Chapter 2

The memories were sharp, like broken glass in my mind.

My first life, a long, slow bleed of devotion.

I remembered Ethan, the filmmaker.

His talent was a raw, desperate thing.

I believed in him.

I worked two jobs, sometimes three.

Late nights at the diner, smelling of grease and stale coffee.

Early mornings cleaning offices, my hands raw.

Every spare cent went to his films.

I sold my mother' s locket, the last piece of her I owned.

It paid for his entry into the festival.

His breakthrough.

The night of the premiere, I was so proud, so full of hope.

Chancellor Alistair was there. The Circle elders.

This was it, my first trial acknowledged.

Ethan stepped onto the stage, his face shining.

He spoke of inspiration, of unwavering support.

Then he looked out, his eyes finding Seraphina in the crowd.

"My muse," he called her. "My sole benefactor."

Seraphina, who had never given him more than a polite smile.

She accepted the praise, her eyes demurely cast down.

Alistair' s voice, cold and disappointed, cut through the applause.

"Scarlett," he had said, his gaze like ice. "Your claims of contribution are... troubling. Such spiritual impurity."

Publicly shamed. My standing shattered.

That was the first cut.

Then came Maya.

Alistair, with false benevolence, offered me a "chance at redemption."

Maya was a storm of anger and pain, an orphan teetering on the edge.

I saw myself in her, the raw hurt.

I poured everything into her.

Patience. Understanding.

I helped her channel that fire into art.

A street art initiative. It brought a forgotten neighborhood back to life.

Color bloomed on grey walls. Hope bloomed in Maya.

She was ready to stand with me, to tell the world what I' d done.

Then the Circle representative arrived.

Smooth words. Official pronouncements.

Seraphina' s "discreet, guiding influence."

The true catalyst.

Again.

Seraphina, celebrated for my work, my heart.

And Mr. Henderson.

Cast out to the poorest district. "Humility training," Alistair called it.

Mr. Henderson took me in.

A lonely old man, his body failing, his spirit kind.

I cared for him.

Cooked his meals, read to him, held his hand when the pain was bad.

He became the father I never had.

I used my last savings for his medicine, for a little comfort in his final days.

He died holding my hand, his last words, "My dear girl."

At his small memorial, one I paid for with what little I had left, Seraphina appeared.

Her face a mask of sorrow.

Alistair was there too.

He declared Seraphina had achieved a "dual Grace."

Inspiring Ethan' s art.

Embodying Mr. Henderson' s "familial devotion" through her "distant prayers and secret aid."

Secret aid. The words choked me.

Seraphina, poised for supreme Ascension.

Built on my stolen life. My stolen love.

The memory of confronting her then, the raw, tearing pain.

Her cruel admission. "I was always jealous, Scarlett. Always."

And Alistair. "The Charm of Transference," she' d hissed.

A ritual. An artifact. Something that twisted the very essence of my deeds, redirecting their spiritual credit to her.

All of it orchestrated by him. For her.

I remembered the rage, the breaking point.

Smashing the few mementos I had left.

Severing the ties.

Fleeing to The Brink, the city' s underbelly.

The taste of ashes and defeat.

That was the life they stole.

Now, sitting before Alistair, I felt that old rage mix with a new, cold clarity.

He was speaking, assigning the first trial.

"Focus on those in need of profound connection," he said. "An artist struggling for voice, perhaps."

His eyes flicked to me.

Ethan. He was leading me right back to the first betrayal.

"Seraphina, you will also seek out such a soul."

"Yes, Chancellor," Seraphina said, her voice pure.

He thought he knew me. He thought he could break me again.

He had no idea who was sitting before him now.

This time, I knew the game.

And I was going to play it my way.