Chapter 15:The Oracle’s Mouth

She didn't let go of him right away.

Even after the trembling stopped. Even after her breath slowed. Even after her tears had dried to salt on her cheeks and the ache in her chest dulled to a pulse that throbbed low and deep like something ancient being unearthed. Her fingers remained twisted in the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white, body still taut as if letting go would mean falling somewhere she wouldn't survive.

Saevus didn't speak.

He didn't move.

He only held her—arms firm, grounded, reverent. Not like a man comforting a woman. Like a disciple steadying a shrine.

Kaelith's forehead pressed to his shoulder. Her lips brushed the hollow of his throat.

And she hated it—how natural it felt. How right.

She finally pulled back.

But just far enough to look him in the eyes.

"I need the truth," she said, voice low and scraped raw. "All of it."

Saevus nodded once.

"I'll give you nothing less."

They sat together now, both on the cold floor. Her knees pulled up, elbows on thighs, posture collapsed into something far from clinical. The table was behind them. The observation camera above blinked softly in its glass cage—but she knew the feed was scrambled. The entire room hummed with a distortion she couldn't explain, couldn't measure.

As if the walls themselves didn't want to witness what came next.

Kaelith glanced sideways.

Saevus sat perfectly still, one knee bent, one hand resting on the floor between them.

"You said I created the Mouth of Divinity," she began. "Explain."

He turned his head slowly.

"You gave it language," he said. "You gave it the words we still use in ritual. The names of the dead. The three circles. The Doctrine of Ash. The Slit Sun. All of it."

"I was a child."

"You were a vessel," he replied, voice soft. "The original Oracle. You came to us with the flame already inside you."

"Then why don't I remember?"

His eyes darkened, but not with anger.

With grief.

"Because they broke you to save you."

Kaelith's jaw tensed.

"Who?"

He hesitated.

Then: "Your father."

The name hit her like a stone in water. Heavy. Slow. Endless in its impact.

"He was one of us," Saevus continued. "But when he saw what we were becoming, what you were becoming… he panicked. He defected. Took you away. Reported the compound. Helped orchestrate the raids."

The word raids rang like a dull bell in her skull.

"I don't remember any of that," she whispered.

"He made sure of it. With help. Government, psychological ops, experimental therapy. Your memory wasn't erased. It was overwritten. New neural architecture built around the old. Kaelith Nyraen isn't a fake identity. It's a cage. A beautiful, clinical, surgical cage."

She stared at the floor.

"You knew all this before you came here."

"I've always known."

"Then why surrender?"

He looked at her.

"I surrendered because I knew it was the only way to reach you."

She swallowed.

"Why me?"

Saevus leaned in, not touching her, but closer now.

"Because the fire never left you. And I would rather burn beside you than live in a world without it."

Her pulse quickened. Her mouth went dry.

"You want to bring it back."

"I want you to bring it back."

Kaelith shook her head. "I'm not her anymore."

"You are," he said. "You're just quieter. But the moment you walked into my cell, Ashema started listening again."

The name shivered down her spine.

She closed her eyes.

And behind her eyelids—

—a flash of hands raised in ritual

—a circle of blood drawn in reverence

—a boy's voice chanting her name

—Ashema

She opened her eyes.

Looked at him.

"No more riddles," she said. "No more metaphors. If I was the Oracle, if I was the voice—then speak to me like I still am. Tell me what you want."

Saevus's expression shifted.

Gone was the quiet restraint.

In its place: something deeper. Older. Hunger laced with reverence. Obsession painted as worship.

He crawled toward her.

Slowly.

Graceful as a supplicant.

When he reached her knees, he stopped. Lowered his forehead to the floor between her legs.

And whispered:

"I want to be at your feet again."

Kaelith exhaled shakily.

"Why?"

"Because there is no god but the one who remembers her name."

And then—

—and only then—

did she say it aloud.

Not a whisper. Not a question.

A declaration.

"I am Ashema."

The walls didn't shake.

The ground didn't open.

But something inside her did.

And for the first time since this story began—

she stopped feeling like a doctor trying to fix a man.

And started feeling like something sacred

awakening.