Silence had gripped the Hall of Flame. The kind of silence that came before a storm or a miracle.
All eyes were on the basin.
The hall was lined with tiers of velvet-clad nobility, Seers in their bone-white robes, and priests garbed in ceremonial fire weave. Each held their breath as the final Rite reached its peak.
Marcella stood at the center of it all. She did not fidget. Her hands were folded before her, palms steady despite the heat rippling from the ancient stone in front of her.
Blue-white fire burst upward from the basin in a silent, vertical roar.
The entire hall recoiled.
Light bloomed, blinding and pure. A flare. It didn't crackle or hiss. It roared.
The crystal in Ysolde's hand glowed with unbearable brightness. It didn't just shine — it hummed, it vibrated.
Ysolde nearly dropped it. She steadied her breath somehow. She raised the crystal with both hands. "The Flame is sealed."
Gasps broke from the crowd. The sound of a hundred shocked breaths drawn at once.
