The room was quiet when Seraphina returned. Quiet, but not cold. The incense had burned low in the corner, a soft line of smoke curling through the air like a half-finished prayer. Her three handmaidens looked up the moment she stepped through the threshold.
Naia stood from her place near the fire, her braid falling over her shoulder like a silk rope. Imara put down the cloth she'd been folding, and Lina shifted on the edge of her cushion, eyes wide.
"You spoke with Omel?" Naia asked.
Seraphina nodded and closed the door behind her. "He didn't say yes."
Lina's face fell.
"But he didn't say no," Seraphina added. She moved to sit cross-legged on the floor, her veil folded back enough to show her eyes, wide and serious. "He said… if I can find a way to survive outside the walls, he will let me bring it to the Circle."
Imara exhaled. "That's nearly a yes."
"It's more than I hoped for," Seraphina admitted. Then, she looked at each of them in turn. "But I can't do it alone. I need your minds. Your hearts. We must think of a way."
Naia didn't hesitate. She folded her legs and sat beside Seraphina. "You'll need protection. You're not a fighter."
"We can't go with you," Lina said, already upset. "The temple would never allow it. And we're not trained for the outside."
Seraphina nodded. "I know."
Imara spoke next, her voice quiet. "The paladins?"
Naia frowned. "They're loyal. But loyal to the Temple, not just to her."
"They'd follow orders. Even if those orders change," Seraphina murmured. "If the Circle told them to bring me back…"
"They would."
A pause.
"They'd chain you in gold and carry you back through the gates."
Silence fell like a weight. Then Lina, ever hopeful, whispered, "Mercenaries?"
Imara gave a soft huff. "We'd need coin. And… look around."
They did.
The room was spare. No gold. No silver. No lavish ornaments. Just books, tapestries, and a single piece of worn armor from Kael's old chest—kept as memory, not wealth.
"We have nothing to offer them," Naia said.
"And mercenaries," Imara added, "don't serve saints. They serve paymasters."
Seraphina closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. "What about old guard of the Western Temple?"
"They're either too old, too bitter, or too dead," Naia said. "The few that remain are kept under strict watch."
A long pause stretched between them.
Then Lina, softly: "It has to be the paladins."
Naia shook her head. "We just said—"
"But not all of them," Lina insisted. "Some of them believe in her. Not the temple. Her."
Imara's eyes flicked to Seraphina. "There were those who guarded the gates that day… when Kael died. One of them—Sir Elior. He wept when they carried Kael's body. I heard he trained in the Western Temple under Sir Kael."
Naia was quiet.
Seraphina tilted her head. "What if… what if we could choose them? Just a few. Ones we trust. Ones who remember Kael."
Imara nodded slowly. "It's dangerous. But possible."
"They'll ask for vows," Naia warned. "For loyalty. The Circle will try to hold their blades."
"Then they must swear to me," Seraphina said. "Not to the Temple. Not to the Circle."
The three women stared at her.
It was Naia who finally said, "That… would change everything."
"Then let it," Seraphina whispered. "Because if I am to walk into the South, I must not walk as their symbol. I must walk as myself. With those who would choose to follow—not because they are commanded… but because they believe."
And for the first time since she'd left Omel's chambers, the fire in the room seemed to burn just a little brighter.
The next morning, they made quiet inquiries. Discreet, careful. Seraphina remained veiled as always. When they finally found Sir Elior near the training courts, the sun had barely risen.
He bowed low. "Lady Seraphina."
"I need your counsel," she said.
He looked at her veil. "I have already given my loyalty to the Temple. What is it you seek, my lady?"
"And I will not ask you to break it," she replied. "But I need someone who will serve me. Someone loyal—not to the Temple, not to the Circle—but to me. I need a paladin who will walk beside me, not behind politics."
Elior was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "There are few I would trust. But I know two."
He stepped aside.
In the training court stood two boys—no, young men. Seventeen, at most. Broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed. They moved like predators, muscles flexing beneath their tunics as they slammed wooden practice swords into weighted dummies. The impact echoed through the court, each strike thunderous and deliberate.
One of the twin whooped as he spun with a flourish, clearly enjoying himself. The other, however, moved with precision, silent and focused, his strikes economical and brutal. Seraphina flinched slightly at the sound, the sheer force of it stirring something primal in her chest—a memory of blood and loss.
"Atlas and Adam," Elior said. "The last of the Plaves Clan. A plague took their kin, their home. But not them. They survived."
"They were trained by fire," he added. "And they've yet to be knighted. Their blades are still free. They are stronger than most paladins twice their age. But more importantly… they have no ties to the Circle. Not yet."
Seraphina stepped forward.
"Will they follow me?"
"Only if you ask them yourself."
"I do not offer glory. Only purpose. Only hardship. Only truth."
Elior nodded then turned and called out to them. "Atlas. Adam. Come here."
The twins stopped mid-strike. Atlas wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, grinning as he trotted forward. Adam followed with slower, more deliberate steps.
They approached and dropped to one knee in perfect unison before Seraphina.
She stepped closer, her veil catching the early light. "Please stand. I'd rather we speak eye to eye."
Atlas stood immediately, still smiling. "Gladly, my lady. My knees are terrible at bowing."
Adam, however, stayed kneeling, his head bowed low. "We are not worthy."
Atlas huffed and elbowed his twin. "Get up, you're making me look bad."
Adam reached out and gave Atlas a swift knock to the back of the knee, making him drop again with a grunt.
"Fine," Atlas muttered from the ground, grinning sideways. "We'll both look holy, then."
Elior couldn't help a quiet chuckle. Seraphina, for the first time in a long while, smiled too.
Adam lifted his gaze slightly. "How may we serve you, Lady Seraphina?"
She looked at them, steady and calm. "I seek only one thing—loyalty."
The wind stirred in the courtyard. For a moment, neither twin spoke.
Then Atlas, with his usual grin, placed a fist to his chest. "Loyalty, my lady. You've got it."
Adam, quieter but no less firm, echoed, "You have our blades. And our lives."
From that day on, training became their new rhythm.
Every morning, the twins returned to the court, sparring with renewed determination. Atlas treated the drills like a game, flipping swords and challenging his brother with a cocky grin. Adam, ever serious, moved like a shadow—precise, relentless, never wasting a breath.
And every day, Seraphina came.
She didn't speak much. Just stood quietly beneath the shade of the archway, veiled and calm, her hands clasped as she watched them. She didn't interrupt. Didn't advise. But her presence was enough.
It drove them harder.
Atlas, showing off with each flourish. Adam, pushing himself to the point of breaking.
Even Elior watched from a distance, silently impressed.
Naia often waited with her, arms crossed, eyes flicking from Seraphina to the twins.
"They want to impress you," she said one day.
Seraphina tilted her head. "I want them to survive."
"Then they're training for the right reasons."