The pyre crackled before it was even lit, the dry timber hissing in anticipation as if it knew the sin it was about to swallow. The courtyard of the Holy Citadel was silent—unnervingly so. Hundreds stood gathered behind the cordon of armored templars, their breath held, their eyes fixed on the stake at the center of the ritual grounds.

Father Calem Seraphiel stood closest to the firepit, his ceremonial robe of burning-red embroidery sweeping heavily around his tall frame. The embroidered threads shimmered like living cinders in the dying light. In his right hand he gripped his priestly staff, its golden top forged into the blazing symbol of Solanar, the Lightforge God. The metal glowed faintly with sacred heat, flames carved into metal radiating from the central sun sigil. A symbol of purity. Of judgment.

Of everything he had been raised to uphold.

His face, however, remained unnervingly blank—expressionless, unreadable—his emerald eyes fixed forward and refusing to move. His breath was shallow. Almost nonexistent.

Because tied to the stake before him was her.

The woman he loved.

And as the dusk wind tugged at her clothing and the chains rattled softly around her wrists, his entire body locked in place. He could not step forward. He could not speak. He could not breathe.

His mind, normally disciplined and orderly, erupted into silent, frantic fragments:

No. No. No, this cannot be. They would not… not her. This is wrong. This is wrong, Solanar, this is wrong. Say something. Move. Do anything. Please… someone stop this. If I open my mouth… if I let one word slip, they’ll know. They’ll see everything I have buried. Why is this happening? Why her? Why now? I should’ve protected her. I should’ve— Gods, what have I done?

His fingers tightened around the staff until the carved ridges bit into his palm. The golden top glinted coldly, reflecting the torchlight as templars moved into position.

Still—he did not move.

A Seraph Priest of Solanar was not permitted to show emotion at judgment ceremonies. They were symbols, not men. Instruments of the Lightforge God. But his chest felt crushed under the weight of his own heartbeat, each pulse a hammer striking the inside of his ribs.

He heard nothing—not the templar captain giving orders, not the murmuring crowd, not the scribe reciting her accusations. All of it became distant, muffled, swallowed by the roar of blood in his ears.

Only his thoughts remained:

If I speak… the world will crack open. If I intervene… I will damn myself. But if I stay silent… I will lose her. Solanar, I have served you all my life. I have given you everything. I have obeyed. I have bled. I have sacrificed. Do not take her from me. Not her. Please… not her.

And yet—

He stood frozen.

The perfect priest. The golden child. The obedient weapon of the gods.

Unable to save the one person he had ever wanted to choose for himself.

The torchbearers advanced toward the pyre. Calem’s jaw clenched. His throat tightened. The world blurred at the edges.

Still— He did not move.