers like armor, and it had long since turned bitter.
Elena stared at the tiled floor. Seamus tapped his boot in rising agitation.
The priestess peered over her spectacles, her voice sharp.
"Do you even know what this girl is capable of? Why she's been on a Church watchlist since she was a child?"
Elena flinched.
Seamus's nostrils flared. He shifted forward. "I do. And it doesn't phase me in the slightest."
The priestess looked scandalized.
Elena finally looked up. Her voice was calm. Clear. Controlled.
"My love…" Seamus turned to her, surprised at the softness in her tone.
Then she said it:
"Go fuck yourself."
The room fell to silence.
The priestess blinked, stunned.
"I—I beg your pardon—?"
Elena rose from her chair, shoulders squared, fists clenched at her sides. Her voice was louder now, shaking with emotion.
"I said GO. FUCK. YOURSELF. Puta."
And with that, she turned and walked out of the cathedral.
Seamus scrambled after her.
"Elena! Wait—!"
She shoved open the tall cathedral doors, stumbling down the marble steps. The sunlight blinded her, but she barely noticed. Her mind had snapped somewhere else—back into chains, into fire, into agony.
The priestess's voice echoed in her memory like a scream:
"Your very existence is a blight against the Saintess!"
She gasped, staggering, her hands outstretched as if to ward off ghosts. She didn't even realize the tears on her cheeks until the wind chilled them.
Seamus caught up, breathless, concerned. "Elena…"
She turned to him, raw, wide-eyed.
"You knew?" she asked quietly. Horrified.
Seamus froze. His hand reached toward her but stopped midair.
"I…" He hesitated. Then the truth broke through. His jaw clenched. "I did. I paid for the official Church dossier. Weeks ago."
She stepped back from him like he'd struck her.
He rushed to explain. "Just from how you talk… I knew something had been repressed. I didn't want to confront you with it. I figured you forgot to protect yourself—there's no shame in that."
She recoiled from his touch.
"There's shame in other people knowing what I don't even know about myself."
Her voice cracked, and the tears fell harder now—furious, unrelenting.
Memories swirled in her head, it made her all the more indignant.
"You bastard!!! I really am just a plaything for you, aren't I?"
"Gods, no!" Seamus stammered. "Elena, that's not—"
She lifted a hand to silence him.
"I need space. To think."
She didn't look back.
And just like that, she disappeared into the heart of Puerto Cuidad.