The sun was slipping behind the palace arches, casting long, golden beams through stained glass, when a priest dressed in white and gold approached Seraphina. He bowed low, his voice soft and respectful. "Lady Seraphina, the court has requested your presence again."
Seraphina, still seated on the stone bench in the palace garden, turned away from the horizon where the light had begun to fade. Across from her, Prince Kaeven stretched lazily, then stood. There was that same amused glint in his eyes—the kind that made her feel like she was always half a sentence behind in a conversation only he understood.
As they turned toward the corridor, he leaned just a touch closer. "They're scared I'm a bad influence on you," he said in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. "Can you imagine?"
She didn't respond.
"But don't worry," he added, smirking. "I'll give you the scrolls before you disappear behind marble walls again."
She rolled her eyes on him even if he cannot see it. They walked back to the hall.
Inside the great hall, the air felt heavier. Seraphina took her place beside Omel, who stood tall with his arms folded tightly across his chest, his gaze unrelenting as he scanned the nobility crowding the chamber. Seraphina sat with her back straight, her veil in perfect order. Her every gesture remained graceful as nobles came to speak their compliments, offer blessings, and—perhaps most importantly—be seen by her.
Most brought tokens: small boxes filled with sweets, embroidered handkerchiefs, gilded scripture. All temporary, all passing. Her replies were polite. Her voice, calm. Her face remained hidden, but the power of her presence held the room in quiet awe.
Time dragged, slow and syrup-thick. Eventually, Omel leaned in. "It is enough," he murmured. "We have stayed too long."
She nodded and stood.
Movement stirred the room. Whispers quieted. Eyes turned toward her.
Seraphina approached the dais where King Aldren and Queen Isolde sat like carved figures from history—regal, dignified. She bowed. "Your Majesties, the temple is grateful for your hospitality. It is time we return."
Queen Isolde smiled gently. "We were honored by your visit, Lady Seraphina. May the Divine always walk beside you."
King Aldren gave a solemn nod. "Travel with peace, flame-bearer."
Then, as if scripted by fate:
"Prince Kaeven will escort you to your carriage," the queen added.
Kaeven stepped forward with theatrical grace. "With pleasure."
As they walked side by side through the candle-lit corridors, Seraphina finally broke the silence. "The scrolls?"
Kaeven raised an eyebrow. "You really are impatient."
From the shadows stepped a man in plain travel garb, holding a long wooden box etched with silver. Kaeven took it and offered it to her with mock formality.
Naia, without hesitation, stepped forward and accepted it on her behalf.
Kaeven leaned in, voice lowered. "I nearly died retrieving that. Just thought you should remember it."
She didn't reply.
He grinned anyway.
They parted at the palace stairs.
The carriage was quiet.
Seraphina sat still as the streets passed, bathed in the glow of early evening. The soft jostling of the wheels did little to stir her.
Finally, she reached for the box.
Naia passed it to her with a quiet reverence, like something holy.
Seraphina opened it slowly, her hands careful, her breath held.
Inside were six scrolls. Each one rolled neatly, tied with worn ribbons.
She began to read.
The first was expected—ritual instructions, the cadence of morning and evening prayer. The second, third, and fourth followed similar paths: ceremonies for blessing, layers of rites worn thin by repetition.
But then—
The fifth scroll.
The parchment was older, yellowed with age and soft at the edges. The ink had faded, but she could still make out the symbol inked into its top corner: the mark of the First Flame.
Her heart beat faster.
She unrolled it with trembling fingers.
And there it was—
A ritual. A prayer unlike the rest. Not for healing. Not for devotion.
For connection.
Words etched in reverent care.
Instructions on awakening the divine aura of a chosen protector—a Paladin of the Flame.
She read slowly.
The dangers were clear. The wielder might die. The connection could shatter the body if the chosen one was unworthy. Only the Saint—only the Flame-bearer—could see if they were ready.
She inhaled sharply.
The air in the carriage felt thinner now, like something sacred had shifted.
Her handmaidens leaned closer.
"Is it possible?" Imara asked, eyes wide.
Seraphina didn't answer immediately. She traced the faded lines of the scroll with her fingers, lips slightly parted.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Yes," she whispered. "It can be done."
Naia's breath caught. Lina let out a stunned, breathless sound.
"Are they ready?" Lina asked.
Seraphina's eyes softened.
"I saw it…" she said, her voice distant. "In the courtyard. The shimmer. The glow. They're ready. They were always ready."
Naia pressed a hand to her mouth, her voice shaky. "Then we begin?"
Seraphina nodded again, firmer this time. "Yes. It's time."
Outside the carriage window, the gates of the temple came into view.
And within Seraphina's chest, purpose sparked like a silent flame.
The scroll was real.
The path had revealed itself.
And she would walk it—no matter the cost.