Elara's POV
They don't let me walk.
The guards drag me through the temple corridors, my feet scraping against stone floors. I try to stand, try to move on my own, but my legs won't work. Terror has turned my bones to water.
Please, I gasp, please, I can walk, just let me
They ignore me. We pass through halls I've never seen before—deep in the temple's heart where ordinary people aren't allowed. The walls are bare stone. Dark. Cold. Wrong.
This isn't the path to divine fire.
This is the path to something worse.
We emerge into an open chamber, and the blood moon fills the sky above, huge and red like a wound. The Altar of Dawn sits in the center—massive black stone, smooth and cold, stained with something dark that won't wash away.
Blood. Old blood.
My stomach drops.
No— I try to pull back, but the guards are too strong. They lift me onto the altar like I weigh nothing. The stone is freezing against my back.
Metal clicks around my wrists. Heavy chains. Then my ankles. Four separate chains bolted to the altar corners, spreading my arms and legs wide, leaving me completely helpless.
I can't move. Can't run. Can barely breathe.
Please, I sob, pulling against the chains. They don't budge. Please, I don't want to die—
High Priest Valdris appears at the altar's edge, his scarlet robes billowing. Behind him, twelve priests form a circle, all wearing masks, all holding candles that smell wrong—sweet and rotten at the same time.
Solarius, accept this Bride, Valdris intones, spreading his arms wide. Consume her in your holy fire. Protect us from the Shadowplague. Let her sacrifice—
I stop listening. His words sound like lies. Everything sounds like lies.
The priests chant in a language I don't understand. The candles flicker. The blood moon pulses overhead.
Then they leave.
All of them. Valdris, the priests, the guards—they walk away, disappearing through doorways I can't see, leaving me alone on the altar.
Chained. Waiting.
For divine fire that doesn't come.
An hour passes. Maybe two. Time stops meaning anything when you're waiting to die.
The blood moon crawls across the sky, painting everything red. My wrists ache from the chains. My back goes numb from the cold stone. But nothing happens.
No fire. No god. No death.
Just me, alone, terrified, waiting.
Solarius? I whisper to the empty air. Are you there? Are you real?
Silence.
Please, I try again, my voice cracking. If you're real—if this means something—just make it quick. Don't make me wait like this.
Nothing.
That's when I start to break.
The tears come first, hot and helpless, streaming down my temples into my hair. Then the sobs—ugly, desperate sounds I can't control. My whole body shakes with them, chains rattling against stone.
I'm going to die alone. Chained like an animal. For nothing.
Seraphine wins. Valdris wins. The Temple wins.
And I lose everything.
Mama, I whisper to the blood moon, to the memory of the mother who died when I was eight. Mama, I'm scared.
She used to sing to me when I had nightmares. A lullaby about stars and safety and love that never ends. She'd stroke my hair and promise nothing could hurt me.
She lied. Or maybe she just didn't know how cruel the world would become.
But I need that comfort now, even if it's fake. Even if I have to give it to myself.
So I sing.
Hush now, little star, the night will keep you warm...
My voice shakes, barely more than a whisper, but I keep going.
Close your eyes, don't fear the dark, you're safe from every storm...
It doesn't make the chains lighter. Doesn't stop my death from coming.
But for a moment, I feel less alone.
Dream of skies and silver light, of places far away...
Footsteps.
I stop singing, breath catching.
Someone's coming.
Not the soft shuffle of priests. These are boots. Heavy. Purposeful. Getting closer.
A figure emerges from the shadows at the chamber's edge—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black executioner's mask that covers their entire face. No ceremony. No ritual.
Just a killer.
And in their hand, a blade. Long, curved, the metal stained dark brown with old blood.
So much blood.
No, I breathe. No, no, please
The figure walks closer, boots echoing against stone. Silent. Relentless.
This is how it ends. Not divine fire. Not holy sacrifice.
Murder.
Please! I scream, pulling against the chains hard enough to tear my wrists. Please, I don't want to die! I'm only twenty-two! I have a little sister! Please!
The executioner stops beside the altar. Raises the blade high, positioning it above my chest.
I can see my reflection in the blood-stained metal.
I scream.
The blade hesitates.
Then—the executioner's other hand rises. Trembling. They grab the edge of their mask and pull it away.
The face beneath is young. Maybe twenty-seven. Strong features twisted with anguish. Dark hair falling into eyes that are red and swollen.
He's crying.
Tears stream down his face as he stands there, blade raised, looking down at me like I'm breaking his heart.
I can't, he chokes out, his voice raw with grief. I can't. Not you.
The blade lowers slightly. His whole body shakes.
Ninety-nine times, he whispers, and his voice cracks on a sob. Ninety-nine times I've done this. But you—you were singing.
He drops to his knees beside the altar, the blade clattering against stone, his face in his hands as he breaks completely.
You were singing your mother's lullaby, he sobs, and I remembered—gods help me, I remembered—every woman I've killed was someone's daughter. Someone's sister. Someone who deserved to live.
I stare at him, chains forgotten, terror forgotten, because this makes no sense.
Who are you? I whisper.
He looks up at me, tears still falling, and I see something in his eyes that terrifies me more than the blade.
Guilt. Crushing, absolute guilt.
My name is Kael, he says hoarsely. I'm the Temple's executioner. I've murdered ninety-nine innocent women.
He reaches for something at his belt—a key.
And I'm committing heresy.
Alarm bells explode through the temple, deafening and sudden.
Someone knows.
Kael's head snaps toward the sound, then back to me, decision hardening his tear-stained face.
He lunges for my chains with the key.
We're running, he says urgently, unlocking my right wrist. Right now. Or we both die.