Chapter 3 Candles and Ribbons ‎

Chapter Three: Candles and Ribbons

‎

‎The courtyard was draped in golden banners.

‎

‎Students ran barefoot across the grass, tying white silk around lantern poles, stringing garlands of marigolds and thyme from one crooked tree to another. Somewhere near the abbey steps, a violin played too fast, too cheerful while nuns barked orders over the chaos.

‎

‎Seraphina stood in the middle of it all, blinking sleep from her eyes, half-lost in the dream that still clung to her skin like damp fog.

‎

‎Liora. The name still echoed in her chest. A name not hers, but familiar. She hadn't told Nora. Or anyone.

‎

‎She folded the thought away and tucked it deep like she always did.

‎

‎

‎"Try not to fall asleep on the flower cart again," Nora teased, tossing a braid over her shoulder. "You missed half of last year's festival."

‎

‎"I was resting my eyes."

‎

‎"You were drooling."

‎

‎Seraphina grinned and reached for a spool of ribbon. She tried to focus on tying bows around the lantern stems, but her hands kept shaking. Not visibly. Just enough that the knots came out crooked.

‎

‎She blamed the wind. And the lack of sleep. And maybe, just maybe, the way the chapel bell had rung once last night long after curfew, long after it should've been silent.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎Inside the academy, girls fluttered through dorm halls like butterflies. Dresses were aired, beads were sewn, hair was curled or cursed into shape. The air smelled of rosewater, old wood, and excitement.

‎

‎The festival was the only day students were allowed to leave the grounds - to wander the cliff paths, to dance beneath the moon, to forget for just one night that the world could be cruel and gray.

‎

‎Seraphina didn't care much for dancing. But she loved watching.

‎

‎She had no family to dress for, no boy to giggle over, no mirror she admired for long. But she still chose her white lace dress with care. She pressed a dried violet into the hem. Braided a silver thread into her hair. Dabbed her neck with lavender oil.

‎

‎And still, something felt missing.

‎

‎Not wrong. Just... unfinished.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎"Seraphina, wait!"

‎

‎It was Sister Elwen, arms full of candles and a face flushed from climbing the chapel stairs.

‎

‎"Could you do one last thing? Light the lanterns inside the chapel before dusk. No one does it like you they always burn brighter when you do."

‎

‎Seraphina nodded.

‎

‎She didn't say that the candles only glowed when she whispered to them. When she traced her finger along their wax and hummed that strange little melody she'd never been taught.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎By the time the sun dipped below the cliffs, the courtyard shimmered.

‎

‎Dozens of white lanterns floated above the crowd like slow stars. The nuns stood near the altar, cloaked in midnight blue. A flute sang somewhere beyond the trees. Girls laughed with flowers in their hair and wine on their lips.

‎

‎Seraphina stood near the edge of it all, watching.

‎

‎Just... watching.

‎

‎And then-

‎She blinked.

‎

‎Everyone moved slower.

‎The colors dulled.

‎The flute warped into something deeper.

‎

‎Something behind her was humming.

‎

‎She turned.

‎

‎The chapel doors were slightly open - even though they'd been locked for the night. Just a crack. Just enough for a sliver of red-gold light to leak out.

‎

‎She should've told someone.

‎

‎She didn't.

‎

‎She walked.

‎

‎

‎---

‎

‎Inside, the chapel was empty. Quiet.

‎

‎Except for the lanterns. All glowing. All lit.

‎

‎Seraphina froze. Her fingers curled.

‎

‎She hadn't lit them.

‎

‎Someone else had.

‎

‎And yet... they flickered like they knew her.

‎

‎She stepped forward, heart thudding. Her shoes clicked softly against the stone floor as she moved toward the altar.

‎

‎On it, a single candle burned blue.

‎

‎A whisper licked the air.

‎

‎So faint she nearly thought she imagined it.

‎

‎"Soon."

‎

‎She gasped and turned.

‎

‎No one was there.

‎

‎

‎Outside, the festival went on. Music. Laughter. Fireworks exploding above the cliff's edge.

‎

‎Inside her, something uncoiled. Something old. Something afraid. Or was it longing?

‎

‎Seraphina looked down at her hands.

‎

‎They were covered in wax and ink and candle soot.

‎

‎And written faintly across her palm, in ash-gray script she didn't remember drawing:

‎

‎"Do not follow the stars."

‎