Chapter 17: When the Flame Refuses
The silence after the clash was deafening.
Abraham stood in the shattered cathedral, chest heaving, flame circling his arms like golden ribbons. Across from him, Seraph-13 remained still, robes untouched, eyes glowing faint red as if he had not been in a battle at all.
You've learned to resist the pull, the fallen saint said. Impressive. Most Gates open without even realizing it.
I'm not a Gate, Abraham growled. I'm not your tool.
Seraph-13 tilted his head.
That's what I once said.
Behind Abraham, Saral was kneeling, hands pressed to the cracked floor. Her blood had stained the stone where the Ark sigil had appeared. Her eyes were wide. Not from fear. From revelation.
It's under us, she whispered.
Abraham turned slightly.
The Ark. It's not a myth. It's here. Below this cathedral.
Seraph-13 smiled.
Of course it is. Where else would the Church hide the only thing that could end its dominion?
Abraham blinked. End it?
Seraph-13 stepped forward, slowly.
The Ark doesn't belong to the Church. It was never meant to be used like a sword. It's a voice. A judgment. When it opens… it speaks truth. Even if it shatters nations.
Saral stood.
Then why not open it?
Because, Seraph-13 said with a strange gentleness, only the Arkborn can open it without dying.
They both looked at Saral.
No, she said firmly. I'm not ready.
He took another step.
You've been ready since the day you were born. They made you believe you weren't. That was their first lie.
Suddenly, alarms blared across the city.
Another breach.
But not from outside.
From beneath.
The ground trembled. Dust fell from broken windows.
Ezra's voice rang through their comms.
Vault level breach. Something is coming up.
A flash of blue fire burst from the far wall.
Something was digging its way to them. Not a beast. Not a soldier.
A memory.
The flame inside Abraham flickered violently.
He dropped to his knees, gripping his head.
Saral ran to him.
What's happening?
He looked at her, eyes wide with pain.
It's my flame. It's remembering.
Images flashed through his mind.
A city of gold.
Angels without wings.
Children burning in the name of purity.
And at the center—his own face, centuries older, sitting on a throne of ash.
I've seen this before, he whispered. I've done this before.
Seraph-13 knelt beside him.
You were never just chosen. You were recycled. A Gate isn't made. It's reforged. And every time it opens, the flame chooses what the Church fears most.
Free will.
Abraham stood slowly, fire stabilizing.
Then let it choose now.
Saral stepped forward too.
If the Ark speaks truth, then we'll listen together.
The floor cracked open.
From it rose a spiraled tower of light and text—hollow, humming with verses older than any living language.
Inside it, a box.
No larger than a book.
Saral walked toward it.
Seraph-13 bowed his head.
Gate. Flame. Ark.
You were never enemies.
You were always one.
She placed her hand on the box.
It pulsed.
And opened.
A sound not heard since the first war echoed across Zion.
Every priest fell to their knees.
Every machine lost power.
Every beast stopped moving.
And Abraham felt his flame calm for the first time in his life.
The Ark had spoken.
And it had chosen them.
End of Chapter 17