This chapter is a turning point, both spiritually and emotionally.
Max doesn't just wield the Living Scripture in this moment... she becomes it. And while the world watches her rise, only one truly feels the cost of her fall.
We're entering a new threshold now, where love, power, and identity begin to unravel and reweave as one.
Take a deep breath. Read slowly. This one isn't just a chapter, it's a transformation.
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Seth's napkin dies a slow, brutal death in his grip. Torn, twisted, and reduced to shreds that flutter to the table like fallen leaves. I end the call. He releases the remains like they burned him.
"That was them, wasn't it?" His voice is tight. On edge.
I nod, dabbing my lips with a fresh napkin, the clink of my glass against the table sharper than it should be. "They know we're leaving in a month..." Sip. Dab. Breathe. "Which means if we wait that long, we might be walking straight into a death trap."
Seth exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "I'll drop you off at home, then book myself into a hotel."
I raised a brow. "Or you could just stay with the team and me until we figure out our next move."
He blinked, then chuckled under his breath as a smile broke through, unhurried and laced with quiet amusement. "I'll take you up on that, if the offer stands and no one's sharpening their pitchforks."
I patted his bicep in mock reassurance. "You might get some pushback from Eric, but that's just him being overprotective."
Back at home, we all settled in the lounge, the air thick with caffeine and tension as I recounted everything that had happened. The room fell silent when I absentmindedly blurted out, "Oh, by the way, Seth's staying until we leave for the Sepulcher of Echoes."
My mug barely made it back to the table before Eric's head snapped toward me, his expression unreadable.
The next morning, we get a call that Mr. Willow's trial resumes in two days.
That sets off a whirlwind of preparation. Bags packed. Plans made. And the night before the trial, we all gather in the lounge for one last discussion.
Eric, meanwhile, has glued himself to my side so thoroughly that if I stopped too fast, he'd probably crash into me. His paranoia about Seth has officially crossed into the utterly annoying.
It's not that I don't feel something around Seth, there's definitely a pull, like some invisible thread tugging at me. But cheating? Not once has the thought even flickered in my mind.
Later, as I get ready for bed, Eric pulls his favorite move, materializing from the shadows like some jealous ninja.
"Eric. Enough." I sigh, turning to face him. "Seth is a friend. That's it. You have no reason to feel threatened, and... "
But Eric doesn't wait for me to finish. His temper snaps like an overstretched rubber band.
"Oh please," he scoffs, throwing an invisible tantrum. "You might not say it, but I see how you look at him. How gentle you are with him. How, when he speaks, you... you get this girlish smile."
I blink. "A what now?"
"You heard me," he mutters.
I close the distance between us and grab the front of his sweatshirt, yanking him just enough to make a point. "Like I was going to say, he is a friend. And he is part of this team now. He sacrificed everything to be here, Eric. Do you even know what he gave up?"
Eric's heavy breathing is the only response. He just shakes his head.
I let go, stepping back. "With his gifts, he was never supposed to come into contact with the outside world. But he chose to help us. To help me. He is taking us to the Sepulcher of Echoes, even though doing so breaks the vow he made to his master."
Eric doesn't argue. He just stares, like I've knocked the fight right out of him.
I stormed past him, slamming the door behind me.
I wake early and slip out of Sam's room. She's a deep sleeper, and I don't need an interrogation about last night's drama. I move quietly to my room and change, dressing for the trial.
Eric is absent. Good.
By the time we arrive at The Obsidian Forum, the place is packed to the rafters. The energy buzzing through the crowd is downright electric.
I spot Neil just as we're about to enter and grab his sleeve. "Hey. Why does it feel like there's... way more people here than last time?"
Neil leans in, grinning like a cat who just stole the whole damn fish market. "You, my dear, are the rave of the town."
I squint. "Huh?"
"Word spread fast about your powers. About what you did to Mr. Willow. People came to see a show."
I roll my eyes. "Well, they're in for a massive disappointment." I lower my voice. "The evil that was attached to him? Gone. I vanquished it."
Neil just chuckles. "Oh, that won't stop them from hoping for fireworks."
Before I can respond, Lady Elsa strides past us, her expression sharp as ever.
"Let's get this over with," she says, and behind her, the Keepers of the Rift follow, their presence commanding silence.
As we step inside, the entire room rises to its feet. The air hums with hushed whispers. Some in awe, others in pure, unfiltered fear.
I catch snippets as we walk.
"There she is..."
"Isn't she beautiful?"
"She scared the shit out of me last time."
It was strange being the spectacle. Some came to cheer, some to watch me fall, but all of them came for me.
I resist the urge to smirk.
But just before we reach our seats, my gaze flickers to Eric, and for a second, I catch it.
The way he's looking at me.
It's not just jealousy anymore.
It's something deeper. Something I can't quite place.
And I don't know if I like it.
Magister Kaelith resumes his duties with the grandeur of a man who believes his voice alone could part the heavens. His words boom through the chamber, rattling through the ears of the guilty and the righteous alike.
"Mr. Willow's sentencing shall now be declared by Mr. Levi."
All eyes shift to Mr. Levi as he rises from his seat, a crisp sheet of parchment in his hands. He clears his throat and begins:
"Mr. Willow is found guilty of Enslavement and Human Trafficking and is hereby sentenced to ten years imprisonment."
A murmur rolls through the crowd. Not the grumble of dissatisfaction, but the purr of approval. A few whispered exclamations of 'Finally' and 'Serves him right' ripple through the audience.
Levi presses on, unshaken. "On the charge of Torture and Psychological Manipulation, he is sentenced to an additional ten years imprisonment."
The whispers rise in tempo, like a drumroll before a grand reveal.
"On the charge of Spiritual Corruption and Soul Manipulation, he will serve a sentence of twenty years."
Someone from the back can't resist muttering, "Well done, Mr. Levi," as if they were congratulating a baker for a delicious batch of bread.
At the Apex, Magister Kaelith's patience finally snaps. "Can we have silence, please? Those who do not obey will be ordered to leave."
The hush that follows is immediate and absolute, as if the air itself has been warned.
Levi gives a slight nod to Kaelith, a silent thanks, before lifting the final verdict.
"For Black Magic and Forbidden Arcane Practices, Mr. Willow is sentenced to life imprisonment."
A few fists pump subtly at that.
"And for the final charge..." Levi pauses, the room holding its collective breath.
"Murder and Blood Sacrifice..."
He looks up, gaze like cold steel.
"...the sentence is death by electrocution."
The hall erupts.
Cheers, stomping, applause, pure, unfiltered relief. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just as psyched as everyone else. Even Magister Kaelith, who had been so adamant about order, doesn't bother silencing the room this time. Let them revel. Let them have this victory.
But then...
Mr. Willow laughs.
A low, ragged thing, like the death rattle of a man who should have collapsed in defeat but instead found something deeply amusing.
The cheers falter. The air grows thin, sharp, electric.
And then... it begins.
His body convulses violently, his back arching as if an invisible force is ripping through him. Then, his mouth stretches unnaturally wide, and from within erupts a sound that is not merely a scream.
The wail carries with it the agony of every soul he has ever tortured, bound, or consumed. The voices do not cry out separately but in unholy harmony, all singing the same wretched dirge. The sound scrapes against my bones, a twisted echo of what I heard from the boy in Master Dan's office.
And then, his flesh betrays him.
Black veins slither across his skin like a rotting curse given life. His body does not merely decay; it collapses, melting into a tar-like sludge, thick and writhing with the restless dead. From the viscous pool, phantom hands claw their way into existence. Warped, suffering souls, still desperate for release.
I lean forward, speaking past Lady Elsa without thinking. "How many souls did this guy consume for it to have this kind of effect?"
Eric leans in from the other side, his eyes meeting mine across her shoulder. "Judging by that scream? A buffet of souls."
Elsa sighs. "Do I need to switch seats, or are we pretending I'm invisible now?"
And then, the hands turn.
Fifty, maybe more, shadow-like limbs break away from the writhing sludge and surge toward Lady Elsa.
Not random. Targeted.
Instinct crushes thought.
I lunge, barely brushing my fingers against her arm when...
My Living Scripture doesn't ignite. It erupts.
Like the sudden inhale of a divine storm, an unseen force slams into me. My hair unfurls like a banner in a storm, my arms flung wide. Not by choice, but by the will of the Word that summoned it.
Then the wave comes.
The living language roars over my head, not in silence, but with a soundless power that rattles the soul. A colossal current of golden glyphs crests from behind me, rolling forward in a single, fluid motion before crashing toward Lady Elsa.
It doesn't merely shield her.
It cloaks her, solidifying into radiant, divine armor etched in celestial script and gleaming like molten gold.
The moment it locks into place, I'm no longer standing.
I'm lifted.
My feet leave the earth as if even gravity has been commanded to let go. The divine refuses to let me stay grounded, as though the dust itself is unworthy.
Light threads beneath my skin, not across it, but within, like molten scripture winding through living glass. My body becomes parchment. A vessel. A decree.
The air around me fractures, not violently, but delicately, as if the atmosphere is cracking under reverence. Thin, gold-lit veins shimmer and fade. Reality cannot seem to decide what shape I am meant to wear.
My hair lifts, weightless, drawn upward by an invisible current. Each strand leans toward the glyphs, as though magnetized by Heaven's will.
My left arm sweeps forward, unbidden. The Sha'Viel glyph ignites in my palm. A brilliant spiral of truth and judgment.
My right follows. Tha-um emerges with solemn majesty, its design intricate and forged with the weight of authority.
Then, the pressure between my brows breaks like a divine seal.
The Vel-Tar glyph peels away from my forehead, lifting with impossible grace into the space between my hands.
Truth. Authority. Severance.
A trinity of cosmic law.
My arms draw inward, not by will but by sacred rhythm. Palms meet. The glyphs converge.
They interlink...
Three radiant infinity signs, woven into a circular mandala. Golden orbs pulse at the end of each loop, spinning gently as a larger orb anchors the center, beating like a second heart suspended between my hands.
My eyes reflect them. Not glowing. Not blazing. But orbiting, each glyph rotating slowly within my irises, like stars inscribing prophecy into flesh.
When I speak, my voice isn't alone.
It echoes in chords, layered, harmonized, and ancient. Each syllable carries undertones of divine rhythm. I do not shout. I do not whisper.
I decree.
"Submit."
The word doesn't strike the air. It rearranges it.
The orbs detach, bursting free from their loops like divine comets. They multiply tenfold, then more, streaming forward in a perfect, synchronized assault.
They pass through the shadowed limbs, not slicing, not burning, but unmaking.
Every strike collapses a phantom hand into dust and shrieks and silence.
The evil unravels like a tapestry shredded from all directions at once.
Even Eric stumbles back, hand flying to shield his eyes.
The entire chamber groans, not with noise, but with pressure, as if reality itself cannot hold the weight of something holy and unbound.
My limbs weaken.
My hands tremble.
Breath shortens. Light bends into shadows at the edges of my vision.
And just before the world slips from beneath me, a single thought claws its way to the surface.
Something has changed.
Not just in the chamber.
Not just in them.
In me.
Then I fall.
Weightless. Wordless. Swallowed by silence.
And as the darkness claims me,
I swear I feel something watching.
Something waiting.
Just like before, when Alec stood trial and the Judicars first arrived, I hovered in that strange space between here and nowhere.
I am aware, but powerless. Drifting. Breathing without breath.
My senses stretch beyond flesh. I am not asleep. Not awake. Suspended.
But my body remembers.
It does not panic. It does not fear. It has learned this silence. Like a bear deep in hibernation, it preserves, restores, waits.
Conserve the little that remains, or risk unraveling completely.
Somewhere beyond the stillness, I feel it.
The Living Scripture.
Its golden radiance withdraws from Lady Elsa, returning to me like molten silk threading through the void. The moment it touches my skin, warmth blooms across my chest. A sacred heartbeat, pulsing with life not entirely my own.
And then...
Eric's voice cuts through the fog.
Frantic. Desperate. Begging.
"Max, wake up. Please."
I do not move. I cannot.
Yet I sense them all, their hearts heavy with concern, their whispered prayers carrying the weight of quiet desperation. But somewhere deeper, I am searching too. For something hidden in the dark.
Then I hear it.
The echoes.
"She's our hero."
"She's our hope."
I feel it, the unshaken faith that I was made to create, to uphold something just. A fairness they once believed was lost.
Footsteps approach. Urgent. Measured.
Alec. Seth. The rest of the team. They reach Eric, who is still cradling my limp body in his arms.
Eric tenses, protective.
Seth steps forward, and instinctively, Eric pulls back.
But Seth does not argue.
The atmosphere warps around him. His breath doesn't stir wind, it pulls at the unseen, rewiring the room's pulse. Even mine skips in response.
Alec places a steady hand on Eric's shoulder. Calm. Grounded. "He's not our enemy, Eric. Let him look at her. Let him do what he must."
Eric pauses. I don't need to see him to feel the fear radiating from him, sharp and heavy. Not the kind born of jealousy, but something more vulnerable.
Slowly, he nods.
Seth gives Alec a silent nod of thanks and kneels beside me.
His hand gently cups my cheek, his thumb tracing slow, subtle circles. So tender, so restrained, not even Eric notices.
Gentle fingers brush my forehead.
Silver threads unfurl from his touch, soft as breath, runes of moonlight spilling into me. They do not pull.
They invite.
And I answer.
They slip between thought and memory, winding through the hollows of my weariness, brushing gently against the parts of me long hidden, as if they've always known where to find me.
Not lost.
Just waiting.
The silver does not command.
It cradles.
It wraps around me like a vow spoken before the world had language.
I have you. I will always have you.
And then...
He enters.
Not just his breath, not just his spirit, but all of him.
His essence, his rhythm, his will, his knowing.
His consciousness pours into mine, not like light piercing darkness, but like dusk meeting dawn. A slow, tender fusion.
I feel him settle into the sacred corners of my soul. No hesitation. No boundaries.
His presence does not stir me.
It completes me.
He finds the center of me, the still place where I've always stood alone, and presses gently into it.
Like a kiss.
Not upon skin, but upon soul.
And I open.
To him.
To everything.
Seth.
His energy floods into mine. Not filtered. Not measured. Just whole.
Not admiration. Not affection.
Love.
Ancient. Unshaken. Sacred.
The kind of love that aches and burns, that sees and remains.
The Living Scripture does not simply rest upon my skin. It stirs within me, breathing in rhythm with his, listening, responding.
It senses Seth's silver strands.
And reaches.
The golden inscriptions unfurl from within, radiant, divine decrees curling toward him like vines toward light.
They find him.
And intertwine.
Gold and silver.
Breath and word.
Flame and soul.
For a moment, just one,
We are one.
A pulse.
A heartbeat.
Then the Living Scripture recoils, folding back into me.
Seth exhales, steady and slow.
He keeps his thoughts guarded, but I feel his peace.
"She is okay," he says. "Unconscious, but unharmed. Her body is simply... recovering."
Eric exhales slowly as well, and the sound is raw. A breath laced with relief and ruin.
But Seth remains still.
His fingers linger above my skin, not touching, yet I feel his yearning. It's a silent hunger, like reaching toward a sacred flame in the dead of frost.
And me?
I still do not wake.
Some deep part of me does not want to. Not yet.
Because when I do...
Nothing will be the same.
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"We are one."
This chapter felt personal, like something sacred being laid bare. And though Max does not wake, she knows. Seth's presence, his vow, and the depth of what they share can no longer be unseen.
Seth is someone we yearn for. His presence, his devotion, his love for Max might come across as mere fantasy, but isn't that the very thing we hope to find in someone? A love that sees everything... and stays.
If you've made it this far, thank you for joining me in this sacred space.
The journey to the Sepulcher of Echoes begins soon, and with it, a truth even Max may not be ready to face.
Leave a comment if you felt something. I always read them.
Amanda