— Part 3 —

She woke to the scent of lavender oil and the faint burn of incense—soothing smells, meant to pacify. Her body ached, but not from bruises. It was deeper than that. Like her nerves had been stretched thin and left humming.

The chamber was exactly as she had left it.

The simple stone walls.

The thin elevated mat.

The cord she’d once been weaving into a tassel now coiled in the corner like a useless snake.

She was still in the white skirt. Still bare-footed. A wool blanket had been placed over her, tucked too gently to be anything but a performance.

She sat up slowly, wincing. A bowl of warm broth rested on a tray beside the bed, untouched. Her fingers brushed the edge. Her body obeyed—but her spirit reeled.

How long had she been out?

The lantern in the corner flickered low. Maybe morning. Maybe evening. The Messengers didn’t keep time in ways that made sense to the outside world.

As she shifted, she felt it.

A shimmer of magic woven into her ankles.

A binding ward. Subtle. But it was there. She could move—but she wouldn’t get far. Not again.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stared at the wall across from her. The chalk marks—tallies she used to count rituals—had been wiped clean.

So they knew.

She had crossed a line.

And yet…

They hadn’t locked her in irons.

They hadn’t summoned the Overseer.

They hadn’t even left a Matron by the door.

Just silence.

And a note.

Folded, pressed under the edge of the tray, waiting.

She hesitated before picking it up.

The parchment smelled of myrrh. The writing was careful, almost loving:

“Rest well, My Light.

The storm is only the beginning.

You shine brightest in resistance.

– T.”

Her hands clenched. She tore the paper in half, then again. Then again, until the pieces were too small to be anything.

She stared at her palm.

No sparks. No glow.

But something inside her—something buried beneath obedience, beneath routine, beneath the endless ceremonies—crackled.

It wasn’t holy. It wasn’t divine.

It was hers.

She growled to herself, barely audible: “I’m not your Light.”

———

Another month passed. Maybe more.

They dressed her in the ceremonial white again.

They braided her growing hair with strands of crystal filament and soft lichen, then wound it into a crown atop her head. They painted her lips with crushed opal, rimmed her eyes with ash. All for them.

Not for her.

The Matrons sang as they worked, voices in gentle harmony, hymns she knew by heart but no longer believed. Their touch was careful, reverent. She played her part. She kept her shoulders straight, hands folded in her lap, face relaxed and radiant.

Just as they’d taught her.

Only her eyes betrayed her.

They drifted, unbidden, across the room.

Temenos stood just beyond the veil, where the ceremonial arch opened into the hall. He wore silver vestments today, marked with the sigils of prophecy and fire. His expression was unreadable. But his eyes…

His eyes watched her.

Not like a devotee watching their saint.

Like a collector admiring a rare blade.

She quickly looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. Her hands trembled, just faintly, under the layers of cloth and gemstone. She steadied them. Breathed deep.

She had to appear whole. Obedient. Moldable.

They would only trust her if they thought she no longer burned.

⸻

The ritual chamber buzzed with low chanting. The Overseer entered last, flanked by two acolytes bearing relics—silver chalices and a rusted censer. The others bowed as one.

She bowed too.

They encircled her, arms lifted, eyes wide with hunger for meaning. The Overseer approached and placed his hand on her brow.

“Speak the words, Lady Light,” he said.

She spoke them.

Every syllable exactly as they wanted to hear. Each one an echo of their delusions, a thread in the tapestry they’d forced her to wear since childhood. She said them all with perfect cadence, even as her heart ached behind her smile.

The ritual continued.

And as the fire was lit and the false visions came, as she lifted her hands and conjured sparks of prestidigitation, little more than dancing lights to make their mouths fall open—she let them believe it was divine.

They didn’t know that she had been practicing.

They didn’t know she was testing how much light she could summon before the spell flickered.

They didn’t know she was counting seconds, gauging distance, imagining every corridor between the sanctum and the outer tunnels.

⸻

Later that night, alone in her chamber, she sat in the dark.

She whispered small spells into the air—illusions, warmth, the scent of rain—every little effect hers. Not gifted. Not divine.

Each success was a quiet act of rebellion.

But when she thought of him—the way Temenos stared at her, like he knew the mask was slipping, like he wanted to be there when it finally fell—her stomach twisted.

He hadn’t spoken to her since the escape.

Not directly.

But his presence was constant. Watching from hallways. Standing near during rituals. A slow, tightening orbit around her every step.

She met his gaze only when she had to.

And every time, she felt the pressure behind his smile.

A challenge.

A promise.

A claim.

She never let him see her flinch.

She would bide her time.

She would let them robe her, crown her, kneel before her.

And when the day finally arrives…

When her magic had grown strong enough, sharp enough, hers enough…

She would burn it all down.

And he would be the first to fall.

The corridors outside her room had fallen quiet hours ago.

No footsteps. No chanting. Just the low pulse of fungi glowing faintly in the hall.

She sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, facing the tiny alcove where she once kept her pictures and crafting endeavors, much like her tassel. It had been taken—perhaps discarded, perhaps burned. A reminder that nothing in this place belonged to her.

Except this.

Her hand hovered above her candle’s gentle flame, fingers slightly curled. She breathed slowly. No incantation. No call to gods.

Just will.

Hers.

She focused on the warmth behind her ribs—where the light always flickered to life when she was afraid or angry. Tonight, it was calm. Present. Willing.

A puff of air escaped her lips as she whispered, “Now.”

A small spark flared below her hovering hand. Not a trick of the candlelight. A real flame—tiny, steady, gold like her irises. She raised her hand, the flame followed like a pulled cord. It stretched and floated from the wick to her extended palm, stopping just above her skin.

She stared.

It wasn’t Prestidigitation this time. Not illusion. Not warmth or light conjured from the world around her.

This one burned.

A new innate cantrip.

Control Flames.

She nearly laughed—then caught herself.

Instead, she held it there, eyes wide with wonder. The heat didn’t frighten her. The ache in her hand was welcome. It answered her.

She let the flame drift toward the wall, where the moss grew thickest. The bolt fizzled just before contact—by choice. She wasn’t ready to scorch anything yet. Not tonight.

But soon.

She wiped sweat from her brow and rested her hands in her lap.

A grin, small and secret, curved at her lips.

The Messengers wanted miracles.

She was learning how to make her own.

———

Another day of her weekly worship arrived, this one bringing something shockingly new. The jewels the nuns brought to adorn her neck buzzed with an energy she had only just started becoming aware of. The buzz of potential within the mundane.

Components.

Kindle and flint for true spells rather than playful cantrips.

A diamond in the pendant called to her. She was unsure why and what for. But with a devious swiftness she often reserved for swiping honey drops at the dining room table, she hid the diamond within her bosom while the matron oversaw her dressing down for bed.

Once they all left, the young woman put the diamond’s request to the test.

In the center of the cold stone flooring, she set the little diamond down and pulled. Pulled the cord of the arcane weave from it like she was undoing a beaded bracelet.

One.

Two.

Then…

The stone chamber started to pulse with quiet heat.

She hadn’t meant to conjure something so dangerous. She thought she could hold it, just long enough to see the weave of it, to feel what color it would take this time. Maybe something cold. Blue.

The arcane thread she pulled from the diamond had bloomed in her hand like a small sun—spinning, crackling with radiant energy. Her lips moved instinctively, shaping the syllables it innately requested of her.

But the door had creaked open.

“Lady—?” a Matron’s voice began.

She turned, startled—and the orb slipped.

It struck the Matron full in the chest with a boom like a thunderclap, flaring pale amber just before impact. The older svirfneblin woman collapsed instantly, her body crumpling backward against the stone corridor.

“No—no, no, no—” the vessel whispered, darting forward.

The chamber stank of ozone and panic.

Her heart hammered as she dragged the limp woman inside and shut the door behind them, sealing it with a whispered word. Her hands trembled as she crouched beside the Matron. No blood. No breathing. Skin pale under the veil.

What have I done?

She pressed a hand to the Matron’s chest. Still.

If Matron Nehra finds out…

If the Overseer learns…

They’ll punish her.

Or worse—they’ll stop pretending she’s divine.

Her thoughts spiraled as she clutched the Matron’s cold wrist, her voice breaking as she whispered: “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—please don’t die—”

And then something shifted.

A tepid wave surged through her fingertips—nothing like the fire she’d called before. Not like illusion or trick. It was deeper. Gentler. It spilled into the Matron’s chest in threads of gold.

The Matron inhaled—sharply.

Her body jerked, then settled. Still unconscious, but breathing again.

The vessel stared in awe.

What was that?

It hadn’t come from a place of power. It came from fear. From need.

She didn’t know the name of the spell—only that it had worked.

Her mouth went dry. She could almost hear the Overseer’s voice if he found out: “A healer’s touch… a sign of Lathander, perhaps…”

A lie they’d mold. A new purpose they’d invent.

She didn’t want it.

A sudden knock startled her out of her thoughts.

Three soft taps.

It’s HIM.

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t answer. But the lock on the door shimmered—and clicked open. Of course.

He stepped in like he always belonged, robes flowing, eyes already on her. On the Matron. On the scorch mark against the wall.

“Well,” he said smoothly. “It seems our Lady Light has been practicing.”

She said nothing.

Temenos knelt beside the unconscious Matron, studied her closely. His fingers brushed her brow—then lit with soft green light.

A healing spell.

“Concussed,” he murmured. “Minor burn to the sternum. Some bruised ribs. But breathing, thanks to you. Spare the Dying, was it?”

She tensed. Was it?

He smiled. “Remarkable. That’s not in the lessons we gave you.”

“Will you tell them?” she asked quietly.

“Why would I do that?” He stood. “This is progress. Proof. Your power grows—our Light awakens. That’s what they want, isn’t it?”

She didn’t know what to say. A scarlet heat bloomed in her face. She tried to turn and hide it, but she could see from her peripheral vision… he was incredibly pleased with himself.

It disgusted her.

He lifted the Matron into his arms with ease.

“But trust…” He looked back over his shoulder. “Trust is a delicate thing. And I’m honored you can allow me to aid you when it matters. Even if you don’t say it. You’re trusting me to keep you safe.”

“I have no choice,” she whispered.

“Choice is an illusion, My Light,” he said. “What matters is that I was the one you needed.”

He stepped closer. Still holding the Matron, he leaned in.

“Let me have something,” he whispered. “A sign of that trust.”

His head tilted, lips barely an inch from her cheek.

She hesitated. Then recoiled.

He stilled. That same irritating, self-satisfied smile stayed.

“You’ll soften, eventually,” he murmured.

She looked away.

He stepped back.

“You don’t need to love me now,” he said. “Just understand what I offer. Power. Protection. A future.”

“I don’t want your future.”

He only chuckled. And with that, he turned and carried the Matron out towards the corridor, robes whispering behind him.

“We’ll see. This miracle of yours,” he said without looking back, “is growing faster than you realize. Be careful who sees it next time.”

Then, over his shoulder, a final murmur:

“I’ll always be here to help… if you remember who your first witness was.”

The door clicked shut.

She stood alone in the center of the chamber, breathing hard, hands still faintly glowing from the spell that saved a life.

Her lips moved before she realized it.

Not a prayer.

Not a name.

A promise.

Never again.