Ashes for the Faithful

small content warning: mentions of war, death, and burning.

Theophane turns a coin over in her fingers, studying the way the metal flashes in the golden light. She lightly brushed her thumb over the carved design. A woman, long hair that fell down her back, holding a finger to her lips. Unimaginably thin lines criss-crossed around her, jailing her behind them.

She pursed her lips. Perhaps this was far too much. Money in her likeness was excessive.

But she was here for a specific reason. What might seem as unrestrained to her would undoubtedly be considered far too modest for her biggest supporters, and what better way to show her influence and power than to completely revamp the currency in this corner of the Empire?

In any case, it was already all hers.

She sighed, looking out the window. The sky was orange.

Not the orange of a sunset, but the orange of chemical flames-- the type that doesn’t die with winds or time. It licked the clouds and made the shadows dance.

The planet was burning. Theophane could see ash drift through the sky like snow. Not white. It was gray and oily, tinged with blood. When she breathed, she tasted rust and ozone.

She hadn’t needed to come. Her Dancers had told her as much. The operation was complete, the resistance broken, the ground salted with the legacy of those who dared to defy her. There were no more alliances to forge, no more secrets to unearth. The war was over.

Utterly, perfectly over. Nothing left to salvage.

And yet, she came.

She glanced down at the coin once more, the memory of her morning coming to her unbidden.

The ash had clung to her boots. What remained of the buildings had caved inwards like ribs hollowed of breath. She had walked through the remnants of a city that didn’t yet know it was dead.

Theophane had seen this before. In a hundred visions. In a thousand languages. War always ended the same way. First there was silence, then there was smoke.

She wasn’t looking for anything.

It was the stillness that had drawn her in. Not peace-- never peace-- but the quiet that comes after an unexpected scream. She had moved through the ruins like a ghost dressed in armor, her shadow flickering against the broken stone.

Then she saw the girl.

A small thing. Curled against the edge of a fallen wall like a dying ember. No sobbing, no flinching. Simply stillness. The flames hadn’t reached her yet. They curled around the district, biting at Theophane’s ankles like a pack of ravenous dogs.

Her face was streaked with soot, her hair clumped with dried blood. But her eyes… her eyes met Theophane with surprising clarity.

That, more than anything, had stopped Theophane in her tracks.

She tilted her head.

“You’re alive,” she said softly. It was not a question.

The girl flinched.

Theophane stepped forward, slowly and deliberately. As if the smoke might scatter her if she moved too quickly. But the child didn’t run or look away. She sat in the ash like a statue.

Theophane knelt.

She could see the girl’s hands now, burnt and trembling slightly. Her clothes had perhaps once been colorful. Someone had loved her enough to dress her like that.

Theophane had not expected to find this.

She spoke again before she could stop herself. “What’s your name?”

A pause.

“... Bian.”

The name settled somewhere beneath her ribs. Flashes of vague images ran in front of her eyes, none discernible enough for her to understand. She inhaled. Quiet. Controlled.

“I am Theophane.”

The girl said nothing. Her gaze never left her face.

It was absurd, really. Theophane had turned worlds into graveyards. She had bent kings and architects and oracles to her will. And yet, under this child’s scrutiny, she felt-- just for a moment-- like something only half-seen. Something not quite real.

It instilled a sense of fear in her like no other.

“Are you alone?”

A slow nod. Of course she was.

Theophane looked at her, a question the universe had dared to leave behind.

Kill her. Kill her now. She’s dangerous.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said instead.

“There is nowhere else,” Bian replied.

Theophane blinked. An old ache had risen up within her, one she thought she’d exorcised long ago. She hated it. She wanted to turn away. She wanted to--

“Come with me.”

Bian didn’t move. She stared at her outstretched hand like it was a trick. A trap. She had every right to think so.

Eventually, those soot-streaked fingers reached forward tentatively. They brushed against Theophane’s palm.

A loud ringing noise erupted in her ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, bringing her free hand to touch at her temples. Visions of fire, of a dark-haired woman, of death flashed behind her eyes.

She grasped Bian’s hands with a gentleness she hadn’t used in years. She lifted her and held her against her chest. The girl didn’t speak again. Only leaned her head into Theophane’s shoulder. Her body was weightless.

Theophane had turned, walking back through the burning city with a child in her arms and a thought she could not name, digging into her spine.

The ringing only grew louder and louder.

Bian stood with her back to her now.

This was new.

Theophane watched the slow, deliberate movement of the girl-- no, the woman-- who had once fit into the crook of her arm like a second heartbeat. She moved with purpose now. Grace, precision. Her robes, black like the spiders she used to See, flowed like smoke behind her as she poured over an intelligence brief she hadn’t asked permission to read.

“Why didn’t I know about the mines on Belsephus?” Bian asked.

No honorifics. No mother.

“They’re classified.”

“I’m your Second.”

“You were knighted as a High Lady in pectore. And I didn’t make you my Second to be questioned.”

At that, Bian turned. Slowly. Her expression was calm, but her smoke-ringed eyes burned.

“No,” she said. “You made me a High Lady to keep me close.”

Theophane said nothing. It was true.

Bian crossed the room, silent on bare feet. She was taller now, her posture unbending. She no longer flinched when Theophane raised her voice. “And you made me your Second because you want me to take your place.”

Theophane nodded. “That is typically what Seconds are used for.”

Bian ignored her. “You told me we don’t exploit. You said we liberate.”

“I said what you needed to hear at the time.”

Bian’s jaw tensed. “You used to believe it.”

“I used to believe many things,” Theophane said.

A beat of silence stretched between them, long and taut like a wire.

“I read the full report,” Bian said. “They are children, Theophane.”

The name landed like a slap.

“They’re rebels,” she replied. “Trained by the Syndicate. We don’t have the luxury of sentiment.”

No,” Bian said loudly, stepping closer. “But we do have the luxury of choice. And you’ve stopped making the right ones.”

Theophane turned away. Her tone slid between her ribs like a blade, quiet and measured.

I will have to die soon, she thought to herself.

“I saved you,” she said aloud, softly.

“I know,” Bian replied.

“I gave you a home. Power.”

“You gave me a gilded cage.”

Theophane’s lips thinned.

I regret it, she realized with startling clarity.

She could see it now. The future, slipping away between her fingertips like sand. Her carefully constructed Way… the Crystal Peace, the Vile, the Cleansing. All needed to happen.

Theophane turned, slowly. She looked at the woman she had raised from ash and ruin, and saw in her something frightening: conviction.

“You’re going to try and change everything,” Theophane muttered.

“I already am.”

They stared at each other, two mirrors angled towards different stars.

The rain on the sands of Ettilyn was acid-washed silver, flickering like static across the temple’s glass dome. Below, in the sanctum courtyard, the souls of the dead had long gone quiet. Only the wind remained, brushing against the carved spires like a warning.

Theophane waited alone in the Hall of Echoes, lit only by the thrum of suspended starlight above her. Her fingers rested on the stone table at the room’s center, black marble veined with copper, etched with names she no longer recognized.

She heard the footsteps long before the doors opened.

Bian didn’t ask permission to enter anymore. She stepped through the hall with that same quiet poise, but now it struck Theophane as cold. Measured. No more trace of the child who once mimicked her stride in secret.

“I thought we agreed not to meet like this again,” Theophane said, not turning. She brushed her finger along the grooves of the table.

“We didn’t agree on anything,” Bian replied. “You decided.”

A flicker of irritation rose up in her chest, though it quickly vanished. Thoughts and feelings in Ettilyn were often washed away as soon as they came.

“You’ve been speaking to the outer cells,” she murmured. “Without sanction.”

“They came to me. Because they trust me.”

“Because you feed them illusions.”

Bian shook her head. “No. Because I don’t lie.”

Silence.

“Why did you bring me here?” She asked, her voice soft.

And then, Theophane finally looked at her.

There were shadows beneath Bian’s eyes now. Harder lines around her mouth. A glint of steel at her hip. She wore her new Holy Mother Death title like armor.

“You plan to take the Order from me.”

Bian raised her chin, furious and righteous. “I plan to give it back to what it was meant to be.”

Starlight flared above them, brief and violent.

“Compassion will get you killed.”

“Maybe,” Bian said. “But so will fear. And you’ve built a fortress out of it.”

A pause. Then--

Theophane’s lips curled upwards.

Bian’s eyes widened in fear.

She’s realized it now, the ghosts whisper into Theophane’s ear.

“What have you done?” Bian asked, her face as pale as the dead around her.

Theophane tilted her head. “Your first mistake was assuming your existence was necessary to my plans.”

Bian turned and ran out of the Halls.

Theophane stood, and began to move.

The Realm of Ettilyn faded around them.

She glided through the smoke like a shadow, steps assured. The temple was collapsing inwards-- glass melting, beams blackened, the carved spires glowing like wicks.

This was the first time the Sister School of Cri would be burnt, but Theophane knew from her prescience that it would not be the last. She knew that this was its nature.

She found her in the scrying chamber.

Spiders poured out in groves, but Theophane paid them no mind.

Of course it would be here. This is where it began, the day Theophane had first shown her the stars not as they were, but as they would be in thousands of years' time.

Bian stood in the center of the ruin. Firelight painted her in gold and blood. Her robes were torn. One leg was dragging behind her, burnt. She was leaning heavily against the crystal dais, breath shallow. She didn’t look up when Theophane entered.

“I told them to leave,” Bian said softly. “Most listened.”

“You stayed.”

“I always stay too long,” she muttered bitterly, letting out a hoarse laugh.

Theophane crossed the floor in two strides. “You could have been great. Terrible and great,” She said.

Bian shook her head. “No. If I hadn’t left--” Her words faltered. “Even now, you can’t let me go,” She stayed silent for a moment longer. “You made a mistake,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Theophane agreed easily.

Bian’s mouth twisted downwards, her words hurting her. She stepped back.

The flames were curling up the far wall now, devouring the last of the tapestries. Smoke was crawling low, thick with grief.

Bian choked out a sob. “Begone! Leave me alone to die!”

Theophane scattered into a thousand pieces at her words, ash falling to the ground in her places.

The woman cried.

Then she walked into the fire. No scream. No faltering.

The blaze took her, until there was nothing left but smoke and the sound of everything she had tried to save, falling apart.

There is a garden now, where the western wing used to stand.

It blooms wild-- untended, wind-scattered, grown from ash. No monument marks it. No stone bears her name.

Theophane-- under a different name and face now-- watches the vines climb where the walls once stood, the flowers breaking through cracked stone like defiance. She watched the wind pull through the leaves as if something unseen still lingers.

She lets her tears and feelings fall from her being, takes them and buries them deep under the ground. All that remains is grim satisfaction.

She cannot linger long.

There is still work to be done.

She turns, meeting the gaze of the silver-haired man who had stayed by her side through the entirety of the Order’s existence.

As Adelheid, she links arms with him and walks to the edge of the garden. Then, the world breaks apart around them, starlight shining through the crack.