— Part 2 —

The first few days were beautiful.

She kept the joy small. Secret. Not in the shadows, exactly, but hidden behind innocence.

A glimmer of light in her palm during prayer.

A flower’s scent made stronger during morning meal.

Flickers of dancing color above the meditation bowl, like candlelight caught in crystal.

Prestidigitation was a quiet magic, barely worthy of awe. But to her, it was freedom in a handful of moments. She began to think of her fingers not as tools for obedience, but as instruments. Every twitch, every whisper of focus, could call beauty and song from thin air.

The Messengers watched in reverent silence.

At first.

The Overseer’s voice arrived like a crack of thunder after too much calm.

“Enough of these parlor tricks.”

She had just turned water sweet, smiling faintly at her own cup, when his hand slapped it from her fingers. It shattered against the wall. She didn’t flinch—just looked up.

His eyes were full of fury. No fire. No joy.

“You are not a jester, child. You are our Light. Our Blade. Our Chosen Wrath.”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean?” he echoed, stepping closer, voice low now. “They say you coax flame without prayer. That you call scent and sound and illusion with the twitch of a finger. Is that how the gods taught you to shine?”

She bit her lip. Her hands stayed at her sides.

“It just feels… natural,” she said. “Not divine.”

His hand struck her across the face.

Pain bloomed. Her cheek stung. The blood of a reopened scar warmed her jawline.

“You dare insult the gods that shaped you?”

She fell to one knee. It wasn’t enough reverence to prevent him from clutching a handful of her short, bright hair and force her to look at him. Her voice caught. “No, Father.”

“You are not here to indulge your curiosity. You are destiny incarnate. You will call the divine radiance, or we will burn the darkness out of you until it answers.”

He turned, cloak whipping behind him.

“Tomorrow,” he said coldly, “you will summon what you did the night of your awakening. Or you will bleed for every hour you waste.”

⸻

The next day came. And the next. And the next.

She stood in the circle carved into the stone, arms outstretched, surrounded by silent Messengers—matrons with incense, boys with drums, overseers with expectant eyes.

She tried.

She whispered prayers.

She shouted them.

She mimicked the pose she had taken in fear, that night Temenos had nearly touched her.

Nothing came.

No lightning.

No fire.

Only the small things. Color. Warmth. Smell.

They beat her. Not viciously—not yet—but enough. Ropes across her back. Knees against stone. Long hours of kneeling and silence.

“Again,” they said. “Call her.”

“Again.”

“Make us believe.”

She could not.

⸻

One night, weeks after the revelation, they sent her back to her room in silence. Even the matrons refused to look at her.

She sat on her mat, arms limp, lips cracked. Her back throbbed from the lashes, and her fingers still smelled faintly of ash.

She lit the candle again.

She made it pink.

She made it purple.

She made it vanish.

She cried.

Not from the pain. From the failure. From the wrongness of it all. Her magic hadn’t left her. But it wasn’t what they wanted.

It never would be.

They didn’t want her. Not her laughter. Not her spark. Not her joy.

They wanted the storm that came when she broke.

The candle flickered in the silence, and for the first time, she reached beneath the mat and pulled free the braided tassel. The first one. Unraveled and frayed. She clutched it like a talisman.

Then she looked at the door.

No guards tonight.

They trusted that she would come to her senses. That guilt and hunger would bring her crawling back to the circle.

But something had shifted.

She was not afraid of punishment anymore.

She was afraid of being turned into a weapon.

She stood.

She did not pray.

She conjured a flicker of warmth into her fingertips, just enough to dull the ache in her knees.

Then she crossed to the door.

She touched the hinges. Cold iron.

She whispered, barely audible: “Smell like rust.”

A puff of decay curled from the iron.

She smiled.

Tricks, he had called them.

But they would open every lock in this place if she had enough time.

———

The corridors of the temple dungeon had never been silent to her before.

There was always something: footsteps, chanting, wet cloth on stone, the rhythmic knock of someone striking the prayer bowl down the hall.

But now?

Silence.

Not peace. Just absence.

She moved barefoot, careful not to let her heel slap the ground. Her white skirt rustled faintly—no heavier robes tonight. They hadn’t dressed her in anything ceremonial after the latest punishment. They thought she was unprepared.

That mistake would cost them.

She stopped near a turn in the corridor, steadying her breath. A sconce burned low ahead. No shadows moved near it.

She whispered: “Snuff.”

A soft blink of light—prestidigitation. Gone. Darkness swallowed the path. Svirfneblin eyes were quick to adjust to darkness. These actions would not give her a cloak in darkness as much as they would grant her precious seconds of time should anyone come by.

She moved.

She passed the kitchens—empty. Past the novice dormitory—locked. She knew these halls like the lines in her palm, not from freedom, but from countless processions: bound, guided, praised, punished. They had walked her through her own prison more times than they should have.

She reached the antechamber that led to the lower sanctum. There, iron bars. Old. Always guarded.

No one was there.

Still… she hesitated.

There was a bell cord near the gate—if tugged, it would bring at least four.

She crept close. Placed her fingers on the lock.

“Freeze.”

The iron shivered under her touch. Not literally—just the illusion of frost. She wasn’t sure it would help, but it made her feel powerful. That was enough.

She pulled.

A loud click. The bar lifted.

She nearly dropped it in shock.

The lower sanctum loomed ahead. Black stairs, slick with candle soot and old wax. The passage to the catacombs—and to the far tunnel she’d only heard whispered about. The one the old Matron once said connected to the dead mines beyond the temple.

She took a step down.

Then another.

The air changed—damp, cold. Like something breathing just out of sight.

She reached the third step when she heard it:

A footstep. Behind her.

She turned.

A figure stood at the top of the stairs. No torch. No sound.

Just eyes. Reflecting the dark like a wolf’s.

“Going somewhere?”

She froze.

“Temenos…”

His silhouette came into view, and with it, that too-soft smile.

Of all people, she had hoped it wouldn’t be him who found her.

He began descending.

Not rushing. Not angry.

Just calm. Casual. Like this was inevitable.

“My Light,” he said gently. “You look so radiant in the dark.”

She backed away, step by step.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“I should be everywhere you are,” he replied. “Don’t you see that yet? I was there when the spark first took you. I saw the moment the gods woke inside you. They let me witness it.”

The heaviness of his cadence. His tonal confidence. It was different.

“You’re no Initiate, are you,” she whispered in realization.

“I’m sorry I had to lie,” he said, smiling. “But it was to protect you. To protect this.”

He gestured vaguely, and she felt it—a pressure, not physical, but magical. He wasn’t just a sycophant. He was trained. A caster. Stronger than her. He’d hidden it well.

“You should be resting. Preparing. They’re nearly ready to name you Sanctified.”

“I never asked for that,” she said, voice rising.

“No,” he said, finally stepping into her light, “but you were born for it.”

He may have been younger than the others, but the lines near his eyes were deep with something worse than age—zeal. His jaw still bore a faint scar from her lightning. One he could have healed quickly to have it fade away. But no. He wore it proudly.

“Come now,” he said. “The Overseer will forgive your fear. We’ll say it was a vision. A divine test. Let me bring you back, and I’ll make sure they don’t raise the lash again.”

She said nothing.

He stepped closer.

“Don’t make me subdue you,” he added softly, almost apologetically. “I don’t want to hurt you. But you can’t go. You’re not meant to leave.”

“I’m not yours,” she hissed.

He stopped.

That, more than anything, seemed to shake him.

“No,” he said after a long moment. “Not yet.”

Then he raised his hand.

Magic swelled.

She turned and ran.

Not down the stairs—too steep. Instead, toward the forgotten corridor behind the altar niche. A crawlspace for offerings. Cramped, narrow—but unguarded. She’d hidden in there once as a child, when she was still small and dreaming of vanishing.

This time, she vanished herself—a flicker of illusion behind her, a sound like retreating footsteps sent echoing in the opposite direction.

Temenos didn’t fall for it long.

But it bought her seconds.

She slipped into the crawlspace, heart hammering. Behind her, the footsteps grew louder. Closer.

But she was ahead for now.

The tunnel narrowed behind her, the scent of mildew thick in her lungs. She crawled on hands and knees, skin scraping against stone, heart pounding. Somewhere behind her, the soft footfalls of Temenos echoed—not rushed. Leisurely. Predictable.

She emerged into an old, half-collapsed storeroom, its wooden beams rotted through, fungus growing in the corners like teeth. A shattered statue of Callarduran lay in pieces against the wall, the old god long forsaken in this place.

She stood, wobbling.

The outer exit had to be close.

She turned toward a broken door—and there he was.

Temenos.

Not winded or angry.

Just… watching.

“You’re faster than I thought,” he said with a faint smile. “Clever, too. You remember the tunnels better than I do.”

She backed away, clutching the wall.

“I don’t want to go back.”

“You’re not going back,” he said gently. “Not in the same way. Things will be different now.”

“Different?” she spat. “You’ve been following me.”

“I’m watching over you,” he corrected, tone smooth as silk. “The others may worship you blindly, but I see what’s really happening. Your powers—”

He stepped closer.

“—they’re not holy,” he said lowly, like he was sharing a secret. “Not exactly. They’re growing because you have grown. The rituals didn’t awaken your Light. Fear did. Will.”

She trembled.

“You… you don’t think I’m divine.”

A head tilt. “Well. It’s possible,” he said.

He let his words hang.

“I know there’s a chance you’re just… a sorcerer. A gifted one. Natural. No blessings. No gods. But does that matter?” His voice rose. “You think the Overseer will care, so long as you shine when he needs you to shine? You think the Matrons will stop singing when your flames ignite the sky?”

He spread his arms, as though painting a vision only he could see.

“We can use this. Let them believe. You could lead them, My Light. Shape them. We could raise an army together. We could still replicate their prophecies. Reduce the City of Spiders to smoke and ash. We could free the rest of our kind from the surface’s rot and filth.”

She stared at him, mouth dry. “We?”

“I was there when it began,” he said, voice dropping. “Your first spell. Your awakening. They will denominate me as Temenos of the First Vision. Don’t deny the bond we share. You need me. I’ve kept the Overseer at bay. I’ve softened the worst punishments. I brought you gifts. I’ve believed.”

She shook her head.

“I never asked you to.”

He smiled. A far from comforting one. “But you needed me to. You still do.”

He stepped forward, lowering his voice.

“I could give you your freedom. Not today. But one day. When it’s all done—when the city is dust, and the others kneel—you could go. Or you could stay, if you wish. Rule beside me. Choose your own name. Choose me.”

His hand reached out, gently, like an offering.

“Say the words,” he whispered. “Call me your chosen one. And I will make sure no one ever lays a hand on you again.”

She stared at his fingers.

Then she stepped back.

“No.”

The smile cracked.

His hand dropped.

“No?”

“I won’t lie for you. I won’t become your puppet. I won’t be yours.”

His face shifted into a slow, cold withdrawal.

“Then you will learn,” he said softly, “the difference between fear and freedom.”

He raised his hand.

A ripple of magic surged toward her—real magic. Not a spark or flicker, but a binding force. Her limbs locked. Her vision blurred. Her knees hit the stone. Her body became a cage again.

He knelt beside her, brushing a hand against her white hair.

“You’ll change your mind in time. You’ll see what I’m truly offering you.”

She wanted to scream.

Instead, she whispered an assumption she prayed would wound him: “I’ll never love you.”

He leaned close, whispering back, “Then I’ll make you something better.”

His spell deepened.

Darkness wrapped her mind like a veil.

The last thing she heard was his voice, sickeningly gentle:

“I will make you mine, somehow.”