The Cathedral of the New Light stood like a wound against the sky.
Miles of alabaster marble rose from the heart of the capital, its spires piercing the clouds like the teeth of a sleeping god. The air shimmered with consecrated heat — not warmth, but oppression, as if the sun itself knelt to the will of men.
Inside, the halls were quiet — too quiet. No bird dared to cross its light. No wind dared to stir its banners.
At the far end of the grand nave, the doors burst open.
Seraphine Valeheart strode through the corridor, her white-and-gold robes torn, the edges still stained with ash and blood. Her amber bracelet hung broken around her wrist, one of its orbs missing, the others dim. Behind her, Gravemorn followed in silence, dragging his greatsword across the marble floor, each step leaving faint trails of molten gold.
The gathered priests turned their eyes away. None dared to meet Seraphine's gaze.
Acolytes whispered prayers as she passed, murmuring her title — Saint of Reflection, Vessel of the Radiant Voice. But the reverence in their tone trembled, afraid. Even among zealots, the scent of failure lingered like smoke.
At the dais ahead waited three figures in white — the Triarchs of the Radiant Order. And above them, elevated upon a throne carved from pure amber, sat the Hierophant.
His presence filled the chamber like sunlight through a blade. Eyes closed, hands folded upon his lap, he seemed serene — yet even the marble around his seat bent faintly toward him, as though gravity itself recognized dominion.
Seraphine dropped to one knee before him, her voice steady despite the tremor in the air.
"My lord Hierophant," she said, head bowed low. "The Grove has fallen. The Heartroot burns. But the girl… she escaped."
Silence.
Then the Hierophant's eyes opened — pale gold, rimmed with light that never blinked. "Escaped?" His voice was soft, almost tender. "And yet I feel the Flow tremble. You touched it, didn't you, my child?"
Seraphine hesitated. "I did. It answered her call."
The Hierophant rose slowly from his throne. "Describe her."
"She bears the crystal — a heart of the Flow itself. Its pulse obeys her. The waters bend when she wills, and the trees speak when she listens." Her lips curved faintly, not in pride, but fascination. "She is not a vessel. She is a source."
Whispers rippled through the Triarchs. A source. No mortal had ever held the Flow without being consumed. Even the amber priests who drained mana from the earth burned out within months.
The Hierophant stepped closer, the light around him bending like heat on stone. "Then it is true. The Flow's fragment walks among us again."
He touched Seraphine's chin lightly, lifting her gaze. "And you saw it. You felt it. You failed to bring it to me."
Seraphine's smile did not falter. "Only for now, Your Radiance. The Flow is bound to her blood. Her name is Seren Vale."
At that, the Hierophant paused — the name stirring something colder in his expression. "Seren…" he murmured, tasting it like a memory. "Daughter of Althea Vale."
He turned his gaze to the saints gathered below. "So the bloodline endures. The heretic who fled the Radiant path left behind a child — a child the Flow itself dares to favor."
Gravemorn spoke for the first time, his voice deep, hollow. "It seems the Flow protects its own."
The Hierophant turned his gaze to him. "And yet you live, Gravemorn. A soldier forged from the very sin you speak of."
The knight bowed slightly. "Your will sustains me."
"Indeed." The Hierophant smiled faintly. "The first of our hollow saints. You are proof that even the Flow can be caged if the vessel is made strong enough."
Seraphine glanced toward Gravemorn — a flicker of something almost human in her eyes. Pity, perhaps. Or envy.
The Hierophant returned to his throne, spreading his arms. "You both have served well. The Grove's destruction weakens the natural order — the Flow's balance collapses one root at a time. In time, all will turn to crystal, and the Light will reign supreme."
One of the Triarchs stepped forward, his voice cautious. "And the girl, Your Radiance? Shall we send the Choir after her?"
The Hierophant shook his head. "No. Not yet. She is young. The Flow will consume her if left unchecked. When she falls, her essence will bleed into the rivers. Then we will harvest it."
He raised a hand. From behind the throne, a wall of crystal shifted, revealing a chamber beyond — vast and humming with golden light. Inside floated hundreds of suspended figures — bodies of men, women, and children, each encased in amber, each faintly glowing.
Their faces were peaceful. Their souls were fuel.
The Hierophant gestured toward them. "Soon, the Radiant Core will awaken. When it does, we will no longer require fragments of the Flow. We will become the Flow."
Seraphine's lips parted. "A god made of light."
"A god made of obedience," the Hierophant corrected gently.
The words echoed like a prayer and a curse all at once.
Later that night, as the bells of the upper cathedral tolled, Seraphine stood alone in the Hall of Reflections. Dozens of mirrored walls surrounded her, each reflecting a different version of herself — the saint, the sinner, the vessel, the child.
She raised her broken bracelet and studied the missing stone.
"I saw it," she whispered. "The true Flow. It wasn't chaos. It was alive."
Her reflection smiled back at her — not the same smile.
"Alive things can be killed," it said.
Seraphine flinched — and the mirror cracked.
Behind her, Gravemorn approached, his armor silent in the light. "The Hierophant will use her," he said. "Like he used us."
Seraphine turned slightly, her eyes distant. "Then we'll make sure she burns bright enough to break him."
Gravemorn's hollow gaze flickered with faint emberlight. "You would betray the Light?"
"I would set it free."
The candles around them guttered as if the air itself held its breath.
Outside, the bells ceased.
And somewhere far from the capital, beneath the roots of the earth, the Flow stirred — as if it had heard her.