The dawn broke with a harsh, sterile light that seemed to cut through the lingering shadows of the shattered Seal. The air felt thinner, charged with unseen forces — as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Sid lay awake long before the sun rose. His arm, the scar from the fracture, still throbbed with heat, though it had settled from its worst convulsions. He stared at the ceiling, eyes open and hollow, until a soft knock shattered the silence.
The door opened without waiting.
A tall figure stepped into the room, robes glimmering with pale gold threads that seemed to hum softly as they moved. His face was stern, angular, and sharp as a blade — and his eyes, pale and piercing, scanned Sid's burning arm without blinking.
"I am Seraphiel of Evara," the emissary announced, his voice resonant but controlled, like a judge delivering a decree. "The goddess sees your turmoil. She demands you undergo divine training."
Sid's eyes snapped toward him, sharp and exhausted. "I don't… I don't want their charity." His voice rasped but held a steady defiance.
Seraphiel's lips curved in a slight, dismissive smile. "It is not charity. It is necessity. If you do not learn to channel the god's light, the flame within you will tear your mind apart — and worse, it will destroy everything you love."
Sid's fists clenched, and the black veins along his arm flared briefly, as if reacting. He dragged his sleeve across them, trying to hide the marks. But Seraphiel's gaze was merciless. He already knew.
The emissary's eyes softened, though it was unclear if it was compassion or calculation. "You are not a choice anymore, Sid Arkwood. You are a battlefield — between godlight and demonfire. If you would master yourself, you must master them both. Otherwise, they will master you."
Sid's jaw tightened. "You treat me like a weapon."
The words hung heavy in the air.
For a moment, Seraphiel's composure wavered. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The world's fate may rest on that weapon."
Sid's eyes flashed with fury. "I'm not a weapon! I'm—" He broke off, unable to finish the sentence. He didn't know what he was anymore. The scar pulsed again, like it wanted to answer for him.
Seraphiel sighed and turned away, as if the argument were beneath him. "The goddess cares not for sentiment. Power must be tempered with discipline. If you would stand against the forces that claw at you, you must train. You must learn to wield godlight alongside the flame."
He extended his hand toward Sid's arm.
For a terrifying second, Sid's breath caught. The golden light streamed from the emissary's palm — cool, steady, alive with purpose. It hovered inches above Sid's skin without touching him, bending gently toward the scar but stopping just short, like a blade hovering before the throat.
"Feel it," Seraphiel commanded.
Sid hesitated. His eyes darted toward the door, half expecting Nox to burst in and drag him out. But the room was empty. The silence pressed him to choose.
Slowly, as if stepping into a pool of freezing water, Sid extended his hand toward the golden light. A surge of warmth spread into his fingertips, spreading up his arm and mingling with the burning scar.
At first, it felt like poison.
The scar screamed, tendrils of black fire writhing outward as if to fight the intrusion. Sid's muscles spasmed, his eyes widened, and for a moment he was sure he would collapse.
But Seraphiel's voice remained steady. "Let it flow. Do not resist. Guide it."
Sid clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe steadily. He allowed the light to seep deeper, into bone, into blood. Slowly, the edges of the black veins quivered, resisting — then softening. The golden light pulsed rhythmically, almost like a heartbeat matching his own.
His eyes burned with effort, sweat glistening on his brow, but his hand remained extended.
"Good," Seraphiel intoned. "You feel it. The god's radiance can temper your flame. Together, they can be shaped… harnessed… commanded."
Sid's eyes snapped to him. "Together? Or… used?"
Seraphiel's eyes narrowed for a brief instant, but he recovered quickly. "The choice is yours," he said smoothly. "But without discipline, you will not even have a choice."
Sid yanked his hand back as the light withdrew. His arm still burned, but something else lingered — a trace, a thin golden line that mingled with the black veins, subtle yet undeniable.
His heart pounded.
Seraphiel's expression hardened once more. "You will begin training at first light. There will be no argument." He turned toward the door but glanced back once more, his eyes unreadable.
"You are stronger than you believe, Sid Valehart," he said quietly. "But strength without purpose is a curse."
Then he left.
Sid sat frozen, staring at the intertwining black and gold lines crawling along his arm like living symbols. His fists trembled. His breathing was ragged. But behind the pain, a spark ignited — not of rage or despair, but of resolve.
A whisper curled from the scar, low and malevolent.
"Bind it tighter…"
Sid's eyes narrowed.
"Let them try," he muttered.
Outside, the sun's first rays touched the land, but even its light seemed unsure, hesitant to pierce the growing shadows that coiled at the edges of the world.