Chapter 54 – The Soul-Flame Awakens
The sanctum beneath the Luther Keep was forgotten by most—a hollow chamber of silver mirrors and untouched relics, where the boundary between flesh and spirit thinned.
Jean knelt in the center of the sigil-etched floor, Luxclade across her lap. Whitney circled once, then lay down beside her, ever watchful.
She inhaled.
Light gathered. Aura surged.
And she entered.
A great pull seized her mind, dragging her deep into the heart of the blade—into a space that was not space, a memory echoing forever.
The soul-realm.
She stood upon a scorched battlefield of stars. Fire bled from the sky, and pillars of obsidian jutted from molten rivers.
And in the center, she waited.
A colossal dragon, chained in silver light, with eyes like twin galaxies. Her wings were torn, her body scarred by divine runes—and yet she radiated power. Beauty. Sorrow.
Severra.
"You have her eyes," she said, voice like wind over dying embers. "Celeste's chosen."
Jean held her ground. "I didn't come to fight."
"Then why are you here, warden?"
Jean stepped closer. "To listen. To understand why you're here. What happened between you and Martin Luther."
Severra's tail lashed. "Your ancestor betrayed us all. He came to parley. To end the war. And instead, he wounded my father and stole my soul. Bound it to this cursed light."
"You were trying to destroy humanity," Jean said.
"I was trying to free the world from their corruption," Severra hissed. "But I see now… not all of you are the same."
Jean reached out—not to touch, but to show courage. "Tell me what I don't know. About Antares. About Celeste."
Severra leaned close, her breath scorching but not burning.
"Celeste feared what Antares discovered—that the gods are not creators, but invaders. That humans were made to serve them, to feed them. My father rebelled. So did I. We were labeled monsters."
Jean's pulse quickened. "Then why still fight?"
"Because if Antares heals," Severra whispered, "he will do more than burn cities. He will tear down all of creation to expose the rot beneath."
Jean staggered back.
"I don't want to be your prison," she said. "I want to be your voice."
Severra's eyes dimmed with ancient grief. "Then I give you this, Jean Luther… my flame."
A flare of crimson light surged from the dragon's heart into Jean's chest.
Pain. Power. Memory.
And with it, a name—forgotten by all but gods and dragons.
The First Flame.
Jean awoke in the sanctum, gasping. Luxclade no longer gleamed gold—but gold veined with molten red.
Whitney stared silently. Then bowed.
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