The temple had never felt so hollow. Its marble floors gleamed beneath the moonlight, but every step Seraphina took echoed with guilt. She clutched her robe close, her trembling fingers brushing the mark still glowing faintly on her wrist — the mark Ezekiel had left when he blessed her before his exile.
It pulsed now, faint but alive, like his spirit was calling out across the distance.
The High Elders whispered among themselves, their faces half-hidden beneath their golden veils. They had declared Ezekiel fallen, a man deceived by the voices of rebellion. And yet, Seraphina couldn't bring herself to believe it.
> "He defied Heaven," one of them said coldly.
"He listened to the forbidden voice," another added.
"He brought shame upon the temple."
Seraphina's eyes blazed. "He questioned Heaven," she said firmly. "He didn't betray it."
The room fell silent. Even the torches seemed to shrink from her defiance.
The eldest of the council, a frail man whose eyes saw too much, leaned forward.
> "Child, do you think faith means never asking why?"
Seraphina's heart pounded. "No," she said softly. "I think faith means asking and still believing after the silence."
Her words sent ripples through the chamber. The elder nodded slightly, as though she had spoken a truth long forgotten, but the others weren't as merciful.
> "Her loyalty lies with the exile," one hissed.
"She carries his mark!"
"She must be purified before the corruption spreads!"
Hands grabbed her arms before she could resist. She was dragged toward the Sanctum of Fire — the chamber used to purge those accused of divine rebellion.
Yet even as she struggled, she heard it — the faintest whisper in her mind, deep, familiar, and aching.
> Seraphina... don't be afraid.
Her breath caught. Ezekiel.
Even across miles of wilderness and walls of stone, his voice reached her.
And for the first time since his departure, Seraphina smiled through her tears.
> "Then let the fire come," she whispered. "If I burn, I'll burn believing."