The chamber was older than any temple hall still in use. Circular and carved directly from the stone of the mountain, it had no windows, no gilded tapestries. Only cold granite walls, lined with a dozen high-backed chairs arranged in a perfect ring, and a massive flame basin at the center. The fire there never dimmed. It was said to have been lit by the founding Saint herself.
At the highest chair, robed in gold-trimmed white, sat Omel.
He looked tired—older than he did yesterday.
Seraphina stepped into the chamber, her white veil catching the glow of the sacred fire. Her three handmaidens waited outside, and only the quiet shuffle of the elders greeted her as she moved to the center.
"You summoned me," she said calmly.
One of the priests stood. Old, lean, with a voice like dry parchment. "Lady Seraphina. You have requested an audience with the Circle. State your intention."
She bowed slightly. "I come with a purpose laid upon me by the Divine."
A rustle. A shift in posture. Omel sat straighter.
She continued, voice steady, clear. "I intend to go to the southern provinces. To the forgotten villages. The Divine has spoken—through signs, through silence, through suffering. He has not forsaken them. He calls me to bring light where it has gone dark."
A second priest scoffed. "The South? Lady Seraphina, the roads are not safe. Bandits roam. The temples there are abandoned."
"Precisely why I must go," she answered. "Faith withers when not tended. If the people are lost, we must remind them of the Divine's mercy."
Another voice: sharper, younger. "You are the Saintess. A symbol. You cannot walk into danger."
"I am not a symbol," she said, her tone not rising, but gaining weight. "I am His servant."
A murmur ran through the room.
She stepped closer to the fire. "You preach His name. But do you act in it? The Divine teaches compassion, justice, sacrifice. These people have waited for decades. We speak of miracles, yet we let them starve. If our faith has meaning, let it be shown in action."
A long silence followed.
Then one priest asked cautiously, "And how do you intend to travel? You cannot go alone."
"I won't be alone," she said.
Omel leaned forward slightly.
"The Divine provided a way. A sign. The Divine Aura."
Several priests gasped. A few leaned forward in disbelief.
"That art is lost," one said.
"No," she replied. "It lives. I have found the ritual. I know what must be done."
"Who have you chosen?" someone asked.
"Atlas and Adam of the Plaves bloodline."
Murmurs rose again.
"Two boys? The ritual requires more."
"The others are not ready."
Another priest stood. "You do not decide who is ready. We do. The temple."
Her hands tightened. "Some of those you call paladins do not believe. If I take them, they will die."
"Then test them," the elder priest said coldly. "All of them. You will inspect each paladin within our order. If you find more worthy, you may choose. If not, we shall assign the rest."
Seraphina lowered her head.
"Very well," she said. "I will test them. All."
A priest to her left raised a hand. "Then we shall vote after the trials. If you awaken the Divine Aura, and prove your chosen, we will allow your pilgrimage."
Another added, "Until then, the flame remains sealed."
She bowed again, deeply this time. "Then I shall do what is required."
The Circle of the Flame remained silent as she turned and left the chamber, the fire crackling behind her like a heartbeat.
She had her answer.
And a trial before her.
The courtyard was filled with rows upon rows of paladins. Hundreds of them—chosen from thousands across the provinces. Their armor gleamed in the sun, their swords perfectly aligned, and their eyes followed her as she stepped out onto the stone path.
Naia, Imara, and Lina stood behind her, silent. Omel watched from the shade, expression unreadable.
Seraphina began to walk.
She moved slowly. One step. Another. Her gaze touching each paladin as she passed. She reached with her senses—not her eyes, but something deeper. A quiet searching.
Nothing.
One after another. Nothing.
A few had faint traces—soft, barely-there glimmers in the air around them—but nothing near the resonance she'd felt with the twins.
More walking. More silence. The heat of the courtyard began to press into her skin, and still, there was no sign. Her palms began to sweat beneath her sleeves.
Then—
A woman.
She stood out among the lines. Older—perhaps in her mid-thirties—with a clean-shaven head and a robe half-paladin, half-priest. Her posture was rigid, disciplined. Her gaze did not waver. Her presence felt like stillness before a storm.
Seraphina paused.
There. Faint, but unmistakable. A glow. Not bright—but deep. Like embers long hidden under ash.
She turned toward her.
"You," she said. "What's your name?"
The woman bowed low. "Paladin Ysella, my lady."
"I choose you," Seraphina said simply.
Gasps rose behind her. Whispers rippled down the lines like a breeze.
She continued her walk.
And again—nothing.
Empty faith. Empty power.
When it ended, she stood beside Omel, her shoulders heavy with disappointment. Her face paled beneath the veil. Her fingers twitched.
"There's too little faith," she whispered. "They believe in armor. In discipline. But not in Him."
Omel said nothing. His lips pressed into a firm line.
The commander of the paladins approached, face stiff with shame.
"My lady… I did not realize—"
"You did your duty," she said gently. "But the truth is plain. Many wear the robes, but few carry the fire."
She looked at the twin boys—Atlas and Adam—waiting at the edge of the courtyard. They straightened under her gaze, their expressions unreadable but charged.
And now, Ysella.
Three.
Three who believed.
She would make it enough.