The sanctum beneath the Chapel of Echoes was buried so deep, even the roots of the cathedral above had forgotten it existed. Time itself felt slower here. The walls were made of stone older than the Church, etched with long-faded runes and cracks that whispered of things long buried.
Pope Marlin stood alone in the quiet chamber, her silver robes falling around her like flowing moonlight. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her posture straight, unmoving. The air didn't stir—not even a breeze—like the world had paused to watch her.
There was no light in the room except for a single, floating crystal. It hovered a few feet off the ground, spinning slowly, casting a faint blue glow. Shadows danced along the walls, stretching and shrinking with each gentle turn of the crystal.
This was the last crystal from Project Thorneglass.
And it was empty.
Marlin's lips tightened. She closed her eyes, not listening to the room—but to the silence inside her. It was the kind of silence that didn't come from stillness. It came from memory, from loss.
One name rose from that silence.
Cassian.
The name drifted through her mind like a ripple over a still pond. She hadn't spoken it aloud. She didn't need to. It was already echoing within her, loud as thunder in a heart that had stopped pretending it didn't care.
He shouldn't be the one.
He wasn't even supposed to survive the first stage of the trial. He had no proper background. No training. No lineage. The Tribunal had expected him to fail—to be burned by the flame or consumed by its judgment.
But he hadn't.
The flame had chosen him.
And that changed everything.
Marlin's expression didn't move, but a storm churned inside her chest. Cassian reminded her too much of another—someone she had buried deep in her memories. Someone the Church had worked hard to forget. Or pretend never existed.
The Tribunal was already circling like vultures. She could feel their eyes watching, their whispers spreading through the marble halls. The machinery of judgment was grinding forward, slow but impossible to stop once set in motion.
But they didn't see what she had seen.
They couldn't.
When the divine flame touched Cassian, it hadn't rejected him.
It had recognized him.
She turned away from the floating crystal and walked deeper into the chamber. The soft sound of her boots against the ancient stone was the only noise. Her steps were slow, deliberate.
At the far end of the sanctum stood a mirror—taller than any door, its frame carved from blackened thornwood. Real thorns were woven into the design, long dried and brittle. This was no ordinary mirror. Its surface was not glass, but a shimmer of magic and memory—sealed tight by a curse older than most could imagine.
Marlin reached out and touched the surface.
It rippled like water.
And the past rushed in to answer her call.
[Flashback — Year of the Pale Eclipse]
There had been twelve of them.
Twelve candidates. Twelve chosen. Cloaked in white and crimson, their faces youthful, eyes full of purpose—and fear. They had gathered inside the tower chamber, standing in a perfect circle.
They were the Sentries of Flame.
Each had volunteered. Each had passed the tests. They believed in the Church. They believed in her.
They were young. Talented. Loyal.
And scared.
At the center of the room hovered the sacred flame, suspended inside a containment crystal. Around it lay a complex web of ash-drawn runes, soul-thread seals, and silver rings designed to channel the flame's power safely.
The experiment was simple in design, impossible in purpose: to harness the divine flame. To bind it to human vessels—people strong enough to wield its power without being corrupted by it. The goal was to create a new generation of soulwielders. Pure. Unbreakable. Divine weapons for the Church.
But something had gone wrong.
A thirteenth candidate appeared.
She wasn't on the list. She hadn't been called. No records. No explanation.
Just a girl with lavender eyes, standing at the edge of the circle like she had always belonged there.
And the flame moved.
It surged—suddenly, violently—toward the girl.
The containment glass cracked.
One of the twelve screamed.
Then—
Fire.
It filled the room like a flood. Screams followed—short, raw, and endless. The runes exploded. The seals tore open. Souls were yanked from bodies like threads pulled from cloth. Seven died instantly. Their bodies collapsed in an instant of brightness and ash.
Four others didn't die—but what was left of them was... wrong. Silent. Empty. Staring forever into nothing.
The twelfth, in madness and rage, turned on Marlin.
And the girl—
The girl with lavender eyes—
She vanished into the fire.
All that remained afterward was silence.
And Marlin, still standing, half-burned, alive through force of will and something else.
The flame was gone.
Vanished.
Taken.
[Back to Present]
Marlin's hand dropped from the mirror. Its surface rippled once more and went still.
She stood in silence for a long time, her thoughts lost in the past. The names of the twelve had never been spoken again. Not by her. Not by anyone. She had ordered the records destroyed. The tower sealed. The girl erased from memory.
She had believed the flame lost forever.
Until Cassian.
He had touched it.
And it had answered.
A cold question surfaced in her mind: Why didn't it answer me again?
She had given her life to the Church. She had led it through the silence. She had rebuilt everything after the disaster. And still, the flame had turned away from her. As if she had already played her part.
As if she had only ever been a vessel.
A cradle to carry the flame until it found someone else.
The thought made her chest ache.
She moved to the wall and opened a hidden drawer carved from dark stone. Inside was a dagger. Black-handled. Plain. Wrapped in a thread of sacred prayer. It looked simple, but it pulsed faintly with old power.
One of only three blades forged during Project Thorneglass. Designed to end corrupted vessels quickly and without pain.
Her fingers hovered over it.
If the Tribunal condemns him, she thought, they'll try to erase him like the twelve. They'll kill him before they understand what he is.
But Cassian was different.
No—strange.
He looked like a person caught between two selves. His soul and his body always at war. His presence made people uneasy, like standing too close to a fire that hadn't yet decided if it wanted to warm or burn.
And then she remembered something her master had once said—words spoken long ago in warning:
"This flame is strange. It's full of corruption... but still pure. It will only choose someone whose soul is fully corrupted—but whose body has committed no sin."
Marlin's breath caught in her throat.
Cassian fit the pattern.
A soul drenched in shadow. A life untouched by evil.
That's why the flame returned.
Not for her.
Not for any of the others.
But for him.
She closed the drawer gently. The dagger remained inside, untouched. She straightened her robes, brushed a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear, and turned toward the exit.
Whatever happened next, it would not be easy.
The Tribunal would not accept this quietly.
But she would not abandon the flame's choice.
Not again.
She walked up the steps of the sanctum, each footstep echoing like a whisper in the hollow chamber. Her face, unreadable. Her mind, already calculating the path forward.
Behind her, the crystal dimmed to nothing.
The past had burned her once.
This time, she would not let the flame slip through her fingers.
Not again.
End of Chapter.