Seraphina Seraphel had been taught that fear was useful only after prayer.
First, the breath.
Second, the posture.
Third, the invocation.
Fourth, the decision.
A saintess did not tremble before frightened people. A saintess became the place frightened people looked when trembling became contagious.
At nine years old, she had healed a merchant's crushed fingers while three priests watched her for doctrinal purity. At eleven, she had stood beside a fever ward until her knees gave out because the Church said light became stronger through service. At thirteen, she had learned that some wounds could be closed without anyone asking whether the healer had bled somewhere quieter.
Fear belonged after prayer.
Yet when the wall behind Cedric Valdrake whispered "Wrong brother," Seraphina forgot the first line of every prayer she knew.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Liora's sword hissed free.
Aiden moved toward the sound before thought caught him. Cedric moved faster.
Not with strength.
