I remember the scent of burning feathers—the day they tried to purge me. They strapped me to the altar, chanting hymns while acid rain ate at my skin. But when the executioner raised his blade, the earth cracked open and something ancient answered my scream. I rose with one wing blazing white, the other veined in black shadow. And then I found her—Seraphine, the knight who hesitated.

Now, months later, I feel her breath against my neck as we crouch on the cathedral’s spire. Below, the king’s procession glides through streets lined with silent crowds. She grips her sword, no longer holy, but humming with our combined essence. 'We don’t have to do this tonight,' she whispers. 'We could disappear.'

But disappearance isn’t justice. The bond between us pulses—warmth and thorns intertwined. I turn to her. 'You know what happens if we wait. More children burned. More lies sanctified.'

She looks down at her hands, where veins of light and ash spiral like vines. The choice begins here: strike now and risk chaos, vanish and let oppression fester, or infiltrate the Sanctum and turn their own rituals against them.