The incense in the Hall of Ashes curled like old memory—soft, pungent, difficult to hold onto for long. Seraphina walked with her veil lifted only to the bridge of her nose, her eyes clear, calm, and unshaken. Her bare feet made no sound across the marble tiles, but the weight of her presence stirred even the oldest guards to straighten.
Omel sat on the high cushion near the cold brazier, his back curved but still dignified in its slowness. He looked up before she even spoke. Perhaps he'd known. Perhaps the Divine whispered it to him first.
"You're leaving," he said, not as a question.
She stopped a few paces away. "I'm going to the South."
He sighed deeply. "You chose a direction, then."
"I asked for an answer. And I received it."
Omel's fingers folded together in his lap, long and lined. "And what do you think you'll do, Child of Light? Step outside those gates and simply walk?"
"Yes," she replied. "And listen. And heal. And remember what it means to serve."
His mouth twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a smile. "You speak like someone untouched by what lies beyond."
Her gaze sharpened. "I am not untouched."
He did not flinch, but the words dropped heavy into the room.
"The last time you left the temple," he said slowly, "Kael died."
Silence. Pure and brittle.
She bowed her head. The veil shadowed her face again. "I know."
"And what do you think you'll do when danger finds you again?" Omel's voice was not cruel, but it cut deep. "You have no sword. No guardian. Do you expect to burn the world again? To turn every threat into ash and silence?"
She met his eyes.
"No," she said. "I do not want to burn. I want to learn."
He stood—slowly, stiffly—and approached her. Even aged and weary, he still towered when he wished to. He peered down at her.
"And what of the heretics?" he asked. "Those who see your name as blasphemy, who think your light a trick of old priests? What will you do when they spit not just at you, but at what you represent?"
"Let them spit. Let them doubt. Let them throw stones. If they must curse the name Seraphina, let them do it to my face."
She took a step closer.
"Because if I never go, they'll never know that I wanted to come. That I cared. That I heard."
Omel studied her in silence. Then finally, he asked, "And if they try to kill you?"
She paused. Her breath caught.
"Then I will die knowing I tried."
He exhaled like the breath hurt.
"You've grown foolish."
"No," she said. "I've grown free."
Omel turned from her, just slightly, as if to ease the strain in his voice. "You think this is freedom, Seraphina? To walk into a land where warlords and heretics rule the dust, where no banner flies without blood? You are not just a girl anymore. You are the temple's idol. The saintess. A living prayer. You cannot wander to your death—not without consequences."
She didn't waver. "So I must remain locked away, veiled and watched, until I wither into a statue of their reverence? I was not born for marble, Omel."
"You were not born for martyrdom either," he snapped, more sharply than he intended. "The politics within these walls are already shifting. The High Circle debates your every breath. They fear you. They envy you. You think the world outside will be kinder? That it will care more than the ones inside who kneel in fear of your gaze?"
She folded her arms across her chest. "Then let them fear me. But I will not fear myself."
Omel turned back to her, his eyes dim and pained. "If you die out there, child, the temple does not just lose a Saintess. It loses its symbol. Its spine. And this faith—this fragile, wavering faith—will collapse with you."
"Then let it break," she said softly. "If a faith must rely on caging a girl to survive, perhaps it was never divine to begin with."
Omel's voice grew harder now, his brow knit with the fury of a priest who had watched too many flames flicker too close to ruin.
"And what if this is not just about faith?" he said. "What if this is about politics? About power? The moment you step beyond those gates, the Circle will know. They will demand answers. Some will cry heresy. Others will say we've lost control of you."
She did not flinch.
"Let them."
He stepped closer. "You're not listening. You are not just Seraphina. You are anointed. You are a beacon they use to keep the masses still. If you wander, if you vanish, if you die—"
"Then I die doing what the Divine asked of me."
Omel's jaw clenched. "How can you be sure this is the Divine's will and not your grief talking? Not your guilt?"
She looked at him, and for a moment, her glow softened. "Because I prayed. And I was answered."
Omel was silent.
Seraphina stepped forward, her voice gentler now, but no less firm. "If I choose not to heal, no one can force me. Not the priests. Not the Circle. Not even you. They can shackle me, bind my hands, strip my name—but I will not raise my light. And you know what that means."
Her words were not a threat. They were truth. Heavy. Unyielding.
"So this is not just my request, Omel. This is me giving you no choice. If I must trade obedience for the right to walk, then I will. And if you say no—then I will become nothing but silence and shadow in this place. A flame they cannot touch."
He looked at her, as if seeing her again for the first time.
And for the first time in a long while, Seraphina did not lower her gaze. for a long time.
Then he said slowly, "If you step outside those gates, you will die."
She opened her mouth, but he raised a hand.
"If you cannot convince me that you will live—truly live—beyond those walls, then I will bring this to the Circle of the High Priests. We will vote. And I will not stand for a fool's journey dressed as faith."
Seraphina stood very still.
"And if I do find a way to be safe?"
Omel exhaled. "Then I will let you ask. I will let the priests hear you. And if they agree—if they believe you can walk beyond these walls and still return—then I will not stop you."
He turned back to the brazier, as if the cold ash inside it held answers neither of them could speak.
"But you must find the way, child. Not just to go… but to survive."
Omel sighed again, long and tired. "It will be hard to convince the Circle. They are not moved easily—not by light, not by tears, and certainly not by the will of a girl they no longer understand."
Then, with a pause, his voice dropped softer. "But if you want it—and if the Divine wants it—then perhaps… it will happen."
Seraphina said nothing at first. But then—unexpectedly—she smiled. A small thing. Faint. But real.
She wasn't used to smiling like this. Not anymore. Not without permission. Not without purpose. It felt strange on her face—soft and wrong and lovely.
She touched her lips, almost unsure they'd moved.
"I suppose," she whispered, "that's hope, isn't it?"
And hope, it seemed, had a new direction.