The voices of Lÿkøn rose in a deafening, rhythmic tide, but to Seraphine, the hymn sounded like a jagged blade scraping against stone.
Amazing the Saints can be.
Victory! Our God-given decree.
King of Saints will rule our hearts,
Forever the Saints we will praise.
Who wrote these words? Seraphine wondered. She was the Paragon, the flawless weapon of the Church, yet she had just committed the second-greatest heresy: She had questioned. A hand, cold as a mountain spring, settled on her shoulder. She jolted, her vision swimming for a second as a sharp pulse throbbed behind her left eye.
"Well done," Kælthør murmured. His breath came out in a faint, misty frost, a chilling aura that always seemed to cling to him. His gaze was steady, but there was a flicker of something—pity? Warning?—in the depths of his blue eyes.
"Thank you," she replied, her voice a practiced chime of porcelain.
"Let us go to the Council," Kælthør said, his hand dropping away. "Vespiræ's patience is a thin thread, and you have already frayed it today."
As they turned, Seraphine glanced at Tÿkøle. The sacred script etched into the spear began to squirm, the runes rearranging themselves like starving insects. For a heartbeat, she saw a string of ancient characters she didn't recognize. She blinked, and they were gone, replaced by the familiar geometry of the Church.
"Seraphine?" Kælthør called.
"I'm coming," she said, forcing her boots to move.
i. The Palace of Broken Spines
They entered the golden castle, a place where the sunlight was captured and held hostage by glass and gold. The floors were marble mirrors, reflecting the unnecessarily precious gemstones embedded in the walls—stones that seemed to hum with a low, rhythmic vibration.
At the entrance to the inner sanctum, five Lower Saints stood guard.
"High-priestess," Cynix whispered, his youthful face pale. "The rumors... they say you stayed your hand. Is it true? Is the Light no longer absolute?"
"If a Saint hesitates," Bethra added, her fingers stained with the chemicals of her trade, "does the sin belong to the Saint, or the Command?"
Seraphine's grip on her spear tightened. The weight of their gazes felt like lead. "I seek the Council," she said, her tone cutting off any further dissent.
The other three—Bygon, Jubus, and Lilac—bowed in unison. "Your presence is precious. Safe travels," they chanted, but their eyes remained fixed on her, searching for a crack in her ivory mask.
As she strode down the hallway, she passed the Butlers. There were forty in this wing alone, their white uniforms damp with sweat. They scrubbed the floor with a frantic, rhythmic desperation. One man, his hair white with age and stress, suddenly let out a sickening crack. He collapsed, his spine giving way under the weight of his labors.
Seraphine didn't stop. She couldn't. But as she passed him, a psychic vibration shivered through her marrow.
Purgatory.
The word wasn't a thought; it was a location. A cold, dark pulse radiating from somewhere deep beneath the floorboards. She pushed past the fallen man, her heart slamming against her ribs.
ii. The Sanctum of the Silver Tongues
The Council doors swung open, revealing a chamber of staggering opulence.
Kÿį sat to the far left, his ancient blade leaning against his chair. He looked asleep, his wrinkled face a map of a thousand purifications, but Seraphine knew he heard every heartbeat in the room. Zërø was at the opposite end, his heavy iron gauntlets leaving dents in the table, his body radiating a restless, violent heat.
Vespiræ stood, her hammer resting against the marble like a tethered monster. She didn't wait for the King to speak. "The failure has finally arrived," she spat.
King Ædräven Solmýr sat upon his throne of woven silk and gold. His smile was wide, reaching his ears, his eyes squeezed shut in that perpetual mask of joy. "Vespiræ has raised a concern," he said, his voice a honeyed poison. "We are here to assess. Be mindful of your words."
Vespiræ slammed her palm onto the table. "A Saint does not hesitate! Order is the bone of this world. If the bone breaks, the flesh rots. Seraphine has proven she is... brittle."
Kÿį's eyes flickered open—two slivers of ancient, cold silver. "Anger is a loud neighbor, Vespiræ, but a poor advisor. A Saint does not lose their peace. That is the first law of the Sanctum."
"Anger is a gift!" Zërø barked, his gauntlets beginning to hiss with steam. "The Lord gave me a temper to burn away the rot!"
"SILENCE."
The King didn't raise his voice, but the air in the room suddenly turned cold and heavy. His eyebrows furrowed—a rare, terrifying sight. "The point is the preservation of the Lÿkįans' faith. If they see a Saint falter, they stop singing. If they stop singing, we lose our strength."
Kælthør spoke up softly. "She is the Paragon. A thousand flawless purifications against one moment of reflection. Is that not within the margin of a Saint's humanity?"
"Humanity is a flaw we are meant to have outgrown," Vespiræ countered, her eyes gleaming with ambition. "I should be the Saint of Purification. My record is unstained by 'reflection'."
The King turned his sightless, smiling face toward Seraphine. She felt his presence enter her mind—not like a father, but like a parasite.
"Do not embarrass me again," his voice echoed in her skull, cold and sharp. "A mockery of the Saints is a threat to the Harvest. You will undergo Education. If you cannot be a spear, I will turn you into the stone the spear strikes."
"Everyone is dismissed," the King announced aloud, his smile returning to its perfect, static curve. "Enjoy a blessed day. And remember: Saints do not hesitate."
Seraphine bowed, the pulse behind her eye throbbing with a rhythm that matched the "Purgatory" vibration beneath the castle. She had survived the council, but the "Education" was coming—and she knew the King's lessons were written in blood.