They called it purification.
But to Seraphina, it felt like execution wrapped in holy words.
The Sanctum of Fire was carved into the mountain's heart, its walls breathing with heat. Ancient runes glowed along the floor, and the sacred flames coiled like living serpents, hungry and bright.
She was forced to her knees in the center of the chamber, the chains around her wrists rattling as priests began to chant.
> "By fire, the impure shall be made clean…"
Their voices rose, echoing off the stone until the air itself seemed to tremble.
But Seraphina didn't pray for mercy.
She closed her eyes and whispered the only name that gave her courage.
> "Ezekiel."
The flames roared to life. They leapt from the altar, swirling toward her, gold and crimson — divine and merciless. But when they reached her body… they hesitated.
The fire danced around her like a living veil. It should have consumed her.
Instead, it bowed.
Gasps filled the sanctum. One of the Elders stumbled backward, his veil slipping.
> "This… this is impossible…"
Seraphina opened her eyes. The mark on her wrist blazed brighter than the fire itself. And from within that light came a voice — not thunderous, not wrathful — but calm, sorrowful, and infinite.
> "Who are you to call impure what I have chosen?"
The flames recoiled.
The chains shattered.
And Seraphina rose.
The priests dropped to their knees in terror.
Even the High Elders could not meet her gaze.
She lifted her hands, still trembling, and whispered, "Faith is not fear. And love… love is not sin."
The fire dimmed until only embers remained. When she stepped through them, not a single thread of her robe was burned.
Outside, the night air struck her like freedom. The stars looked different now — closer, almost alive. She knew what she had to do.
Ezekiel was still out there.
And whatever voice he had heard, whatever destiny awaited them both — it was calling her too.