The Fruit and the Flame
Ophelia had always been told what not to touch. What not to feel. What not to become.
But no one warned her what would happen if she did all three at once.
She hadn't meant to touch the fruit.
Its surface pulsed with an otherworldly glow—soft, forbidden, alive. The moment her fingers brushed its skin, a jolt of something ancient coursed through her veins—part agony, part ecstasy. It was like remembering a dream she'd never lived, a freedom she'd never known she craved.
The shackles around her wrists tightened, but not enough to stop her trembling hands. Not enough to silence the voice whispering from deep within:
"You are not what they made you to be."
All her life, she had been told her purpose. That her bloodline was sacred. That her destiny was to kneel.
"Ophelia," they warned, "Yeneva is forbidden. A place of chaos. A home for the gifted. You do not belong there."
"Why?" she had asked once.
"Because you are a Seraph. And Seraphs do not crave. We serve."
But craving was all she could feel now. The truth was out there—just past the walls, past the lies, past the fire in her chest that wouldn't stop burning.
"Isn't it always the forbidden things that taste the sweetest?" someone had whispered in the dark.
She hadn't known their name. Only their voice, and the way their fingers lingered on her skin.
"Look at me, Ophelia," he said now, his breath warm, urgent. "Tell me you chose me."
Her pulse stuttered. The fruit. The fire. The boy. The lies.
"How can I resist such temptation?" she whispered.
And maybe she already knew the answer.
"Take responsibility for me," he murmured, pulling her closer. "Letting you go won't be easy"