"Alright," Ian said, voice low and steady, "let's not do that again."
Isaac chuckled. "Yeah. I got to climb this hill twice now." He glanced at Isabelle. "Thanks."
She gave a soft giggle, voice low. "Sorry, guys. And thank you..for finding me."
Isaac brushed mud from Isabelle's cheek. A thin cut emerged along her cheekbone, red and resolved.
"That's definitely going to scar," Isaac said, half-smiling.
"Yup," Ian nodded.
Isabelle looked down at her reflection in the raindrop-slick leaves. "Does it at least look cool?"
Isaac grinned. "I mean… yeah. It does look cool."
Drenched to the bone, the trio continued uphill. The sky darkened; the sun had sunk behind the distant treeline, leaving pools of lavender and slate in its wake. Rain and wind had eased, now a gentle patter.
"This would've been nice the first time we made it this far," Isaac said quietly, a touch of wistfulness in his voice.
They reached the spot where Isabelle had slipped. Ian stepped ahead first, testing the slick ground like a tightrope walker. Isaac followed in his footsteps.
Isabelle approached slowly, stopping at the muddy patch. With exaggerated precision, she stomped the ground and pretended to slip. "See?" she said, stepping forward and promptly tripping.
Isaac lunged, catching her arm. "Uh-huh," he said, smiling.
She steadied herself. "I'm still dizzy."
"Yup, yup," Isaac said, gently letting go before falling into step beside Ian.
"We aren't coming back down for you if you slip again," Isaac teased.
Isabelle laughed, relief and fatigue mixing in her voice. Together, the three climbed the hill. Each step lighter, the weight of their rescue lifting with every footfall.
They reached the church and paused before two heavy wooden doors. Isaac and Ian pushed them open together, ushering in the final rays of sunlight. The scent of rain-soaked stone and fresh air washed over them, warm and calming. Outside, the rainbow arced gracefully above the church roof.
"Of course, the rain stops now," Ian remarked with a faint laugh.
"Lucky us," Isaac agreed.
Isabelle pressed her hands together and stepped inside slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the dim interior. She looked up at the stained-glass window behind the altar—vivid panels of the village around them: dense forest, rolling hills, the clustered homes they all knew. The glass captured the day's turmoil and transformed it into quiet beauty.
A soft hush filled the sanctuary—the world outside had fallen away.
Ian looked up and whispered, "Pretty."
Isaac shrugged. "Alright, let's go and unpack this stuff before people start arriving."
He set down a heavy burlap sack and knelt to unzip it. The coarse fabric rustled under eager fingers—a loaf of bread, a flask of wine, and a mound of unidentifiable meat tumbled out.
Jack said everyone was busy did he not?
"Yeah, but that was before our clumsy friend over here almost died."
"Oh right, I almost forgot about that," Ian said, shifting his weight.
"What's wrong with staying for a sermon or two?" Isabelle asked, her voice calm, almost coaxing.
"Yeah, No," Isaac said, stepping back to clear space. "Take the shit outa the bag."
"Yeah, yeah." Isabelle rolled her eyes and began placing each item on a long wooden table.
Ian draped the bread, wine, and meat in the center. He frowned. "The hell is this?"
"It's meat Ian," Isaac replied, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"I know it's meat, I know meat," Ian said. "But I can't tell what animal this is from."
Isaac chuckled distractingly. "Ian, it's fine—just lay it out, man."
He nodded and arranged the food alongside clay bowls and small bundles of herbs. Isabelle produced a handful of coal from her bag.
Isaac picked up a bowl and sniffed the herbs. "Why do they need coal?" he asked.
"It's symbolic," Isabelle said, placing coal on a shallow stone disc near the altar.
Ian shrugged and joined her. "Symbolic of what?" he queried.
Isabelle pressed the coal with her fingertips. "Our souls."
"I thought our souls were sparks."Ian chimes
"Our souls are black?" Isaac asks
Isaac rolled his eyes. "Right, right, of course." He mocked her gently, but his gaze lingered on the coal's dark tones.
"Don't mock the scripture, Isaac."
"Yeah don't mock the scripture."
"My apologies," he said curtly, folding his arms over his chest
The ember dimmed to gray ash.
A sudden, soft voice cut through the quiet: "Boy."
Isaac froze, heart thudding in his ears. "Yes, Gauis?"
He hadn't noticed the silver‑threaded robe until it moved—a ghostlike shimmer behind the altar. Gauis stood tall, calm, eyes fixed. The candles flickered across his face, etched with patient expectation. In the pews behind him, villagers hushed into stillness, eyes focused on the trio.
Isaac swallowed, unable to look away. The last light faded from the stained glass, and the sanctuary held its breath.
Gauis smiles and points at the bowl of herbs Isaac laid besides him, then motions him to bring it to him.
Isaac stares at it for a brief moment then picks it up, bringing it over to gauis.
"Please, have a seat, you 3." Gaius Instructs.
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"Tonight, we reclaim what was stolen: the spark within our flesh. We return it—not to die, but to ascend."
A Daughter of the Flame stepped forward, carrying a bronze brazier filled with glowing coals. She set it on a wide shale slab. Gaius spoke again:
"First, the Offering of Flesh."
At his nod, each villager approached with solemn reverence. A cluster of villagers knelt in turn before a collection of clay bowls filled with shredded meat—beef, goat, fowl—torn raw, still warm. A Daughter sliced strips of raw flesh, and villagers pressed them between lips, each bite releasing thick blood that dripped onto the stone altar, pooling blackly beside the brazier.
As they chewed, Gaius intoned:
"Flesh remembers. Flesh carries memory of creation, of birth, of sin."
The congregation swallowed in unison. Murmurs overlapped—grunts, choking sounds, nervous breaths.
Blood-dark wine was poured into clay cups, cuffs bleeding red as villagers held them to their lips. Two children wept as they sipped; others steeled themselves. Then each crushed the cup underfoot, stepping into the spilled wine.
"As water remembers blood," Gaius said, "it carries our covenant."
A hush fell. Smoke curled from the brazier, the coals glowing red-black.
Black fragments of coal were scattered into the brazier flames, which hissed and glowed brighter, smoke thickening into a dark mist at ceiling height. Latched tongues of flame flickered.
Gaius intoned:
"Our souls are coal—dark, unlit. Tonight, we inscribe a mark upon them—a burn that carries forward with purpose."
Villagers touched the smoky embers to their foreheads, palms, and chests—smudging themselves with ash, soot settling into skin, staining robes.
Clay vessels passed among them contained bitter herbs—wormwood, myrrh—ground to black dust. Each member inhaled deep, then blew the powder onto their open palms.
"Let the world remember you," Gaius said. "Let the earth's taste rebind your blood to the soil that birthed it."
With that, Gaius stepped back, palms raised. The brazier rumbled—alive. Flickers of phosphorescent green tinged the coals at the edges.
"Tonight, only the true-bearers will complete the journey," he intoned softly.
He gestured to a pair of black clay bowls placed side by side on the altar.
One bowl held crushed charcoal—fine, dark, and dry. The other was filled with thick, bittersweet incense resin, smeared like dark honey.
Gauis looks down and points at Isabelle, then at Isaac.
"You two."
Isaabelle stepped forward, her hands steady as stone, and guided Isaac to the altar. The flickering torchlight cast long, trembling shadows across the sanctuary's walls, dancing like distant flames. Ian sat back in the front pew, silent, his eyes wide but unblinking as he watched everything unfold.
Gaius's voice slithered through the stillness, smooth and calm:
"Bring forward the bowl of crushed charcoal."
Isabelle retrieved the bowl from the altar and held it out to Isaac. He glanced at her, confusion etched across his face. She squeezed his hand. "Just follow my lead," she whispered, and he nodded, heart pounding.
Gaius continued, "Charcoal of Recall. Breathe its ash until your spark grows dim."
Isaabelle closed her eyes, inhaling the charcoal dust. Black powder coated her tongue. She exhaled softly, soot spiraling into the air. Isaac watched, his chest tightening. When it was his turn, trembling, he brought the bowl to his lips. He coughed as he inhaled. Isaac's vision blurred, soot catching his throat. His breathing came in ragged bursts. Through charred tears, he saw Isabelle place a reassuring hand on his arm. Somehow it grounded him—even as the world slipped.
Gaius didn't pause.
"Now, Resin of Absolution."
The bowl of resin came forward, sticky and dense. Isabelle picked a small clump and pressed it into the hot embers of the brazier. Smoke curled upward, thick and ghostlike. She lifted the resin close to her chest and inhaled deeply. Isaac watched the tendrils of smoke spiral around her like coils of memory. Fear seized his throat. He knew Isabelle's spark had risen brighter than his—but hers wasn't wrong. He wanted it, that warmth inside her. But he did as she did—dried resin pinched between fingers, bringing it to the embers. He breathed it in. A hush came over him, like pressure building in a narrow space. His breath caught in his lungs.
Gaius stepped back, his voice hushed:
"You carry the black flame now. But the ritual is not done."
He slid a small obsidian dagger across the altar, its edge glinting wickedly. The torchlight carved hard shadows across its surface. Gaius whispered, "To complete the rite, you will touch the edge to her—the spark you stole. Symbolic death, so her light may be cleansed."
Isaac looked at Isabelle. Her face was calm, almost radiant. He shook. "Is… Is this right?" he whispered. She nodded, softly. "Just follow me," she murmured, eyes fixed forward.
Isabelle picked up the dagger first. She ran the blade gently across her palm, a smile curving her lips. She pressed the open wound to his forearm. He felt the cold glass scrape skin. A thin line of blood blossomed. Gooseflesh rose across his arms. The room felt smaller now, like walls closing in. A soft moan rippled through the stone floor underfoot, but could have been his mind playing tricks.
Ian shifted forward but remained seated, his gaze locked on the pair.
Isabelle closed her eyes, blood beading at her fingertips. She guided Isaac's hand, "Do it here," she whispered. With shaking fingers, he pressed the blade to her forearm. His breath shook as he scraped just enough. A drop of blood. She gasped softly. The blade caught in the torchlight, pieces of flame flickering in its obsidian black.
Gaius's voice rumbled in the hush, low and deliberate:
"You are both testament and vessel. You have squeezed memory from flesh. The spark you borrowed is no more. Now you shall bear the mark of truth."
He stepped forward, placing his palm on the wound on Isabelle's arm. Warm light seemed to seep in, and the smudged edge of darkness flickered.
He moved across to Isaac next, touching his cut. Isaac's knees shook. Gaius spoke again:
"In this moment, you performed true bondage. You carried the burden of another's light. You chose when to release it."
Isabelle offered Isaac her hand. He took it, trembling. He felt older but hollow, like glass emptied of its shine. Across from them, Ian's face was unreadable.
Gaius raised his arms. His voice grew softer, deeper:
"Rise now. Go and share what you carry—this blackened spark is your gift and your burden. None shall see its glow until it dims entirely."
Isabelle squeezed Isaac's fingers and they both rose. She offered a faint, bittersweet smile. He nodded. Behind them, the torches flickered one last time. Gaius sank into the shadows again, silent.
Ian stood, stepped forward, and fell into step beside them. The three left the chamber. Behind them, the echo of controlled fear lingered, burrowed deep into the cold stone.