Chapter 3: The Wait
The main hall of the Sanctum of the Final Radiance stretched out before them, a vast expanse of stone and shadow, the air heavy with the scent of old incense and the faint, lingering echo of countless prayers. The four nuns stood in a tight cluster, their habits rustling softly as they shifted, their eyes fixed on the crosses that loomed before them like silent sentinels. The crosses were ancient, their wood worn smooth by the touch of countless hands, their surfaces etched with the names of those who had come before, those who had endured and those who had not.
Avelyne reached out, her fingers tracing the deep grooves of carved names, her breath catching as she felt the weight of history pressing against her skin.
Thalia’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and demanding. "How many?" she asked, her eyes never leaving the cross before her. "How many girls have done this trial?"
Thargea exhaled slowly, her breath shaky. She turned to Thalia, her clouded eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. "Each cross," she said, her voice low and deliberate, "may bear more than hundreds." Her gnarled fingers tightened around her rosario-cross, the beads clicking softly in the heavy silence. "The wood remembers them all. Their names, their screams, their prayers."
Avelyne’s fingers stilled on the cross, her breath catching in her throat. Hundreds. The number echoed in her mind, a cold, unyielding truth.
Avelyne’s fingers trembled as she pressed them against the rough wood of the cross, her breath shallow and uneven. Hundreds. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, her rosario-cross slipping from her grasp as she clutched the cross instead, her knuckles white against the ancient grain. Thalia’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and impatient, but Avelyne barely heard her. She was too lost in the weight of the wood beneath her fingers, the way it seemed to pulse with the memories of those who had come before her.
"Avelyne," Thalia snapped, her voice laced with frustration, "we don’t have all day. We need to clean this cross—now.
Avelyne’s gaze snapped to the task at hand, her fingers finally loosening their grip on the wood. She reached for the cloth and the vial of oil, her movements mechanical.
The wood beneath her fingers was rough, almost alive with the weight of centuries. "Luxoriel," she whispered, her voice trembling against the cross, "if I must bear this, if I must stand beneath your gaze and endure the pain, let this cross be my mercy. Let it bear my sacrifice, let it be your witness." Her fingers traced the carved names, each one a ghost of those who had come before, their devotion now dust and memory. "I beg you," she murmured, "let me not fail. Let me not break. Let me endure as they did." Her voice cracked, and she pressed her forehead against the worn wood, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Then, with a shuddering exhale, Avelyne wrapped her arms around the cross, her fingers sinking into the rough grain as if she could anchor herself to its ancient strength. The wood was warm beneath her palms, almost pulsing with a faint, rhythmic vibration that made her skin prickle. She closed her eyes, her body trembling against it, and for a moment, she forgot everything else—the Trial, the fear, the weight of Luxoriel’s gaze. She just held on, her breath uneven, her heart pounding against the cross as if it were the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
Then, the soft rustle of fabric announced another presence, and Avelyne's eyes flew open. Mother Seraphine stood before them, her habit sweeping the stone floor, her eyes sharp and unreadable. The nuns bowed their heads, their hands clasped before them, their voices a soft, respectful murmur, "Mother Seraphine."
Mother Seraphine's gaze swept over them, her expression unchanging. "I see you've begun," she said, her voice soft yet commanding.
The scent of her perfume—something floral and faintly metallic—lingered in the air as she stepped closer, her habit whispering against the stone floor. She raised her hand, and her fingers brushed lightly over the surface of Avelyne’s cross, tracing the worn grooves of names with deliberate care.
Mother Seraphine’s gaze flicked to each of them in turn, her eyes sharp as they settled on the four crosses. "Sit," she commanded, and the word hung in the air like a commandment.
They sat, their habits rustling softly as they lowered themselves to the cold stone floor, their backs straight, their hands folded neatly in their laps. Mother Seraphine stood before them, her gaze sweeping over them like a physical touch, her expression unreadable.
"In four days," she began, her voice soft yet resonating in the vast hall, "you will stand before Luxoriel, bound to these crosses." She gestured to the ancient wooden structures, their surfaces worn smooth by the touch of countless hands, their names etched deep into the grain. "You will stand, and you will endure. You will not falter, you will not fail. You will endure, as those before you have endured." Her gaze lingered on Avelyne, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she could see the doubts swirling beneath the surface. "Remember, Luxoriel does not demand your suffering for his own amusement. He demands it to test your devotion, to prove your worth."
Thalia shifted slightly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Mother Seraphine, what if... what if we can't endure? What if we fail Luxoriel?"
Mother Seraphine's gaze snapped to Thalia, her eyes hardening. "Failure is not an option, Thalia. Not for you, not for any of you." Mother Seraphine's voice was as unyielding as the stone walls surrounding them. "You have been chosen, each of you, for your strength, your devotion, your unshakable faith. You will not dishonor that choice by giving in to weakness."
Avelyne's fingers tightened around her rosario-cross, her knuckles turning white. She could feel the weight of Mother Seraphine's gaze, heavy and expectant, as if the older woman could see the doubts churning within her.
"Remember," Mother Seraphine continued, her voice dropping to a low, almost intimate tone, "Luxoriel is not a cruel god. He is a just one. He demands purity, not suffering for suffering's sake. He demands that you prove your worthiness through endurance, through faith, through the strength of your devotion." She paused, her gaze flickering to Avelyne, who felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest.
"Mother Seraphine," she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, "what was it like? When you did the Trial?" The words hung in the air, a raw, vulnerable question that seemed to echo in the vast hall.
Mother Seraphine's gaze softened slightly, her eyes reflecting a distant memory. "The Trial," she began, her voice low and measured, "is not something one forgets. It is a test of endurance, of faith, of the very core of who you are." She paused, her fingers tightening around her rosario-cross. "It is a trial of fire, Avelyne. A trial that burns away the weak, the uncertain, the unworthy."
She stepped closer, her habit whispering against the stone floor, her eyes holding Avelyne's gaze. "But it is also a trial of light. A test of your ability to endure, to remain steadfast, without succumbing to the darkness of your emotions." Mother Seraphine's gaze swept over them, her eyes stern. "You must not cry, you must not show weakness. Luxoriel demands strength, not tears." She could feel the sting of unshed tears at the back of her eyes, but she blinked them away, determined not to let them fall.
Mother Seraphine’s voice was a quiet command, yet it carried the weight of centuries of unspoken devotion. "Come closer." The word was barely more than a breath, but it carried the force of a commandment. The older woman held out her arms, her habit swirling around her like a living thing, and the four nuns moved forward without hesitation, drawn by the quiet authority in her voice. Avelyne was the last to step forward, her fingers trembling as she closed the distance between them, her breath catching in her throat as she felt the warmth of Mother Seraphine’s embrace. The older woman’s arms wrapped around them all at once, her grip firm but not unkind, her scent—something floral and faintly metallic—filling Avelyne’s senses as she pressed her face against the fabric of Mother Seraphine’s habit.