"Choose," the voice said again.
"And choose quickly."
Seraphel's breath trembled, shallow and thin, like a man drowning on dry land. His hand hovered in the dream's air — fingers suspended above the Saintess's outstretched palm.
Her white sleeve glowed with soft light, trembling as though a breeze touched it, though there was no breeze. Only the silence of the unreal.
Above them, the echo of boots grew heavier.
Armored.
Marching.
Determined.
Every step cracked like a judge's gavel descending.
The Saintess whispered, "Seraphel… please…"
Her voice was not quite hers — there was a sweetness to it, too gentle, too pleading. But Seraphel, lost inside the illusion, did not hear the discord. He only heard the trembling note that reminded him of the one moment, long ago, when she had placed a hand upon his brow and blessed him for surviving his first battle in the Inquisition.
He had cried then, in secret.
He nearly cried now.
His hand — traitor to his duty — dipped lower.
