Morning in the Sanctuary did not arrive with sunlight, but with the silent blooming of crimson mist that crawled along the marble floors like ghostly fabric unraveling from a dead goddess's gown.
Naomi stirred beneath silk sheets stained with salt and memory, the scent of Alacria still thick in her hair, the bite marks on her collarbone throbbing like relics of an intimate battlefield. Her limbs ached, not from war, but from worship—every nerve still humming from the night they turned agony into art.
She sat up slowly, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted in a breath that did not belong to sleep nor satisfaction, but something subtler, more dangerous: a premonition.
The room felt too quiet.
The Sanctuary never truly slept—not with its acolytes whispering chants in their dreams, not with its sentinels shifting like shadows behind veils. But now… the silence was absolute, not restful.
It was expectant.
Naomi rose from the bed, letting the sheet fall away from her nude body, unashamed. Her body was a map of scars and sacred knowledge, and today, she would need to walk every line carved into her skin.
She pulled on a midnight-blue robe stitched with silver thread, the sigil of the Velvet Accord pressed over her heart. The moment she opened the chamber doors, Lune was there—eyes wide, blade already unsheathed.
"My Lady," she whispered, voice cracked. "The Hall of Vows has been breached."
Naomi blinked once. Slowly.
"By whom?"
Lune swallowed hard. "Someone… someone inside."
And Naomi's blood turned to ice.
---
The Hall of Vows was the innermost sanctum—a place no foot entered without swearing themselves to Naomi's law, a chamber where every promise uttered was sealed with a drop of blood and a breath held between lips and silence.
Now, it was in ruins.
Velvet drapes torn down, ceremonial daggers scattered, one priestess's body crucified upside-down—her mouth sewn shut with golden thread. Naomi stood amidst the wreckage, the red mist curling around her feet like vines of rage.
Aza was already there, her hands stained, her breath furious. She knelt beside the priestess's corpse, examining the markings carved into her chest.
"She died defending the relics," Aza muttered. "But they're gone."
Naomi's voice cut through the stillness like a polished blade.
"What was taken?"
Aza didn't look up.
"The Thorned Diadem."
Naomi's spine stiffened.
The relic that crowned the Velvet Mistress, not merely as ruler—but as divine judge, as chosen voice of the old flame that once forged this sanctuary into sanctuary.
Without it, her legitimacy could be questioned.
And worse—its power could be repurposed.
A relic forged not just from gold and jewels, but from the bones of the first priestess to ever defy the Saints.
Naomi turned on her heel.
"Who had access?"
Lune hesitated. "Only the Inner Circle…"
Naomi's heart broke before her lips moved.
She already knew the answer.
"Where is Alacria?"
---
Alacria stood beneath the Weeping Tree—a silver-barked monolith in the far gardens, where petals fell like snow and tears had once been said to pool instead of dew.
She wore black, the Velvet insignia gone from her collar.
When Naomi approached, Alacria did not turn.
She simply raised a gloved hand—and uncurled her fingers.
Resting in her palm was the Thorned Diadem.
Naomi stared, breath caught, ribs refusing to expand.
"You betrayed me," she said, but there was no scream in her voice. Only mourning.
"I chose me," Alacria replied, still not looking. "And I chose the women this place forgot. The ones who begged for more than beauty. More than obedience."
Naomi moved closer, each step thunder behind her breath.
"You could've come to me."
"I did," Alacria turned now, her gaze a storm unmoored. "Every night. Every kiss. Every broken sob you didn't hear because you were too busy ruling silence."
Naomi's hand clenched. "You want my throne?"
"No," Alacria whispered, stepping forward now, pressing the Diadem to Naomi's chest. "I want your truth."
Naomi recoiled—not from the weight, but from what she saw in Alacria's eyes.
Not malice.
Not ambition.
But desperation.
"I was dying under you," Alacria breathed, fingers trembling. "Worshipping you while you caged every fire in me that didn't bow."
"And now?" Naomi asked, voice raw.
"Now," Alacria exhaled, "I give you a choice."
She held out the Diadem.
"Wear it again. And rule with me—truly beside me. No veils. No chains. Let the Sanctuary burn what needs burning. Let us bleed what must be bled. Or…"
Naomi's eyes glinted.
"Or?"
"Or I leave. And with me goes every woman who has ever dreamed of fire and not lace."
---
The night fell without ceremony.
No incense.
No ritual.
Just stars blinking like uncertain gods as Naomi stood in the Velvet Chamber, alone but for the Diadem on its pedestal and the echo of Alacria's voice.
She stared at it long into the dark, remembering every time she'd worn it to command, to dominate, to shield others from the world.
But maybe—just maybe—it had also shielded her from herself.
And slowly, silently, Naomi lifted the Diadem.
Placed it on her head.
And smiled—not in triumph, but in grief.
A queen, reborn in thorns.
A priestess, prepared for the fire.
And in the shadows outside, Alacria watched.
And whispered:
"She chose war again."
But this time… not alone.