Chapter 23: Daughters of the Fallen Flame

The mountains bled light.

From the black cliffs ahead, streams of molten gold trickled like veins torn open in the flesh of the earth. Smoke rose in plumes, curling around jagged peaks that glowed faintly in the dying daylight.

This was the Ashrend Caldera.

Once the domain of fire-gods.

Now, it belonged to no one.

Yet something stirred within the molten heart of the crater. Something old. Waiting.

Rael stood at the edge, watching flame ripple through the sky like wings. Behind him, the others paused.

Selene wiped sweat from her brow. "You brought us into hell."

"Not yet," Aelthaea muttered. "Hell burns cleaner."

Nyssira didn't speak. Her eyes were fixed ahead, distant and unreadable.

Rael's grip tightened around the hilt of his blade.

The next seed was here.

He could feel it.

They descended slowly.

The path wound through fissures and caves carved by forgotten gods. Symbols of fire and agony lined the walls—depictions of chained titans, of lovers turned to ash, of a woman crowned in flame kneeling before a black throne.

"She was a goddess," Caelaris said, her voice hushed.

"Once," Nyssira replied. "But she fell in love."

"With who?"

Nyssira looked at Rael.

And said nothing.

At the base of the caldera lay a temple built into the cliffside—half-swallowed by magma, yet untouched. Crimson banners flapped despite the lack of wind. Pillars shaped like writhing bodies held up a domed entrance carved from obsidian and gold.

As they stepped inside, the air thickened.

Warmth wasn't just heat—it was hunger.

Selene unsheathed her blades. "This place wants to be touched."

A voice answered her from the shadows. Sultry. Low.

"That's because it remembers pleasure."

From the molten pools along the edges of the temple, women rose.

Naked, save for veils of fire and jewelry made from shattered halos.

Their skin glowed faintly, kissed by divine embers.

Eyes like embers fixed on Rael.

"We felt you coming, Consort of the Abyss," the first said.

The second tilted her head. "She spoke of you, when her eyes were still open."

The third knelt.

And the others followed.

All at once.

A dozen beautiful priestesses prostrated themselves before him.

"Welcome to the Womb's Sanctuary," they intoned. "We are the Daughters of the Fallen Flame."

Rael stepped forward slowly. "Where is the seed?"

The first priestess—taller than the rest, with molten-red hair and runes etched along her hips—smiled.

"It is not hidden. It is kept. And we were told… we would know when to give it."

Aelthaea's eyes narrowed. "And what are you waiting for?"

The second priestess smiled slowly.

"For him… to take."

They were led deeper into the temple, past braziers that burned without fuel and murals that moved when no one looked.

Rael walked between the two leaders—sisters, they claimed. Laria and Kessai.

Identical in face, but not in aura.

Laria was fire restrained—smiling, deliberate, sensual in stillness.

Kessai was untamed heat—eyes gleaming with challenge, her every step a dare.

"You are not like the others she named," Laria whispered. "The others were born divine."

"But you were forged," Kessai added, brushing fingers near his arm. "And we… like forged things."

Selene followed just behind, saying nothing. Her gaze sharp. Jaw tight.

Aelthaea let out a sigh. "Another pair of seductive prophetesses. How original."

Caelaris smirked. "Let's see if they survive."

Nyssira remained silent. But her eyes never left Rael's back.

They arrived at the heart of the sanctuary—a sanctum where the walls bled heat.

A circular platform floated above a river of lava, connected by a single blackstone bridge.

And at its center, pulsing softly, hovered the third seed—a sphere of smoldering crimson light.

Unlike the last two, it wasn't dormant.

It watched.

Rael stepped forward, but the priestesses halted him.

"It cannot be claimed," Laria said. "It must be invited."

Kessai circled him slowly. "The seed recognizes only one who commands, yet does not crave. Dominate us—and it shall yield."

The other priestesses began to kneel again, moving in sync like dancers at a funeral.

All eyes fixed on Rael.

But he didn't draw his weapon.

He stepped into the fire.

And it parted.

His cloak ignited—transformed into strands of divine gold and shadow.

Power surged around him.

Selene whispered, "He's doing it again…"

Aelthaea narrowed her eyes. "No… this is different. He's not summoning power. He's being chosen by it."

The flames danced around his form, rising in slow spirals.

Laria dropped to her knees, her breath catching. "He is flame... given form."

Kessai, ever the bold one, trembled for the first time. "I wanted to tame you," she whispered. "But now I see… I want to serve."

Rael extended his hand.

Not to them.

To the seed.

And it came willingly.

It drifted into his palm like a pet returning home.

The sanctuary went quiet.

No heat.

No breath.

Only awe.

When it was over, the priestesses remained on their knees.

All but Laria and Kessai, who stood now—changed. Their bodies glowed faintly, not with heat, but with resonance.

Laria stepped forward and placed a hand over her chest.

"We were bound to the goddess who once ruled this flame. But she gave us no choice."

Kessai joined her, her voice softer than before. "You gave us that choice. You didn't ask for obedience. You let us kneel… or walk."

Rael studied them both.

"And now?"

Laria's eyes softened. "We kneel again."

Kessai smirked. "But this time… as wives."

He extended a hand.

"Then rise."

They took it.

And were claimed.

Later, as the group prepared to leave the caldera, the atmosphere shifted.

Laria and Kessai walked close to Rael, laughing quietly as they exchanged stories of the temple's history, of the goddess they once served, of the rituals once performed in the deepest chamber.

Selene hung back, slower than usual.

Rael noticed.

She looked at him when he turned.

"I'm not angry," she said. "But…"

She trailed off.

"But?" he prompted.

She stepped close.

"I was first," she said. "And I don't care how many kneel to you. Just… don't forget whose shadow you walked with when there was no light."

Rael touched her chin, tilting her gaze upward.

"I haven't forgotten anything," he said.

She kissed him—not hungrily, not possessively. Just real.

And when she pulled away, her voice was quieter.

"I know they need you."

She touched her chest.

"But I love you."

That night, as the others slept, Nyssira stood at the cliff's edge, watching the firelight below dance against the night sky.

She thought of Rael.

Of the way he moved.

Of the way they looked at him—Selene, the priestesses, even Aelthaea.

She had always believed herself above such things.

Above wanting.

Above yearning.

But now…

She touched the spot on her lips where he had kissed her once.

And whispered to herself, "I'm already burning."

She didn't say it aloud.

But she would join them soon.

As they left the dying temple and the twin priestesses fell into step beside him, Rael found his thoughts drifting — not to the gods, not to the war still to come — but to the women walking with him.

Selene had been the first. A shadow at his side, sharp and loyal, fierce with her blades and fiercer with her heart. She never asked to be chosen. She dared him to.

Nyssira had followed not with swords, but with silence. Cold, calculating, aloof — yet beneath that frost, something had begun to melt. She had kissed him only once, but it had stayed with her longer than she expected. He could feel her hesitation — not resistance, but restraint. Soon, she would stop holding back.

Then came the priestesses.

Laria — soft-spoken, radiant with reverence. She had seen divinity in him not as a tool to worship, but as something she wanted to walk beside. A quiet flame.

And Kessai — her sister, a wilder soul. She burned without apology, her passion untamed, yet she too had chosen to kneel. Not from weakness, but because she wanted to belong to someone who could match her fire.

Each woman came to him from a different path. Each had offered herself in a different way. But all of them had this in common — they had chosen him.

And he would not let any of them be forgotten.