The bells of Aerath tolled softly as the last rays of twilight kissed the marble spires of the Holy Capital. The city glowed like a sacred painting, all gold and white, its streets clean and ordered, its people devout and obedient. High above, the Grand Cathedral loomed, a symbol of celestial perfection. Within its hallowed walls, incense curled into the air like whispered prayers, and hymns floated through the stained glass like lullabies of light.
Kael Virellius, a young priest barely past his twentieth year, knelt at the foot of the altar, hands clasped in fervent prayer. His white robes fluttered in the breeze that came through the open colonnades, and his silver hair shimmered in the candlelight.
"Guide my thoughts, O Seraphim, keep me pure of heart. Deliver me from the shadow of doubt..."
He whispered the ancient words like he'd done a thousand times before. But tonight, they felt… hollow. Empty, like reciting a lie you couldn't quite remember believing.
That feeling had started a few weeks ago—unsettling dreams. At first, he thought they were tests of faith: a horned woman crying beneath a blood-red sky, children fleeing golden-winged warriors, and a great city drowning in flame. But then came the vision—not in sleep, but while awake, during evening prayers.
It struck like lightning. One moment, he was lighting the candelabras. The next, he was standing in a ruined courtyard, his hands soaked in blood that wasn't his own, staring into the eyes of a dying child. The attackers had wings—angelic, radiant, terrible. And they smiled as they burned the world
Kael had collapsed. The other priests thought he'd fainted from fasting. But he knew better. He felt the heat. He heard the screams. And worst of all, he recognized one of the angels—his mentor, Father Elion.
Later that night, unable to bear the weight of it, Kael climbed the winding stairs to the inner sanctum. The High Priest, a withered man wrapped in gold-threaded robes, regarded him with cold, glassy eyes.
"You've come to confess?" the old man asked, voice soft as silk.
Kael hesitated. "I… I've been seeing things. Things I can't explain. Visions."
The High Priest steepled his fingers. "Describe them."
Kael did. Every detail. The burning city. The angelic slaughter. The crying demon girl. And Elion.
When he finished, silence stretched like a blade between them.
Then the old man smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Such visions are dangerous," he said calmly. "They are temptations. Lies whispered by the Fallen to those of weak spirit. You have done well to speak of them."
Kael exhaled, relieved.
Then the High Priest rang a small silver bell.
Within seconds, the chamber doors burst open. Two armored Seraph Guards entered, white armor glinting, halberds raised.
"What—?" Kael backed away. "What is this?"
"You are under suspicion of heresy," the High Priest declared. "By order of the Sanctum, you are to be taken for purification and questioning."
"Wait! I only told the truth—!"
"And truth," the priest said softly, "is decided by the divine."
Kael ran.
He didn't remember how he made it out of the cathedral, only the shouting, the ringing of alarm bells, and the burning sting of light magic against his arm. His robes were torn, his body bruised, and blood ran from a cut on his temple. But he ran—down the shining steps of the holy district, through the lower markets, into the old stone catacombs beneath the city.
He hid in a forgotten crypt, panting, heart pounding.
He had given his life to the angels. And now, they hunted him.
Far above, in a chamber made of crystal and flame, Seraphiel, the High Inquisitor, stood before a pool of light. In its shimmering surface, Kael's image flickered.
"A Bound Flame," Seraphiel murmured. "It lives… after all these years."
A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
"Send the hounds. We cannot allow history to repeat itself."