Chapter 6: Failed
Avelyne's eyes fluttered open, the dim light of the bedchamber casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. She blinked, her vision blurring as she tried to focus on the figure sitting beside her bed. Mother Seraphine, her face a mask of calm, watched her with those piercing eyes that seemed to see right through Avelyne's soul.
"Mother Seraphine," Avelyne whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse. She swallowed hard, her throat dry and aching. "Did I... did I make it?" Her heart pounded in her chest, a desperate, hopeful rhythm that echoed through her entire body.
Mother Seraphine's gaze never wavered.
She rose from the chair with a quiet grace that belied the storm raging beneath her composure, her robes whispering against the stone floor as she approached the bed. Her hands found Avelyne's shoulders, fingers pressing into the flesh with a tenderness that belied her usual severity, and then she was there—leaning forward with a soft, shuddering exhale that shook her entire frame. Avelyne felt the warmth of her embrace like a physical weight, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps against Avelyne's hair as she whispered the words that shattered what little remained of her resolve: "I am sorry, Avelyne. You have failed."
The air in the chamber seemed to thicken around them, the scent of old incense and something sharper—like burnt copper—filling Avelyne's senses as she struggled to process the words.
Mother Seraphine's voice was soft, almost gentle, but the meaning behind them was as unyielding as the stone walls that surrounded them. Avelyne's breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest as she stared up at the older woman, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
Mother Seraphine's gaze was steady, her expression unreadable. "For now, Avelyne," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "please focus on your recovery. The trial has taken much from you, both physically and spiritually. You must rebuild your strength, not just in body, but in faith as well." She paused, her fingers tightening slightly on Avelyne's shoulders. "There will be time enough for reflection and penance later.
For now, Avelyne, you must rest." Mother Seraphine’s voice was a blade wrapped in silk, each word precise and deliberate. She straightened slowly from her kneeling position, her robes falling like a shroud around her. The air between them thickened, charged with the unspoken weight of what had transpired. Avelyne’s fingers twitched against the rough linen of her bedclothes, her pulse pounding in her throat.
"Mother," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the steady rhythm of her own breath, "what happened to Mirelle? To Thargea? To Thalia?"
Mother Seraphine’s gaze lingered on her for a long moment before she turned toward the door, her movements measured, controlled. "They were properly earthen," she said, her voice carrying the faintest note of warmth—almost like a mother’s sigh for a child who had stumbled but would rise again.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Avelyne alone in the dim, candlelit chamber. The silence that followed was so absolute it felt like a physical weight pressing down on her ribs. She swallowed hard, her throat tight, and turned her head slowly toward the far wall.
The three beds were empty.
Where Thalia’s had once been a tangle of discarded prayer shawls and the faint scent of lavender, now there was only a smooth, unmarked expanse of linen, stretched taut over the frame. No crumpled robes. No half-finished psalms scribbled in the margins of a prayer book. Nothing but the ghost of her presence, like a breath held too long before being exhaled. Avelyne’s fingers curled into the sheets, her nails biting into the fabric until she tasted copper.
The silence was deafening, the emptiness of the chamber a physical ache in her chest. She turned her head slowly, her gaze sweeping over the three empty beds, their pristine state a stark contrast to the chaos that had been mere days ago. A sob caught in her throat, raw and unexpected, as she whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Her voice echoed in the empty room, a haunting reminder of the friends she had failed. She pushed herself up, her body protesting the sudden movement, and turned her wrists over, her fingers tracing the faint, red welts left by the ropes.
The memory hit her like a physical blow—Mirelle’s voice, her breathless whisper from the trial’s final night, the words she had tried to bury beneath the weight of exhaustion: "The one who fails will be slit on the throat." Avelyne’s stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat as she realized what that meant. Not death by drowning, not the slow suffocation of the trial’s demands—this was something worse. Something deliberate.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed them against her throat, the pulse there still erratic, still alive.
But for how long? The words echoed in her mind, a grim countdown to her own demise. She could almost feel the cold steel against her skin, the sharp, sudden pain, and then—nothing. A shiver ran down her spine, and she hugged her knees to her chest, trying to ward off the sudden chill that had settled in her bones.
The chamber felt different now, the silence heavier, the shadows darker. She could almost see the ghost of Thalia's body, the way it had convulsed, the way her eyes had glazed over. And soon, it would be her. The thought sent a wave of panic crashing through her, and she had to bite back a scream. She was not ready. She was not ready to die. Not like this.
Not like this, she thought, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She couldn't leave them. She couldn't leave Thalia, Mirelle, and Thargea. She had to find a way out of this. She had to make things right.
Her fingers trembling, Avelyne clutched the sheets tightly, her knuckles turning white. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She needed to think. She needed to find a way out of this mess.
But first, she needed to apologize. To Luxoriel. To the Sanctum. To herself.
She then clasped her hands together, her fingers interlocking tightly, and bowed her head. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the words were clear and filled with sincerity. "Luxoriel, I apologize if I have failed you. I apologize if I have not been strong enough, if I have not been devoted enough. I have failed you, Luxoriel, and I beg for your forgiveness. I will not fail you again." Her voice cracked, the words barely escaping her lips like the last embers of a dying flame. The chamber was suffocating now, the air thick with the scent of old incense and the faint metallic tang of her own blood. She pressed her palms together, her fingers trembling against the rough stone of the altar beneath her knees. "Luxoriel," she whispered, her breath hitching, "I have been weak. I have allowed my thoughts to wander—dirty, shameful things. I thought of the Prince, his hands on me, his breath in my ear, his voice like honeyed poison. I thought of his touch and I betrayed you." The words spilled from her in a rush, each one a blade twisting deeper into her own heart. She could feel the tears burning her cheeks, hot and silent, as she continued, "Forgive me for my sins, Luxoriel. Forgive me for doubting you. Forgive me for failing you."
Avelyne's voice cracked, her body wracked with sobs as she finally allowed herself to grieve. She cried for Thalia, for Mirelle, for Thargea, and for herself. She cried for the life she had known, the faith she had lost, and the fear that gripped her heart like a vice. Her tears fell onto the cold stone floor, each one a testament to her pain and her shame.
The words of her confession still hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, when suddenly, a pair of shadowy hands emerged from behind her, slipping beneath her robes with a chilling, deliberate intimacy.
Avelyne gasped, her body stiffening as unfamiliar fingers closed around her breasts, the touch both rough and strangely reverent. Her breath hitched, her mind reeling—was this Luxoriel’s punishment? A divine retribution for her sins? Or something far more sinister? She tried to pull away, but the hands held her firmly, their grip unyielding as they traced the curves of her body with a slow, deliberate possession. The air in the chamber seemed to thicken, the scent of incense now mingling with something darker, something that made her pulse race with a mix of fear and an unwanted, shameful heat.
The hands on her breasts tightened, their grip possessive, and before she could protest, they pulled her back down onto the bed, her body yielding to their insistent strength.
Avelyne's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. It was as if her voice had been stolen, leaving her trapped in a silent, suffocating nightmare.
The hands, strong and insistent, pulled her down deeper into the bed, the mattress swallowing her whole. She struggled, her limbs flailing, but it was like fighting against quicksand. The more she fought, the deeper she sank, until she was completely engulfed, her body pinned beneath the weight of the unseen assailant. Panic surged through her, her heart pounding wildly in her chest as she realized she was utterly helpless.
Minutes later, Mother Seraphine entered the bedchamber again, her expression unreadable. She paused mid-step, her eyes widening in shock as she took in the scene before her.
Avelyne lay sprawled across the bed, her body still, her hair fanned out across the pillows like a shroud. The chamber was silent except for the faint ticking of the hourglass on the altar, its grains slipping through with an eerie, deliberate slowness.
Mother Seraphine’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the blood—dark and glistening—along the curve of Avelyne’s throat. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the mirror shard she had been polishing, the glass cold and unyielding against her palm. The wound was shallow but precise, the edges clean as if cut by a blade meant for precision rather than brutality.
Avelyne's eyes were closed, her face peaceful, as if she had simply drifted off to sleep. Mother Seraphine's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she approached the bed, her footsteps echoing in the suddenly too-quiet chamber. She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against Avelyne's throat, feeling for a pulse that she knew wouldn't be there. The skin was still warm, but there was no heartbeat, no rise and fall of breath. Avelyne was gone, her life bled out onto the bedsheets, the crimson stain spreading like a dark, ominous bloom.