Pages of the Forgotten

The books were older than the temple itself.

Their covers were dry and crumbling, leather curling at the corners like burnt leaves. They smelled of dust, wax, and ink gone sour. Most hadn't been touched in decades. Some were written in the old tongue—ancient dialects from the coastal villages before the kingdom had borders, before the temple had golden doors.

They were stored in the underlibrary.

Not the illuminated archives.

Not the sacred scroll chambers.

The underlibrary.

Where forgotten things went to die.

Seraphina shouldn't have been there.

She'd only ever studied from the approved texts—copied and annotated and gilded in the script of the Temple Record. The underlibrary wasn't forbidden to her, not officially, but it wasn't encouraged.

Nothing was said aloud, of course.

But when she asked for access, Naia had paused for a moment longer than usual.

"Why there, my lady?"

"I want truth," Seraphina said simply.

Naia didn't question her again.

But she followed closely when Seraphina descended into the lower levels, carrying a torch herself, her hand resting on the dagger she rarely had cause to use.

Imara and Lina remained in the chamber above.

They would wait, ready to hide whatever they needed if anyone came asking questions.

It had been weeks since Seraphina first heard the whispers of the South.

And she hadn't stopped thinking about them since.

She knelt now between two rows of stone shelves, white robes tucked beneath her, veil trailing behind her like silk smoke. The light from the torch cast golden glints over the edges of her skin. Her face, normally so still, so serene, was focused—eyes sharp, fingers fast.

She turned the page with a reverent but impatient flick.

"Fishing records," she murmured. "Caravan logs. Drought reports… why are none of these updated?"

She reached for another scroll. It fell apart in her hands, and she winced.

"Sorry," she whispered, frowning. "Didn't mean to kill you twice."

Naia watched from a distance, leaning against the pillar with arms folded, pretending not to smirk. She had seen this side of Seraphina before—but not often.

Not since she was little.

When she was just a girl and not a symbol.

This was the real Seraphina.

Still buried beneath gold and reverence.

Still here.

"Naia," Seraphina called softly, "what's the name of the largest southern region again?"

"Rheos," Naia replied. "It used to supply half the capital's fish."

"Used to?"

Naia nodded. "Before the storm seasons. The floods came, then vanished. Took the rivers with them. What was left turned brackish. No fish. No boats. No reason to stay."

Seraphina scribbled notes onto a piece of cloth with coal.

"Rheos. Aelmoor. Thessel. They're all connected. They used to trade through river lines…"

She looked up suddenly, cheeks slightly flushed from excitement.

"Do you think the Divine is angry with them?"

Naia tilted her head. "I don't presume to speak for Him."

Seraphina smiled faintly, then tapped the edge of the scroll. "I don't think He is. I think they've just been forgotten."

Naia's brows lifted. "You're certain?"

Seraphina looked away, her fingers slowing.

"…No," she admitted.

Then, softer: "But I feel it."

She looked down again, and the smile faded back into something quieter. More composed. She adjusted her veil, smoothing it over her brow.

Her back straightened.

Her hands folded.

And just like that, the saint returned.

Naia had seen her do it before—retreat into reverence like armor.

Still, Naia offered her a flask of water and spoke gently. "You don't have to pretend with me."

Seraphina hesitated.

Then sipped.

And let the veil slip back just slightly.

The next scroll was heavier.

A ledger. Official. Stamped with the seal of a now-dead scribe.

Inside were lists—petitions, letters from village elders, pleas for aid. All dated over ten years ago. All from the South.

All ignored.

Seraphina read them one by one.

"To the Most Blessed Temple, we report a second season of failed wheat. Our cattle die. Our children starve. We offer prayer, yet no reply. Have we angered the Light?"

"Please. We only ask for seed. For shelter. For blessing. Let the Flame's child remember her southern children."

One line made her stop.

"If the light only shines where gold is offered, is it light at all?"

She read that one three times.

Then once more aloud.

"If the light only shines where gold is offered…"

She closed the scroll gently and set it beside her.

And when she looked up at Naia again, her voice was as calm and clear as a morning bell.

"I will go to the South."

Naia blinked. "You'll what?"

Seraphina tilted her head. "Not now. Not yet. But eventually. That's what this is. That's why He told me."

"Seraphina—"

She stood, brushing dust from her knees. "If no one else goes, I will."

"Do you even know what's out there now?" Naia whispered. "You're a symbol. You're not… you're not meant to wander into danger."

"I'm not wandering," Seraphina said. "I'm answering."

Naia opened her mouth. Closed it. Then exhaled. "What if they don't want you? What if they spit at your name?"

Seraphina smiled again.

But it wasn't the saintly one.

It was soft.

Almost mischievous.

"Then I'll heal them anyway."

Back in her chamber that evening, Seraphina hid the scrolls beneath the cushion of her prayer mat.

Only Naia knew.

She returned to her veil, her silence, her sacredness.

But in her dreams, she saw dust-covered roads and cracked riverbeds.

And in those dreams, she walked.

Not carried.

Not veiled.

Just her.

Barefoot.

Hands outstretched.

And the land bloomed again.