Within the Grand Hall of the Holy Church, the air felt unbearably heavy with every step Sairael took. The high vaults arched above in pale stone and shadow, ribs of carved marble stretching like the bones of some slumbering beast. Golden chandeliers hung from chains as thin as spider silk, their candles burning with a steady, unwavering light that somehow made the dim corners feel darker. Incense curled through the hall in slow, suffocating spirals, clinging to the tongue with a bitter sweetness that made the lungs ache.

  Sairael forced himself to keep his posture and pace matched perfectly with Madam Etheila’s. His gaze remained lowered, lashes casting faint shadows over pale cheeks, never lifting to stare as the other children did. All around them, boys and girls clustered near the columns and along the central aisle, waiting for the test. Not all were of noble blood; any daughter of the realm could be brought to stand before the Holy Orb and prove herself as a candidate for the next Holy Maiden. Yet the difference in standing was unmistakable. Daughters of nobles stood with their parents in carefully arranged groups, their silks gleaming under candlelight, pride and calculation flickering in their eyes. A few held themselves with such rigid superiority that even their smiles looked sharpened.

  The handful of commoner girls, though dressed more simply, also bore slightly lifted chins and smoothed skirts, their best garments pressed until every crease was small and precise. Their parents hovered quietly at the edges, shoulders tense, doing their best not to jostle a noble robe or draw notice. Each adult guarded their place in the line with subtle shifts and careful steps, as if losing that single spot would strip every hope from their child’s future.

  It was a scene Sairael knew too well. The same sickly sweet incense, thick enough to sting the back of his throat. The same subtle, weighing stares from other girls—rival eyes measuring him up, questioning why a “daughter” with such delicate features had no attendant fussing over her. The same murmur of noble gossip, words dipped in honey while their eyes remained cold and sharp. Even the commoner adults wore that familiar look of wary deference: avoiding noble gazes, keeping their heads slightly bowed, all while clutching their children’s shoulders as though they might be swept away.

  Time pressed down on Sairael’s shoulders, slowing, stretching. Every breath felt like it had to fight through incense and unsaid judgments. His small hand, folded neatly at his front, curled once—only once—before he relaxed it again into perfect stillness.

  At last, the soft chimes of the Holy Bell began to toll. The sound was delicate yet piercing, threading through the murmurs and silencing them one by one. The inner doors of the Chapel swung inward, pushed open by young orphan attendants clothed in modest robes. Their movements were precise and carefully measured, faces blank and serene in the practiced way of priests-in-training.

  “Remember, only those partaking may pass through at this time, aside from the blessed priests. Parents are to await the test outside,” the Head Priest announced, standing where light from the stained-glass windows framed him in pale crimson and gold. His lips curved into a gentle smile, one Sairael remembered well—soft, reassuring, and utterly hollow.

  Child after child began to file toward the open doors. A few of the younger ones clung to their parents’ sleeves, eyes wide, but a stern word and a gentle push from a priest separated them. Tears were quickly buried behind bitten lips as they shuffled forward, swallowed by the Chapel’s threshold. Mothers murmured blessings and fathers straightened their sons’ shoulders. Nobles gave last-minute instructions disguised as encouragement. The air tasted of incense, fear, and quiet, gloating hope.

  Just before Sairael and Madam Etheila reached the entryway, the outer doors of the Grand Hall were flung open with an undignified bang. Footsteps thundered across the polished floor—far too loud for a sacred hall.

  “Out of the way! Oh, I just knew you’d make me late, you—” a sharp, exasperated voice snapped.

  It came from a girl a few years older than Sairael, clothed in garments too finely tailored to belong to anyone but the highest ranks. The subtle embroidery of the royal crest glimmered at her sleeve—a Princess. Her hair was styled to perfection, yet her steps were impatient, like someone unused to being refused anything at all.

  Behind her, slightly breathless, hurried Abigail.

  “I–I’m sorry, Princess, I didn’t think Papa would be busy and not able to return in time,” Abigail said, voice small and apologetic. Her tone shook faintly, the image of a helpless child clinging to the edge of propriety, but her eyes—when they flicked toward Sairael and Madam Etheila—held something different. Something calculating. Something that did not belong on such a young face.

  The moment Abigail’s gaze met his, that same strange flicker appeared again: a pulse of violet light, barely there, at the edge of Sairael’s sight. It rippled around her like a stain in the air, then stretched outward toward the priests. For a breathless second, their expressions shifted—eyes losing focus, posture wavering—as if something invisible pressed against their minds.

  Then, just as quickly, another shimmer swept through—a faint, indescribable color that Sairael’s mind refused to name. It washed over the violet haze, wiping it away. The priests blinked, and their stances smoothed back into trained composure, as though nothing had happened at all.

  Sairael lowered his gaze at once, hiding the flicker in his eyes. He said nothing of the strange lights. This time, he understood enough to know that speaking would only twist the story further against him.

  Beside him, Madam Etheila’s annoyance was a silent, simmering heat. Her hand came to rest lightly on Sairael’s shoulder—a gentle pat to anyone watching, but to him it was a command: Move. Do not give them an excuse.

  He waited, standing perfectly still as the late Princess swept past. It would have been a grave insult to step ahead of a royal, no matter how tardy she was. Sairael waited until the Princess had entered, her presence accepted without question. Only then did he step forward.

  Abigail lagged, though only by a few paces, watching him with wide, glistening eyes. There was a flicker there—a flash of resentment, of something older and uglier than a child’s simple jealousy. But as other gazes turned briefly toward her, her expression softened again, tremble returning to her lip as she followed the Princess into the Chapel.

  Sairael entered last, taking his place near the back just as he had in his previous life.

  The Chapel was even more oppressive than the Hall. Rows of pews had been pushed back to clear space in the center, and the faintest echo clung to every whisper. Tall, stained-glass windows cast colored light—reds like spilled wine, golds like old coins, blues like drowned depths—onto the polished stone floor. Holy statues lined the walls, each one gilded or robed, their carved eyes empty and watchful. Their marble smiles were too smooth, too perfect, as if hiding the mouths that truly spoke from deeper within these walls.

  Children clustered in the cleared space, some talking excitedly to their friends, others fidgeting with ribbons or hems. They were nervous, but there was still an air of expectation, of innocent hope. None of them realized that the test had already begun the moment they stepped through those doors.

  Around the edges of the room, priests stood like silent sentinels. Their eyes moved constantly, not just watching the children, but judging them. A girl who smiled too boldly. Another who tugged at a golden statue’s hand for luck. A small group who refused to quiet down even as the priests lifted fingers to their lips. Quills scratched against parchment on hidden scrolls, recording each action. There was no pity in their gaze, only calculation.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Sairael kept his face tilted slightly downward, letting his long lashes obscure his eyes while he watched through the veil of their shadow. He saw disdain flicker briefly across a priest’s face when a noble girl laughed too loudly. Saw the subtle tightening of a jaw when a commoner child shuffled their feet out of nervous habit. He noticed, too, the priests’ expressions when their gazes happened to pass over the Princess—reverent on the surface, though just under it lingered the faintest strain of unwillingness.

  The strangest thing, however, was Abigail.

  Each time that faint violet light shimmered around her—small, almost timid flickers that slipped out like threads of smoke—the priests’ eyes slid right past her. Their gazes would blur for a heartbeat, then the nameless pale shimmer would sweep through again, tracing the same path, erasing the violet traces, like wiping chalk from a slate. And each time, after that nameless color passed, someone—servants, priests, even other children—would move differently. A moment of hesitation. A tiny shift in attitude. As if something had been pulled out of the air, leaving a hollow that quickly filled with some new thought.

  “Quiet,” the Head Priest finally called, raising both hands. His voice cut smoothly through the many whispers and small laughs. “We will now begin the test.”

  In front of the gathered children, attendants stepped aside, pulling away a thick cloth. Beneath it stood a small platform of pale stone, inlaid with thin lines of gold. At its center rested the glass orb—clear at first glance, but holding within a faint swirl of something like mist and light, coiled tightly as if waiting.

  “One by one, as your name is called, you will step onto the platform and place your hand upon the orb,” the Head Priest said. “If it has no reaction, you may leave. A life of ordinary devotion is no less blessed.” His lips curved more deeply, but the smile never reached his eyes. “However, if the orb responds, you will remain as a possible candidate for the Holy Maiden.”

  A hush fell fully then, thick and electric.

  Names began to echo off stone.

  Child after child walked forward. Some hands trembled as they reached for the orb; others gripped it too eagerly. For many, there was nothing. The orb stayed cold and clear, and the priests murmured a calm dismissal. Those children left with drooping shoulders, some crying softly, others only numb.

  Sairael noticed the ones who never even reached the platform. The priests moved quickly when one girl continued to whisper jokes to her friend after being told to be silent. Another child tried to sneak a touch to the golden halo of a nearby statue. Each of them was quietly pulled aside, their names never called, their presence quietly erased. No explanation was given. Those nearby glanced, frowned, then turned away, too afraid to ask why the rules had shifted under their feet.

  Everything moved as he remembered.

  Near the end, the Princess’s name was called. She stepped onto the platform with the ease of someone who had never learned to doubt her own importance. Her small hand slid onto the orb. For a brief moment, it glowed—but faintly. The light was less a blaze of divine recognition and more a dim flicker, a murky glint that did not resemble the others Sairael had seen. It was like a shadow of light rather than light itself.

  From where he stood at the back, he could not fully see how the color differed, only that it did. A few priests exchanged a look, subtle as the quiver of candlelight, and then masked it again behind serene expressions.

  Then came his turn.

  “Sairael,” the Head Priest called.

  He moved forward, steps measured, heart hammering a steady, painful rhythm against his ribs. But before he could reach the platform, a small form darted suddenly into his path.

  Abigail.

  She turned, placing herself just ahead of him, her hands wringing at the front of her dress. Her eyes were wet, lashes clumped with unshed tears. “I… I want to go, too. Please?” she whispered, voice tremulous, as if she were deeply afraid. “I… I’m scared to go later… I—”

  Her words trailed off, as though she believed tears alone would finish the plea for her.

  The Head Priest’s gaze finally, truly landed on her. For a brief second, his easy smile faltered. It was as though a fog lifted from his eyes, and he saw the girl in front of him as if for the first time.

  “Sairael,” he repeated, looking down at the scroll. “The name I called is Sairael. Are you Sairael?”

  Abigail froze. For a heartbeat, her expression went utterly blank—caught between expectation and reality, between the assumption that the world would bend for her and the abrupt refusal. The violet light surged, thick and insistent, reaching outward like grasping fingers, trying to coil around the priest’s thoughts.

  Once more, that strange, pale shimmer flashed—soft but inexorable—washing along the same path. The violet threads recoiled, scattered as though torn apart.

  “N-no…” Abigail stammered at last, tears now real at the corners of her eyes. “I’m Abigail.”

  “Then it is not your turn,” the Head Priest said flatly.

  His voice held no scorn, but also no warmth. Simply denial.

  Sairael stood just behind her, every line of his body composed. He did not speak. This was the same moment he remembered, the one later warped into accusation: that he had pushed a candidate, that he had forced another girl to lose her chance.

  He stepped to the side, moving around Abigail as carefully as if she were made of glass. He did not so much as brush her sleeve.

  Yet as he passed, Abigail swayed.

  Her heel slipped backward, just a fraction. Her weight tilted, and then she let herself go—sinking backward to the floor, landing with a soft, stifled sound, as if trying both to fall and to hide the fall at once. The movement was small enough that no one could say they had seen a shove…but messy enough, ill-timed enough, that for those not watching closely, the story already began to write itself.

  A few of the noble girls sucked in quiet breaths, eyes flickering between Sairael’s composed form and the child now trembling at his back. One priest’s brows knit, then smoothed again as his gaze slid past, as if something had plucked the thought from his mind before it fully formed.

  Abigail never said the words He pushed me.

  She didn’t have to. The image of her on the floor, eyes wide and wet, was enough to linger, to ferment.

  Sairael felt the weight of several glances settle on his back as he walked the final steps to the platform. He kept his face carefully blank, gaze lowered, giving no reaction to the muffled sound of Abigail’s breath catching behind him. Internally, he sighed, the familiarity of it all like a cold hand wrapping around his heart.

  So this was the first “crime,” once again.

  He placed his small hand upon the orb.

  It was cold for a heartbeat, glass under his palm, smooth and unyielding. Then, light surged. The orb flared brilliantly—pure, strong, flooding with radiance that made the colored glass of the windows look dull by comparison. The glow swallowed his pale fingers, casting long beams across the Chapel. The watching priests straightened unconsciously, their eyes sharpening with greed and satisfaction.

  “Passed,” the Head Priest said, and his tone was markedly warmer, pleased. “You remain.”

  Sairael withdrew his hand, fingers tingling faintly as the glow slowly receded back into the orb. He stepped down from the platform, ready to slip quietly back toward the rear of the room as he had before.

  Abigail was still on the floor, knees pulled in slightly as if she were gathering herself. She looked up at him as he moved past—a perfect picture of shaking fragility. The image would plant itself neatly into the mind of anyone inclined to see cruelty where there had been none.

  One of the junior priests approached her. He hesitated for a moment, then extended a hand. “You may go now,” he said, voice soft but firm.

  “I–I haven’t tested yet!” Abigail protested, her voice rising with carefully measured desperation. Tears spilled down her cheeks, darkening the fabric at her collar. To someone listening without thought, she sounded wronged, unfairly denied.

  “You’ve failed,” the Head Priest replied, eyes already closing as he turned away from her. With a flick of his wrist, the matter was settled.

  Abigail’s breath hitched. The junior priest gently but insistently helped her to her feet. She tugged at her arm, trying to pull free, calling for the Princess, voice cracking as she did so.

  But the Princess, now basking in the faint, dubious glow of her own partial success, did not answer. She kept her gaze carefully turned elsewhere, lips pressed together in a line that said more than any spoken rejection.

  As the junior priest guided Abigail toward the door, she turned her head, just once, to look back at Sairael.

  Her eyes, washed red with tears, should have looked small and wounded. Instead, for the briefest of moments, they burned with something older and far more venomous. That strange, violet light coiled in their depths, tamped down but not extinguished. A mad, accusing hatred twisted behind the trembling lashes, as though she had already chosen the shape of her future story—and Sairael’s role in it.

  Then the heavy doors of the Chapel closed behind her, the sound echoing like a quiet, distant judgment.

  Sairael stood where he was, head slightly bowed, the after-image of her gaze lingering sharper in his mind than the brilliance of the orb’s light.

  The first thread of his condemnation had been woven again.

  This time, he thought, breathing slowly through the incense-thick air, at least he knew where the pattern began.