The first light of dawn brushed the stone walls of the modest chamber as Seraphiel sat on a low bench, hands raised toward a small altar. Their voice slipped through the room in steady prayer, each word a whispered hymn.

  Seraphiel rose, the flowing fabric of their robes pooling like liquid gold as they buttoned each clasp with precise care. Before a polished mirror, they studied their reflection—clear eyes, steady posture, the quiet grace of movement. A thin beam of light flickered across the robe’s intricate patterns. Seraphiel nodded once, satisfied, and left the room with quiet intent.

  The chamber held a serene simplicity. Stone walls absorbed the morning glow, casting soft shadows that created an almost sacred ambiance. On the small altar, an unlit candle and a single white lily rested side by side—symbols of purity and peace.

  Seraphiel’s hands hovered over them as they whispered, “In Heaven’s light, may this day be blessed.” The words hung in the air, tender and expectant, before dissolving into silence.

  They remained still for a moment, feeling the weight of the prayer settle in their chest—a familiar weight, welcomed rather than endured.

  When they moved, it was with fluidity, gravity seeming an afterthought as they crossed the chamber. The rustle of fabric was the only sound. Button by button, they secured the garment in place, each clasp shimmering faintly under the soft light.

  At the mirror, Seraphiel’s gaze lingered. Their eyes, impossibly clear, reflected not just their image but the weight of expectation. The beam of sunlight caught the patterns on their robe, making the fabric shimmer with quiet elegance. They breathed in the stillness, the soft scent of lilies, the promise of a new day.

  Seraphiel turned toward the door, letting the light follow them as they stepped into the morning.

  The morning wrapped Ilvarin in a familiar glow, soft light blurring the line between Heaven and earth. Seraphiel walked barefoot along the cobblestone path, the cool dew seeping into their skin. The village pulsed with quiet energy; even the air seemed to hum with reverence.

  They stopped beside a cluster of cradles, where a newborn lay nestled in white cloth. Seraphiel’s touch was tender as they blessed the child, a quiet prayer threading through the cool air.

  “May Heaven’s light guide thy path,” they whispered.

  The village stirred with life around them—white stone houses shimmering under the early light, the spires of the temple piercing the sky. Seraphiel’s presence seemed to weave through it all, an extension of the divine.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Not far ahead, two farmers argued, their voices sharp against the morning’s peace. Seraphiel approached with quiet intent, placing a hand on each shoulder. The men stiffened beneath the Angel’s touch.

  “Speak softly,” Seraphiel said, their voice calm but edged with quiet authority. “Thine concerns are heard. Heaven’s light shall mend them.”

  The farmers exchanged glances, the tension easing from their shoulders. Seraphiel’s hand lingered a moment longer before they moved on, leaving the conflict behind like a dissipating shadow.

  At the heart of Ilvarin, white lilies stood in perfect bloom. Seraphiel bent to touch them, fingers brushing delicate petals with reverence. The flowers were flawless, a quiet testament to the village’s peace.

  Seraphiel’s gaze softened as they moved toward a row of herbs, hands trimming the silvered leaves with practiced care. The village breathed around them—a living, sacred thing sustained by faith and quiet devotion.

  For all its peace, fragility lingered beneath the surface. Seraphiel felt it in the quiet pauses, the moments when silence pressed too deeply. They knew this harmony could not last forever.

  The temple stood bathed in light, white stone walls glowing as if illuminated from within. Seraphiel stood at the pulpit, hands raised, voice resonant and clear.

  The villagers sat in humble rows, eyes lifted toward Seraphiel with quiet devotion. Sunlight streamed through high windows, casting shadows that seemed to bow in prayer.

  “May Heaven’s light find thee,” Seraphiel intoned. “May it hold thee, ever blessed.”

  The prayer flowed through the sacred space, filling it with warmth and quiet promise. Seraphiel’s hands moved in stately motion, guiding the prayer with the precision of someone caught between divine grace and human vulnerability.

  When the prayer ended, the villagers lowered their heads in reverence. An elderly woman in the front row—Elara—remained seated, eyes wet with tears.

  Seraphiel stepped down from the pulpit, their figure a soft silhouette against the streaming light. They approached Elara, sitting beside her with quiet intimacy.

  Elara’s voice trembled. “I fear being parted from those I love.”

  Seraphiel’s hand found her arm, resting there with quiet assurance. “Love is the light that binds all things,” they said, their voice low and steady. “It endures beyond what we see, beyond what we know.”

  Elara’s tears fell freely now, but there was a change in them—a quiet release. Seraphiel’s hand lingered a moment longer before they rose and moved away, leaving behind a fragile peace.

  At dusk, Seraphiel ascended the long spiral staircase of the temple’s highest spire. Their bare feet touched the cool stone with measured rhythm, each step an act of reflection.

  At the top, they paused. Below them, Ilvarin stretched out beneath the soft afterglow of sunset, golden light flickering across white stone houses and distant temple spires. The village lights shimmered like earthbound stars.

  Seraphiel’s fingers traced the air, counting the days with quiet precision. They knew their fate was tied to Ilvarin, to the covenant that had blessed and bound them since the beginning.

  A breeze stirred the thin fabric of their robes. The evening light caught the patterns, turning gold to silver in the deepening dusk.

  A whisper broke the silence. Soft. Insistent. Seraphiel’s eyes narrowed, their head tilting toward the sound. The whisper faded as quickly as it had come, but it lingered in the air like a forgotten prayer.

  Seraphiel stood still for a moment longer before turning toward the stairwell. Their footsteps echoed softly as they descended, the fading light folding into the quiet of night.