The Citadel bells tolled thrice at dawn—measured, hollow, and faintly mournful. By the third ring, I was already awake.
Sleep had been impossible. My dreams came in shards—wings shattering, fire spreading across marble, voices calling my name in languages no mortal tongue could hold. When I opened my eyes, the echo of them lingered, soft and wrong, like smoke in the lungs.
The morning light cut through the shutters of my small chamber, painting long gold lines across the floor. Dust drifted in the beams, glittering like ash. For a moment, I let myself believe it was peace. Then a knock broke it.
"Seer Veyne."
It was Sister Meral, her tone clipped. "The Council requests your attendance at Prime Bell. Immediately."
I dressed in silence, binding my hair, tightening the clasp of my robe. My fingers trembled once on the silver fastener, and I forced them still. The Citadel devoured weakness. If you bled, they'd call it sin.
The Hall of Thrones was filled with light—too much of it. Golden glass windows turned the chamber into a cathedral of sunfire, but it was a light that burned, not warmed. The High Seraph stood before the altar, his expression carved in serenity.
"You kept your vigil," he said. "And yet, your report is… incomplete."
"I was told to observe," I answered, bowing low. "He spoke little."
Malachor studied me. "And what did he speak?"
"He mocked faith. He's unrepentant."
"A fallen cannot repent," the Seraph murmured, turning slightly toward the assembled priests. "It is not in their nature. And yet, he lives. Perhaps the Light intends something through him."
I said nothing. There was no right answer here—only traps disguised as questions.
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hid knives. "Continue your watch. The creature's proximity may reveal what festers in him. Or in you."
He dismissed me with a wave. My exit felt like an escape.
The path to the west spire felt longer that day.
The Citadel was alive with whispers. Wherever I walked, conversation dimmed, and heads bent as if in prayer. I caught fragments—"tainted," "guardian," "test." No one met my eyes.
When I reached the old chapel, the door stood slightly ajar. I hesitated before pushing it open.
Kael was sitting against the far wall, unchained for the first time. The sigils still glowed faintly at his feet, but his hands were free. His eyes lifted to mine, and I froze.
"Your masters grow bold," he said quietly. "To let a serpent slither without its leash."
"Your chains are still there," I replied, nodding to the runes on the floor.
He smiled—not kind, not cruel, something in between. "Runes are just words pretending to be gods. If I wanted, I could silence them."
I didn't know if it was a threat or truth. Maybe both.
"You shouldn't test them," I said, setting down the tray. "The last thing you need is more reason for punishment."
"Punishment is all Heaven knows how to give." His voice lowered. "And yet you still serve them."
"I serve the Light."
"Do you?" He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight tracing the hard line of his jaw. "Or do you serve fear dressed as faith?"
I met his gaze and felt the faintest tremor run through me. He had the kind of presence that unsettled everything safe inside you—the quiet confidence of someone who'd seen the world's truths and stopped pretending to fear them.
"You sound sure of me," I said.
"I'm sure of what I see."
"And what is that?"
His lips curved, barely. "A woman who's beginning to wonder if salvation is worth the price."
I turned away, pulse quickening. "You know nothing about me."
"I know your dreams are louder lately."
I froze. "How—"
"I feel them when you come near," he said softly. "The air hums with it. You see them, don't you? The Thrones. The fire. The wings."
I swallowed hard. "That's none of your concern."
His expression softened, almost regretful. "It should be. They fear you for a reason, Lyra."
Hearing my name in his voice unsettled me more than the visions. "You will not speak to me that way."
"I speak only truth."
"Then speak less."
He smiled again, faint but real this time. "You remind me of someone."
"Who?"
"The one who believed I could still be redeemed."
I didn't ask what happened to them. The answer was written in his scars.
Silence filled the chapel. Candlelight wavered, throwing gold across his face. His wings, once hidden, shifted faintly beneath the torn fabric of his cloak—black feathers dulled with ash, yet impossibly beautiful.
"Do you ever miss it?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Miss what?"
"The Light."
He gave a soft, humorless laugh. "You don't miss what never loved you."
I wanted to argue. To defend the faith that raised me. But the words wouldn't come. The truth in his tone made my chest ache.
"What did you do?" I asked finally.
"What everyone does when they see too much," he said quietly. "I questioned."
Something in me broke at that. I saw flashes of his fall, imagined the sky splitting open, Heaven turning its wrath upon one of its own. I didn't know why the thought made my throat tighten.
When I rose to leave, he said, "Lyra."
I paused at the doorway.
"When they come for me—and they will—don't look away."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Night fell heavy and fast. Rain slicked the stones, turning the courtyard into a mirror of shadows. I stood beneath the colonnade, the storm's breath against my face, and for the first time, I couldn't tell whether the chill in me was fear or awakening.
Across the courtyard, the tower glowed faintly from within. A flicker of gold—his ward sigils holding, barely. The thought of him confined in that fading light clawed at me.
I pressed my hand to my chest, whispering the Creed: Light within, Light without. Light eternal, unbroken.
But as the words left my lips, the shadows didn't retreat. They leaned closer, listening.
And deep within the spire, Kael whispered something back.
Something that sounded like my name.