Once, they called it the Dawnspire.
A towering cathedral-city sculpted from marble and gold, where sunlight fell like divine favor and hymns echoed with sanctity. It was the birthplace of a thousand saints, the crown of the righteous—and once, it had been Talia's home.
Now, she returned not as a daughter of the light.
But as its reckoning.
They arrived at dusk.
Lucien walked barefoot over cracked stones, every step searing a trail into the earth. Talia moved beside him in silence, her long gown of scorched silk trailing behind like smoke. Horns curled from her temples, her wings unfurled like tongues of fire reaching for heaven.
At the gates, the priests were waiting.
Clad in relic-stitched armor, eyes filled with dread.
They had felt it coming—the shift in the sky, the tremble of the sun, the quiet blasphemy that turned sacred chants bitter. Whispers had reached them: Talia, their lost star, now walked with the Blasphemer.
Some still hoped.
"Return to us," pleaded High Priest Malric as they ascended the temple steps. "Whatever sin you've tasted, it isn't too late."
Talia stopped. Looked him in the eye.
"I'm not here for forgiveness," she said. "I'm here to rewrite everything you ever taught me."
The paladins moved first, steel and light flashing. Lucien didn't raise a hand. He simply looked.
Fire exploded outward.
Not from him—but from the earth, the air, the very breath of those who dared attack. Blades melted. Shields turned to ash. Screams were cut short by tongues of flame that danced with strange hunger.
Talia moved through them like wind through dry grass. She didn't need to fight. She only needed to speak.
Her voice, once a vessel for holy psalms, now dripped with inverted prayer. Every word she uttered made the devout hesitate. Some dropped their weapons. One fell to his knees, weeping. Another began to moan.
When she reached Malric, her former mentor, he held up a relic cross.
She kissed it.
And it turned black in his hands.
His eyes widened in horror.
"You were our hope," he whispered.
Talia leaned in close. "And you were my cage."
She drove her hand into his chest.
The inner sanctum of the Dawnspire, once glowing with celestial flame, stood silent as they entered. Lucien ran a finger along the gold-lined altar, smiling as the surface blackened at his touch.
"This place still remembers you," he said.
Talia stepped forward, her expression unreadable.
"I used to kneel here every day. I used to cry here at night. I prayed to be pure. I prayed to be enough."
She turned, facing him. "Now I understand. I was never meant to be pure."
Lucien placed his hands on her shoulders.
"No," he said. "You were meant to lead."
Together, they faced the sacred flame.
Talia opened her mouth. And sang.
It was no hymn. It was a dirge—a song of undone holiness, of sacred vows reversed, of pleasure found in pain. Her voice wrapped around the flame like silk soaked in oil.
It flickered.
Then twisted.
Then, it turned black.
The Dawnspire collapsed slowly, like a creature dying in its sleep.
From its ashes rose something new. A tower not built, but grown—its walls breathing, its arches weeping light, its chants echoing in voices not entirely human.
At the peak stood Talia.
Wings blazing, eyes closed, lips parted in a silent prayer known only to her.
Lucien stood behind her.
"It's done," he said.
Talia smiled faintly.
"No," she whispered. "This is where it finally begins."
And far away, in a dozen lands, priests felt their sacred flames shudder.
The Dawnspire had not been destroyed.
It had been converted.