The Crown Of Ash and Silver
The idea brought comfort, though it sat strangely in her chest, a kindness too sharp to touch.
The High Cleric lifted his hand, signalling the priests. A low hum of chanting filled the Sanctum. The sigil beneath Elysia began to glow, a sun carved into marble, its lines spiralling outward until they brushed her knees. The light climbed her body like water rising in glass.
Her pulse quickened.
“It burns,” she gasped.
“The Light cleanses all flesh,” said the Cleric, calm as stone. “Every Saint must bear the purifying flame.”
Her breath hitched. The glow grew brighter, searing, threading through her veins until her thoughts began to unravel. Behind her closed eyes, colours collided—gold and whit