Seraphina couldn't sleep.
Not with the scroll resting like a weight on her chest, the ink within it pulsing with a meaning older than the temple itself. She had carried it back from the palace with more care than anything she'd ever held, even as her thoughts spun wildly through the night.
As soon as her formal robes were removed, she left her chambers quietly. No escort. No procession. Just the scroll clutched in her arms, her bare feet nearly silent on the marble floors.
The temple was still. Only the low flicker of night candles lit her path. The guards stationed along the corridors stepped aside, heads bowed, too used to her strange hours to question it now.
She found Omel where she expected—in the chamber of records, hunched over scripture, half-finished translations scattered like petals across the table. He didn't look up until she gently placed the scroll box beside him.
"It speaks of the awakening," she said.
Omel's head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing in confusion, then understanding.
"You opened them?"
"Five. This one is different," she said, her voice soft, almost reverent. "It speaks of a ritual… but the words, some of them are too old. I couldn't read all of it."
He opened the scroll carefully, as though afraid the parchment would disintegrate beneath his fingers. His eyes began to scan. His brow furrowed almost immediately.
"The Sanctum of Flame," he murmured. "It lies beneath the main altar. Sealed… over a century ago."
"You know it?" she asked, already stepping closer.
"In theory," he said. "It was said to house the Eternal Flame—moved here from Braelith Temple before the main temple was built. No one has seen it since. And we'd need the Circle's approval to unseal it."
Seraphina looked up. "You're the High Priest. Can you not open it yourself?"
Omel gave a tired, bitter laugh. "I wear the title. That's about all."
She mumbled under her breath, "Then what good is it?"
"What was that?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said quickly, cheeks flushing. "Just… the scroll says the paladins offer their blood. Into sacred bowls. Then they bathe me in it."
Omel didn't flinch, only nodded. "It marks their readiness. Their lives become yours to carry forward."
She nodded slowly. "But then there's this word… here."
One line pulsed with strange weight. The lettering was darker, more etched than written. Omel leaned in and traced the faded ink with a finger.
"Incendium seipsum," he read aloud. "To burn oneself in offering."
Seraphina's throat tightened.
"It's not… death?" she asked.
"No," Omel said. "It's surrender. A shedding of the self. The saint must offer not just her body… but her will."
She felt it then, a quiet hum rising in her chest.
"So," she whispered, "it's not just walking into the flame. It's allowing yourself to be remade by it."
Omel nodded solemnly. "And trusting you'll emerge."
She ran her fingers along the torn edge of the parchment.
"The rest of the scroll is gone."
Omel sat down heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "You did good. But owing something from the royal family is dangerous."
"He said I just need to go back in the spring. For a tea party."
Omel scoffed. "You don't know people, child. That party—it's for the two of you."
She blinked, puzzled. "Yes?"
He gave her a long look, the lines around his mouth deepening. "Be wary of him, Seraphina. That fourth prince... he's a lion pretending to be a cat. Don't let his smiles fool you."
She hesitated for a breath, then said softly, "I don't think so. Kaeven… he seems like a simple man."
Omel sighed again, rubbing his temples harder. "You think that because he wants you to. Just because he brings sweets and laughs too loud doesn't mean he's harmless."
Seraphina folded her arms, choosing not to argue further. "When can we ask permission for the ritual?"
Omel looked back to the scroll, fingers drumming thoughtfully. "I'll bring it up tomorrow. With the Circle. See what can be done."
She bowed her head, offered a quiet word of thanks, and turned away.
When she returned to her quarters, she did not sleep. Instead, she knelt before the altar by her window, folding her hands and pressing her forehead to the mat. The golden glow from the lamp flickered across her veil as she whispered prayers into the quiet.
Hours passed like that.
Her words were soft. Repeating. Pleading.
She prayed for clarity. For strength. For safety—not just for herself, but for the three paladins who had given her their faith. She prayed that the ritual, ancient and terrifying, would be the right path.
But above all, she prayed that she would not fail them.
Not again.