Part 5: Surrender
— Part 5 —
The chamber door shut with a soft click.
She did not rise from the floor. Not at first.
The armor was too heavy.
Not the metal. That had been stripped away as soon as they’d returned her to her room—unfastened and taken by silent hands, the nuns leaving her in her underdress without comment. But the weight still clung to her. Pressed against her chest like the beast’s final blow never ended. Like the Overseer’s words were carved into her bones.
“The Light has not passed.”
She could still feel the echo of the phrase rattling down the endless halls. Had they already begun debating new punishments? More training? More rituals? A stricter regimen to “purify” her spells?
Her fingers absently toyed with the pendant still hanging around her throat—the focus stone Temenos had clasped on her just before the fight. She had wanted to rip it off then. She hadn’t. Now, it felt like a mark. A leash.
She threw herself onto her cot, arms drawn to her knees, and stared at the door. She wished she could disappear into the cracks of the stone. Flee into the dust between bricks.
She didn’t hear the steps right away.
Only when they stopped outside her door did she move.
Three gentle knocks.
Temenos.
Her throat closed.
He didn’t wait for permission. He never did.
The door eased open, and there he stood in his ceremonial robes, one hand tucked behind his back like a suitor awaiting his bride.
“Lady Light,” he said gently, almost mournfully. “You fought beautifully.”
She said nothing.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, as if he belonged there. As if this room were his, too.
“I know it wasn’t what you hoped. But they saw your power. The spark. That’s what matters.”
She drew herself upright, not rising but sitting straighter, trying not to show how badly her ribs hurt.
“I failed,” she said quietly. “That’s all they saw.”
Temenos tsked, crossing the room to stand near her cot.
“You didn’t fail. The test failed you.” He crouched before her, tilting his head with a gentleness that always felt like bait. “That beast—summoning something so savage, so raw—it was madness. You weren’t prepared.”
“I was never meant to be prepared,” she murmured.
He smiled. “Then let me prepare you.”
She looked at him. Really looked. Saw the way he kept his hands so carefully folded. How his shoulders relaxed with affected humility. And yet—how his eyes gleamed. Hungry.
He pulled something from behind his back.
A small cloth bundle. A sweet bun from the upper kitchens. A treat she would usually have to earn.
Her stomach growled in betrayal.
“You should eat,” he said, setting it beside her. “It will help you recover. We have time before the next test. Days, maybe. A month at the most. The Overseer will want to recalibrate.”
“Recalibrate,” she echoed, bitterness curling the word.
She took the bun into her hands, her stomach winning over her fortitude, and bit over the glazed-dipped end of it. Though she stared down at it as she chewed, she could still see him out the corner of her eye, watching the way her mouth moved with every round of mastication.
How she wished him gone.
“I’m glad I was there to act. Had I hesitated, even a moment…”
She shuddered a sigh. “You didn’t,” she whispered, reluctantly. “You saved me.”
Temenos sat by her, his smile faint and warm, as if her words had confirmed something long anticipated.
“I would always save you.”
She winced as his hand brushed a lock of silver hair behind her ear. She didn’t recoil. Not this time.
She was too tired.
Too sore.
Too afraid of what might happen the next time she faced death and no one stepped in.
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” he said, almost sweetly. “Not after that ordeal. Not after they made you bleed for their doubt.”
“I’m not alone,” she murmured, more to herself. “I have my power now. That’s enough.”
“But it’s not,” Temenos said, leaning in. “Power is like flame. It needs air, and something to cling to. A hand to guide it.”
She closed her eyes.
He was too close. His voice like steam against her cheek.
She didn’t want this.
But she needed protection. His Fireball still lingered in her memory—its clean arcane precision, the way it dropped the beast mid-charge. And the way everyone, even the Overseer, deferred to him in that moment.
She’d failed their test. But he hadn’t.
And if she pushed him too far away, she might stand alone next time. And there would be a next time.
Her head tilted up slightly, eyes flicking to his face. There was triumph already blooming there, like he knew what she was about to do.
She hated it.
Still, her lips met his.
Chaste, dry, barely even a kiss.
But it was enough.
Enough to be a surrender of something precious to her.
Enough to have him match it with discomforting fervor.
Temenos inhaled sharply, his hands moving to cradle her face like she might vanish. “My Light,” he whispered, breathless. “You’re finally beginning to see.”
His lips sought hers again—deeper this time. She felt traces of the bun’s sweetness dissipate into his horrid, greedy mouth. And as he curled his fingers through her hair and behind her head, she stiffened, and her hand found his chest to hold him back. A silent refusal.
He accepted it with far too much grace. His grin widened, like this too had been expected.
“One step at a time,” he said, brushing her shoulder gently. His fingers trailed down her arm with an ease that made her skin crawl. “It’ll all come in time. You’ll see.”
When his hand slipped to her hip, she pulled away. More firmly now.
That, at last, made him stop.
He stood with a chuckle, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. No anger. No wounded pride. Just quiet satisfaction.
“I can wait,” he said lightly. “That’s what makes it real.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Before he turned to leave, he took one final opportunity to paw at wasn’t his. He held up the arcane tanzanite around her neck, letting his knuckles press lightly against her bosom. He smirked, crooning, “You can keep the focus. You’ll need it.”
And then he was gone.
The door clicked closed.
And the Lady Light let herself tremble. Just once. Just enough.
She pressed her fingers to her lips. As if she could wipe the feeling away.
It had bought her a little time. That was all.
But she would never owe him anything beyond that.
She would find a way out—no matter how many walls, guards, or leering priests stood between her and the surface. She had to.
She would never be a bride to a man who only wanted a crown.
She would never be their Lady Light.
The silence after Temenos left was suffocating.
She didn’t rise from the floor for a long time. She sat, curled against the stone wall like a discarded offering, her fingers trembling as they pressed against the gem at her throat. It pulsed faintly in response—its magic attuned to her breath, her thoughts, her shame.
She wanted to rip it off. Throw it across the room. Shatter it with her heel.
But she couldn’t afford that. Not now.
Not when it might be the very thing that saved her life next time.
Her thoughts were no longer clouded by dread—they were razor-sharp. Cold, clean. Like winter air in her lungs. This… this was survival. There was no room for guilt here. Only calculation.
She rose stiffly and moved toward the single high vent on the far side of her chamber, just barely a slit in the stonework. Too narrow to slip through—but it had a draft. That meant it was connected to something. A shaft. A tunnel. She began counting her steps across the room. Then the width of her mattress. Then the distance from her bed to the door. She whispered the numbers to herself. Over and over.
The temple had many wings—she’d only ever been allowed through a few. But she’d memorized what she could. The cleansing pools were beneath the eastern sanctum. The kitchens shared a floor with the lower dormitories. Beyond that, above, the guest prayer chambers.
But the walls beyond the west corridor had been reinforced years ago after a collapse. That was what she needed to reach. If there was still structural weakness, even a hint of one—combined with a spell strong enough to fracture it—it could become a hole wide enough to crawl through. She’d have to fake a vision. Something that would make them let her roam. Or maybe claim she needed quiet to meditate and “receive.” It would be risky.
Everything was risky.
And Temenos… he’d become another variable. He knew she didn’t believe. She could fool the rest of the Messengers with declarations of holy visions and desires to attune to the pantheon… but not him.
She crossed to her dresser and opened the lowest drawer, pulling aside her ritual sashes and sorting through her daily silks until she found the cloth she’d been hiding. She’d stitched it herself weeks ago—layered with scraps of old curtain and twine, made to look like an embroidered sash of high rank. But its seams had been folded around a sliver of sharpened bone—one of the old eating tools from the priest’s quarters she’d filched during cleaning duty.
Not a weapon. Not yet.
But useful.
A crack between bricks. A makeshift lockpick. A distraction if she had to flee.
She replaced the cloth carefully and shut the drawer.
Then came the next idea. The one she hated.
Temenos’ obsession made her skin crawl, but if she let him think she was beginning to trust him—if she gave him just enough—he might turn against the Overseer for her. He might lie on her behalf. He might even help her get access to the outer corridors.
And if he didn’t… well, he wouldn’t be expecting her to turn on him.
But that plan was still plan B. Or C. Or D.
The door creaked open.
She froze.
Matron Nehra stepped in with two younger nuns behind her, each carrying folded linens and trays of warm oils. Nehra’s voice was cold and formal, but not unkind.
“It is time to prepare you for evening worship. The Overseer has requested you wear the veil.”
That was rare. The veil was reserved for divine communion. Or public prophecy.
Or… something else.
The girl—still nameless, still caged—bowed her head and sat on the edge of the bed. The veil was placed carefully atop her hair, hiding her features but not her eyes.
The nuns began to oil and bind her arms, layer the silken wrappings down her legs, and fit the robe over her shoulders. White and gold. Glimmering. The hem was stitched with spiraling sunbursts, like a bride before a pyre.
As the oils were pressed into her skin, she made herself go still again. Quiet. Like stone.
But her mind raced.
Through the walls of the temple.
Through the tunnels beneath.
Through every possible door.
Every possible lie.
And every path to freedom she could carve with the magic growing inside her.
Whatever this “new ritual” was, she couldn’t let it stop her.
The fine lace draped over her silver-bob hair and spilled softly down to her chest, embroidered with threads of shining pearl and sun-spun silk. The nuns had applied a sweet-smelling oil to her wrists and throat, and even Matron Nehra had seemed… subdued, as if the air in the chambers had changed.
She asked what this was for, why such finery was needed again after the failed trial. The nuns didn’t answer. They simply whispered prayers under their breath as they tightened the sashes around her waist and clipped on the ceremonial bracelets of platinum and duskstone.
The walk was long. Through the stone passages of the compound, torchlight flickering along the walls, casting gold and shadow over the faces of the women around her. The young vessel’s mind spun with dread, but she forced her breathing to stay steady. What had she done now? Had Temenos spoken to the Overseer? Had he demanded she be honored? Or punished?
The chamber they led her to was new—at least to her. Tall and ovular, with carved pillars and a mirrored obsidian floor. A shallow mist drifted along the surface. The ceiling arched impossibly high, etched with an old mural of the sun being cradled by a dozen faceless servants.
At the far end of the room stood the Overseer, arms folded in his dark crimson robes. His voice echoed the moment she stepped forward.
“You wear the veil tonight, young Light, not for punishment… but preparation.”
That did not ease her.
He gestured, and a circle of runes around the mirrored floor glowed. A dozen casters stepped into position. Not Temenos—she noticed that instantly, which somehow made it worse. He’d be watching, but not aiding.
“This is the Rite of Reflection,” the Overseer announced. “A ritual older than the City of Spiders. Older than even our worship of the Flame. Tonight, we call upon the power of the self. You will face your own light—and your own shadow.”
The runes flared.
Across from her, the mist thickened. And then something stepped out from it.
Herself.
Identical in shape, height, even the veil. But there was no gentleness in the figure’s posture. No nervous twitch or guarded poise. The mirrored version stood with perfect calm, fingers glowing faintly with arcane promise.
The Overseer’s voice boomed again, “This is not an enemy summoned. It is not an illusion. It is the truth we see in you—refined and magnified. Fight well.”
And the duel began.
She barely had time to react before the clone surged forward with a crackle of electricity. Lightning Lure. Her own spell, stolen and sharpened. She ducked, rolled, and countered with Prestidigitation to obscure her path with a burst of smoke, but her reflection anticipated it.
For every step she took, the reflection had already taken it better. Stronger. Faster. Unflinching.
She was tiring fast. Her veil was heavy with sweat, her wrists aching from each deflected magical strike. And all the while, she could feel Temenos watching her from the shadows beyond the circle—waiting. Expecting her to succeed. Or to fail so he could swoop in again, needed once more.
But she had made a choice: she would not win.
If she played too well, they would see her as ready. The next rites could be worse. More binding. More permanent.
So, she feigned exhaustion. Slowed her reactions. Let the reflection catch her with a knock of force that sent her sprawling backward.
The crowd of Messengers gasped as she lay still, chest rising and falling quickly. The reflection raised a hand glowing with psychic magic. The final blow.
And then—
“Enough,” the Overseer said. Calmly. Coldly.
The spell was dispelled mid-air. The reflection shimmered out of existence.
Silence.
He walked forward alone and gazed down at her. “So this is your truth, Lady Light. You are not ready to ascend. But you will be.”
His words were not rageful. They were worse: final. Inevitable.
He raised his hand toward the gathered acolytes. “Let it be known. The Lady’s soul is not yet unified. Her doubt is still her shadow. Her magic, still in its infancy. But her path continues.”
From beneath the crowd of swaying robes and murmured chants, as she stole a glance across the mirror-floor and up into the darkened periphery of the chamber, she saw Temenos stiff—shoulders square, jaw clenched, lips barely moving as he whispered along with the liturgy.
Not smiling.
She knew then that she had made the right choice. And the wrong one.
———
The walk back to her quarters was quiet. The nuns whispered, but not to her. The veil stayed on until the heavy doors of her room closed and the oil lamp was lit. They said nothing about the duel. They undid the clasps, peeled off the armor, helped her out of the ceremonial dress with reverent hands as though undressing a relic.
Then they bowed.
“Rest, Vessel,” said Matron Nehra, her voice low, unreadable. “Your path is not yet walked.”
The door clicked behind them. A moment of stillness.
Temenos entered. No knocks this time.
He closed the door with deliberate quiet, far too comfortable as if he owned the air between them. She didn’t look at him. Not at first.
But he didn’t speak. Didn’t circle her like usual. Didn’t pace.
“You pretended,” he said, voice sharp but low.
She looked up, face still unreadable.
“What?”
He laughed once, bitterly. “Don’t lie to me, My Light. I know you. I watched you. That was not a failure—it was sabotage.”
She stood slowly. “It was a fight against a version of myself. That’s how it was explained, was it not?”
His eyes flicked to the door, then back. “It wasn’t you. That wasn’t some conjured reflection of your soul. It was mine. A construct I made. A puppet—one I trained. I built her for you.”
Her breath caught. “You… controlled it?”
“I crafted it,” he snapped, stepping forward. “The Overseer believes it was summoned from your essence. But it was me. I pulled every thread of that illusion into place. A show. For him. For them. And for you. A demonstration of your power, your worth, your readiness. A chance to prove—” He stopped himself. His hands curled into fists. “And you made it look like you were scared. Weak.”
“You didn’t tell me,” she said, voice sharp now. “You didn’t even ask me.”
He came closer. “You think the Overseer would let me tell you in advance? That’s not how this works. I am risking everything. For you. And now I look the fool.”
“I never asked you to do anything for me.”
“No,” he said, and he was close now. Too close. “But you let me. And that makes you mine.”
The words hit her harder than the knockdown in the arena.
She stepped back. “Leave.”
But he didn’t. His hand rose—slowly, reverently—and brushed her cheek. Then grabbed her chin. She didn’t flinch. She wanted to. But she didn’t.
“Compensate me,” he whispered.
She looked away, jaw trembling. “Temenos…”
“You let the beast nearly kill you. You let me step in and save you. You let me speak for you before the Overseer. And now you’ll let me have this.”
And then he kissed her.
Softly. Reverently. Like it was owed.
She stayed still. Cold.
When he pulled back, he looked angry. “No. That’s not enough anymore. You don’t just sit there and let it happen. You return it.”
She stared at him.
His eyes bore into her.
And she leaned forward, lips trembling, and kissed him back.
It was lifeless. Mechanical. A betrayal of every spark inside her that hadn’t yet been doused.
But she kissed him.
When it ended, his expression bloomed with quiet delight. “Hmm. That’s better,” he said, smoothing back a strand of her hair like a man admiring a piece of pottery.
He moved to the unconscious edge of the room, collected his cloak, and turned back toward the door.
“We could still rule them, you know,” he said over his shoulder. “You and I. Just think on it.”
She didn’t respond.
And he left, humming softly.
The door clicked shut again, and she crumpled.
Tears. Rage. And the unbearable weight of the truth: he believed she would stay. And she could not afford, not yet, to prove him wrong.