The stained glass of the Cathedral of Holy Light split the setting sun into countless shards, scattering them across the cold white marble floor. Seraphia knelt before the altar, clutching a dull silver holy symbol as if it were the only lifeline in a raging sea.
"This is betrayal, Seraphia." Archbishop Reginald's voice echoed behind her, low and heavy in the cathedral's emptiness. "Leaving the Holy City without the Pope's blessing, abandoning your duties… You know the consequences."
Seraphia slowly opened her eyes. Beneath her pale gold lashes, those violet eyes—always full of gentleness and mercy—now held only a pained resolve. She rose, her pure white robes brushing soundlessly against the floor.
"What are my duties, Your Grace?" Her voice was soft, yet clear, like a mountain stream striking stone. "To lead prayers within these great walls while outside, our people are consumed by the shadows of Chaos? To obey laws that have strayed from the true Light, leaving only empty rules?"
She turned to face the elder in his rich red robes, his expression stern. Several temple knights stood behind him, hands resting casually on their sword hilts, their silver armor gleaming coldly in the fading light.
"Mind your words, Saint!" Reginald snapped, though a flicker of unease crossed his eyes. "The laws of the Church are the will of the Light! The spread of Chaos is a punishment—a consequence of wavering faith! Your place is here, calming the people, not chasing myths!"
"It is no myth." Seraphia held up the dimmed holy symbol, its center bearing a faint, almost invisible crack. "The Light fades, Your Grace. You know what this means. It is not our faith that fails—it is the world's foundation crumbling without the lost 'Primordial Scripture.' Chaos is not punishment—it is a sickness, spreading into our world!"
She took a step forward, ignoring the knights tightening their stance, her gaze fixed on the archbishop. "The visions in my prayers were no illusion. West, in the Spine of the World—I felt the Scripture's echo. And the path there requires a guardian… one who is imprisoned."
"That demon!" Reginald nearly shouted, raw fear flashing across his face. "You speak of the monster sealed beneath Giant's Peak by the ancient Saints! The Defiler Kaelan! He tore the sky and made the earth weep! Freeing him would bring disaster far worse than Chaos!"
"The prophecy says: 'He is the key and the chain. Only a pure heart can guide his strength toward the light.'" Seraphia quoted the forbidden texts, her tone calm but unyielding. "I believe this is not the path of destruction—it is the only path of salvation."
"You are deceived, child," the archbishop said, feigning concern. "You need rest and cleansing. Guards, escort the Saint to her chambers for… quiet reflection."
Two knights stepped forward, their metal boots clacking loudly in the silent cathedral. They loomed over Seraphia's small frame.
She didn't move. She only drew a soft breath and pressed the faded holy symbol to her heart.
"In the name of the Dawn," she whispered, her voice spreading strangely throughout the great hall, "may light guide the lost."
A deep, pure light—gentle yet unstoppable—washed out from her. It did no harm, carried no force, only a profound sense of peace.
The two knights halted mid-step, their stern expressions softening into calm confusion. Even Archbishop Reginald's anger stilled, soothed for a brief moment.
Seraphia's face paled, but her eyes remained clear and determined. She used the moment to turn and hurry toward the cathedral's side door.
"Stop her!" Reginald shouted, shaking off the tranquility.
But it was too late. Seraphia slipped into the shadows of the doorway. By the time the knights rushed out, all they saw was the chaotic streets of the Holy City—refugees, merchants, soldiers—swallowing the figure in white like a drop in the ocean. She was gone.
...
Night fell quickly. Seraphia pulled up her hood, hiding her distinctive gold hair and face, and curled up in the back of a hay cart leaving the Holy City.
The noise and light of the city faded behind her. Only the cold moonlight lit the way. The cart wobbled over the rough road. She looked back—the Holy City stood dark and massive against the night, like a sleeping beast, its light now faint and fragile.
A cold wind blew. She shivered, pulling her thin robes tighter. Fear coiled around her heart—not of the Church's pursuit, nor of the dangers ahead, but of the weight of her mission.
She opened her palm. The dull holy symbol lay there, cold and lifeless.
Far to the east, a thin, ominous red crack glowed faintly among the clouds—a wound where Chaos slowly spread.
Seraphia gripped the symbol, pressed it to her forehead, and prayed once more. This time, only for courage.
The cart rattled on, carrying her west.
Toward the mountains where the demon was said to be imprisoned.