— Part 4 —

Another day.

She didn’t sleep.

She paced.

The Matron’s breathy exhale, the brief flicker of light from her own hands—it played on loop in her mind. Not the miracle, but the mistake. The danger. She had nearly killed someone. Not with intention, but with truth—the raw edge of what lived inside her.

And they would find out eventually.

The Overseer would see. And when he did, he’d chain it to a prophecy. Shape it into a war cry. Wrap it in gold and call it holy.

Unless she was gone by then.

She crouched near the far wall and pressed her ear against the cool stone.

Behind it—faint sounds. A low rhythm, like water being poured. The bathing chamber, maybe. It connected to the Matron’s wing, and beyond that, the tunnel paths that curved upward in corkscrews toward the rest of the temple.

Not viable. Too many eyes. She didn’t belong in those quarters—any appearance would invite inquiry.

She turned to the eastern wall. Nothing behind it but old prayer rooms—some defunct, some collapsed. She could use her spells, maybe even shape a breach through the backmost wall of one of them. But even if she could, she’d still be inside the compound. Still deep.

No straight path up, she realized bitterly. This place was built like a shell. A spiral trap.

She tried to recall the structure. The stairs carved into the central sanctum. The vaulted gallery near the upper floor with its leaden windows. But those were fortified, far above her cell. She’d only been allowed near them during processions—closely flanked, watched.

But they think I’m too sacred to run, she thought. That might be the only advantage I have.

She let her mind wander. What if she did play into that?

Plan B: Offer trust to Temenos. Dangle it like a thread. He already believed she was warming to him—why not let him believe more? Ask for his escort to the upper chambers. Say she needed to meditate in the high alcove. Lie, lie, lie.

She shuddered.

The idea of leaning on his desire made her sick. But it was something.

If it gets me to the roof…

Another plan: The servant boys. They cleaned the meditation chambers and rarely spoke. One of them—Tril—had eyes too wide, too full of doubt. Maybe if she could catch him alone. Ask for chalk. Ask for salt. Little things. No one would miss them.

Build a component pouch from scraps. Cast from shadows. Wait for a moment to break a wall and slip into the dark.

If she had to beg.

If she had to pretend to be grateful.

If she had to bleed for it.

She would.

She pulled the Matron’s discarded robe from earlier and began tearing long, clean strips from it. Bandages? Maybe. Disguises? Possibly. She didn’t know yet. But she would not be idle. She would not sit and wait to be buried in silk and burnt on a pyre of prophecy.

A gentle chime echoed outside her door.

Then came the creak of the lock, and she rose swiftly to her feet—hiding the strips of cloth under the mat.

Matron Nehra entered first, her spine stiff as iron beneath her ceremonial cowl. Three lesser nuns followed, arms laden with silks, oils, and cleansing herbs. Their eyes never met hers, not directly. Their reverence demanded distance.

“Your Light,” Nehra said, bowing. “It is the hour of preparation. The rites must begin soon.”

The young woman did not speak.

She sat where she was expected to. Raised her arms when they undressed her. Let them wipe the sweat and soot from her skin. Let them touch her with flowered oils. Let them press a new linen garment to her shoulders.

“There is a special rite tonight,” Nehra said, smoothing the pleats of the skirt. “One not yet gifted to you. A new path in your service to the Flame of Radiance.”

The vessel’s stomach turned.

She did not ask what the ritual was. She knew they would not say.

She only nodded once.

Let them mistake her silence for awe.

Let them anoint her like a lamb before the altar.

Let them dream their dreams.

She would not be there much longer.

———

The worship chamber was not the one she knew.

Gone were the stone benches, the dripping braziers, the dim confines where rituals passed in shadows and silence. This room stretched wide like a cathedral buried in the bone of the earth, its black ceiling carved with a thousand spiraling runes that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. Pillars lined the walls like watching giants. A central circle—carved deep into the stone—waited hollow and bare, surrounded by etchings and stains that hinted at what had taken place there before.

And she stood at its center.

Her ceremonial garb was heavier than usual. Sheer layers of white silk veiled her body, draping from her arms like wings. Silver thread embroidered the hems with concentric sunbursts and thorned vines, and tiny gemstones were sewn across the bodice to catch every flicker of firelight. Around her waist coiled a braided silver sash, long enough to drag behind her like a wedding train.

She felt like a bride carved from frost.

The circlet atop her brow was cold. Too tight. Too heavy.

She dared not adjust it.

She kept her chin up, but her eyes wandered.

They were all here.

Every. Single. One.

The entire Order of the Messengers lined the outer edges of the room, heads bowed, hands clasped. The Overseer stood at the front, dressed in an even more elaborate version of her own attire—though red instead of white, and layered with sashes of deep grey. An ivory mask hid his face, but not his voice.

“Brothers and sisters,” he intoned, arms spread wide, “we have spent generations preparing for this moment. The false gods of the surface grow weak. Their webbed queen spins her lies from the depths, but tonight, we unravel them.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd.

“The gods have demanded much of us,” the Overseer continued. “And we gave. We bled. We endured. But now—now—we rise under a new sun. A Light born of our suffering. A vessel of power not granted, but earned.”

She swallowed.

He wasn’t speaking of Sune, The Triad, or even Lathander. He was speaking of her.

Something cold swept over her spine.

She looked across the sea of hoods—and found Temenos’ violet eyes.

He stood near the front, off to the right, dressed in dark ritual robes that exposed his arms and collarbones, runes painted in white along his skin. His smile was small, but indulgent, as if he were watching a performance that had been written for him alone.

She turned her face away.

The Overseer’s voice rose. “Tonight, the rites shift. No more pantheon. No more borrowed prayers. We ask our Lady Light to show us what the gods could not. To prove she is ready to lead us—to punish the Blasphemers. To burn through the threads of Lolth herself.”

She wanted to ask how. Wanted to scream what does that mean—but her voice was not hers here.

The circle at her feet began to glow.

White chalk. Arcane lines. Ink poured in quiet precision by eight hooded figures stepping into place.

Casters.

Her gut twisted when she recognized them.

One was Temenos.

He had taken a place directly across from her, hands already raised, fingers curling into symbols she’d seen in grimoires. The light below them grew brighter. The runes around the circle pulsed, and the air grew thicker—charged.

Temenos winked at her.

Her stomach turned.

The chant began.

Low at first. Alien syllables that rippled with power. Her hair rose along her arms. Magic clung to her skin like steam.

She looked to the Overseer, hoping—foolishly—for some hint of explanation.

But he only raised his hands and cried:

“Let the beast come forth! Let our Lady burn it to ash!”

A summoning circle.

A test.

Not a ritual of ascension. Not an anointment.

A battle.

They were calling forth something for her to fight.

The runes ignited.

Stone cracked in the center of the circle.

And from that pit, something began to rise.

It rose like something vomited from the Abyss.

Chitinous legs, thick and bristling, slammed down from the summoning circle with wet cracks. A distended abdomen pulsed behind it, pale and hairless like spoiled fruit. Eight eyes blinked in jerky succession over a snarling mouth full of gnashing mandibles. Its body shimmered with arcane filaments—bonds cast by the circle’s mages to hold it in place for the transition. But that hold would not last.

It was a spider, but not. Not really.

It had too many legs. Too much intelligence in its gaze. And somewhere, in the curve of its shifting thorax, she could see a hint of a face. The vaguest imprint of a drow woman’s scream.

Lolth’s touch. No doubt.

She wanted to run.

But she didn’t move.

She couldn’t—not when the circle of nuns stepped in with swift, silent efficiency. Her veil was pulled back. The embroidered overskirt unhooked. The jeweled bodice loosened. They stripped away the bridal pageantry and left only the pale silks beneath, smoothing the wrinkles with gloved hands.

Then came the armor.

Silver-toned pauldrons, bracers, and greaves, polished to a mirror shine. Fitted and fastened over her dress like a grotesque ceremonial knight. No helmet. No shield. The armor gleamed like an offering, as if its beauty would protect her better than steel ever could.

The chanting shifted, tightening in tempo.

The beast strained, shrieking as the magical bonds cinched tighter.

Temenos approached with something in each hand.

A shortsword—its pommel engraved with curling script, its edge polished to razor gleam.

And a necklace.

He stepped far too close, his breath brushing her ear as he looped it around her neck. The gem settled just above her breastbone—an arcane focus. An anchor for spells. A trick she’d read about, but never dared ask for.

“A gift,” he whispered. “An early wedding present.”

Her fingers curled around the hilt of the blade.

If she twisted it fast enough, if she were just a little stronger—

No.

Too many people. Too many eyes. Too much.

She would never reach him in time.

So she smiled. A brittle thing.

He lingered too long. He always did.

Then stepped away.

The spell broke.

The beast roared and lunged.

The fight began.

She didn’t know how long it lasted. Minutes, maybe. Days, maybe.

She darted. She rolled. She survived. But only barely.

The circle of casters kept the creature contained, slowing its steps, disrupting its leaps—but never long enough. Never enough to give her the advantage.

She flicked a hand, and sparks of Prestidigitation cracked across the creature’s eyes—dazzling light to startle it. A whispered incantation sent a Mind Sliver through its consciousness, and it reeled with a chittering shriek.

A moment later, she lashed forward with Lightning Lure, the crackling tether wrapping around one limb and dragging it forward into a stumble.

She could reach its head.

She slashed at its mandibles.

But it wasn’t enough.

Something stronger was needed. But she couldn’t conjure the Chromatic Orb. Not with all of them watching. Not with her heartbeat thrashing in her ears. Her hands trembled. Her lips stammered on the syllables.

The spell collapsed again. And again.

A howl split the chamber.

She dodged—but just a bit too late.

The beast caught her mid-dash with a clawed limb, slamming her sideways across the chamber. Her breath vanished in the impact. Her sword clattered away. The arcane necklace burned cold against her throat.

She coughed. Rolled to her side. Blood bursting from the scar on her lip.

The beast screeched and reared up over her.

And then—

BOOM.

A sphere of fire detonated midair.

The beast screamed, stumbled, and collapsed in a smoking heap of chitin and arcane ichor. The flame twisted violet—no doubt Temenos’ signature flare.

The chamber rang with silence.

The Overseer lifted his hands, voice echoing cold and final:

“The first trial is complete. The Light has not passed.”

The spellcircle dimmed. The creature’s body shimmered and faded, drawn back into whatever plane had spawned it.

She did not move.

Her hands shook.

Not just from pain. Or fear.

From rage.

From dread.

From the knowledge that every single person in this room—especially him—saw this as proof that she needed him.

Temenos strode toward her.

He didn’t help her up.

He only offered her the sword, lips curled in gentle condescension.

“You’ll get stronger,” he murmured, voice low enough for her ears alone. “I’ll make sure of it.”

She took the blade.

But not his hand.