I leave the room before things twist any deeper. The moment I re-enter the main hall, my eyes sweep for Eric, and I find him instantly. He stands apart from the others, arms folded, his posture guarded, unreadable.

I approach slowly, guilt threading through my chest. His expression softens when he sees me, but not fully.

As the weight of Bruce’s message lingers in my mind, I glance at Eric. “Did Bruce say why he needs to meet you urgently?”

Eric doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls me against him, his warmth enveloping me. “Bruce does not want to see just me but all of us.”

I poke his side. “That doesn’t answer my question. Where are we meeting him?”

He smirks, his hold on me unshifting. “The Obsidian Forum.”

We arrive at the fortress-like stronghold, its towering black stone walls looming against the skyline, untouched by time.

To outsiders, it appears as a crumbling ruin, but beneath the illusion, it hums with raw power.

Hidden inscriptions flicker as we approach, dissolving the veil that shields its true form. The moment we step inside, reality shifts, the illusion fades, revealing a vast sanctum where warrior sects gather in secrecy.

Footsteps echo behind us as our teams close the distance. Jamey jogs up, brow furrowed. “Where exactly are we supposed to meet? And with whom?”

Alec spots Bruce ahead and vanishes in a blur, reappearing beside him. Their exchange is brief but tense. When Alec returns, his expression is unreadable. “Bruce says to follow him.”

Bruce leads us through winding corridors to a lower chamber, but before we reach the entrance, guards step forward, blocking our path.

A high-ranking sect leader emerges from the shadows, his expression is stony as his gaze flicks between Eric and me. “Only the two of you are allowed inside.”

I don’t miss the disappointment rippling through my team. I’ve always valued their input, their counsel, and now, they’re being sidelined.

I turn, about to reassure them, and I catch it. A whisper the sect leader didn’t mean for me to hear. “Bring the weapon and her handler. The rest are just decoration.”

Heat coils through my spine like lightning riding a fuse. Then, detonation.

A golden blaze erupts across my skin, the Living Scripture surging to life in holy rebellion. My hair lifts in slow, unnatural waves, caught in a wind that doesn’t exist. Strands flicker with golden light, glowing like threads spun from judgment itself.

I turn, not like a person, but like a reckoning. The weight of my fury hits the room before my voice ever does. Static hums in the air. Books quiver on their shelves. Dust trembles. Even the ground seems to pause.

“You think because you wear a title, you’re entitled to speak over me?”

My voice doesn’t rise, it lowers, like thunder crawling across stone.

“You call me a weapon. You call Eric my handler. And my team?”

I step to the side and extend a hand. Not grand, not theatrical, just a firm gesture that draws them into my orbit. My palm hovers open, steady, as if presenting evidence Heaven itself would accept.

“Decoration?”

The golden script along my skin flares in protest, curling with holy fury across my collarbone and arms. Light pours between my fingers like molten judgment, but I don’t look at it. I look at him.

“Each of them has stood in blood and fire beside me. While you polished your rank behind stone walls, they faced things that had no names, things that would unmake you.”

My hand falls, but I point first to Samantha and Samuel, then to Jamey, Alec, and the others.

“You do not command them.”

Then I raise my hand slightly, and my voice sharpens. Not louder, but heavier. “You do not dismiss me… and especially not them.”

The floor trembles beneath my feet, just once, enough for dust to leap and a distant book to fall spine-first to the floor.

“You want obedience? Find it among the dead.”

I take one step closer, and the space between us bends. Not visibly, but spiritually. The room feels it. Everyone feels it.

The walls don’t crack, but they want to. The air tastes of copper and consequence. A lightbulb nearby flickers once... then gutters out.

Then… a flicker.

A single strand of silver drifts from above, slow as breath, delicate as ash.

It lands softly on my wrist.

Then it tightens.

Not in pain, but purpose. It coils like a vow, heat blooming beneath my skin. Anger radiates through it, not mine, but borrowed. A storm that isn't mine to command, but one that knows me.

My Living Scripture responds. It doesn't just flare, it snaps, like ancient seals being broken. The words don’t glow, they hiss, sear, stretch, almost as if the Scripture itself heard the insult... and is preparing a verdict.

I turn slightly. Through the blur of shifting robes and shadows, I think I catch a pair of green eyes. Bright, impossible, watching from behind a moving figure.

Gone.

Was it him?

My chest tightens, not in fear, but in a strange ache I can’t name.

I tell myself it was nothing. Just light. Just stress.

Then, I speak.

“Because the living… my living… do not kneel on command.”

The chamber falls into silence.

And just like that, the balance of power shifts.

Whispers ripple through the chamber, hushed yet urgent. From the guards to other sect leaders, even the unseen murmurs in the air seem to echo the same words.

“The Living Scripture is here. The Living Scripture is here.”

Alec’s grip tightens around my left arm, Eric’s hand firm on my right. Their touch doesn’t anchor me, it reminds me I’m flesh and bone, not just divine fire.

Not just a title whispered in reverence, I am still me.

The room stirs as more figures appear, emerging one by one from the shadows of the chamber, bowing as if in silent worship.

I don’t know whether to laugh or unleash hell. No one, no one, gets to make my team feel insignificant.

Eric and I step forward, and the look I cast across the room could turn molten lava to ice. The bowing ceases, but the weight of their expectation remains.

We are guided to our seats, and as the rest settle in, an elderly woman rises to greet us. There is no bowing from her, only a calm, unshaken presence that commands respect.

“Good day, Max. Good day, Eric.” Her voice is smooth, yet carries an edge that suggests she is not one for formalities unless they serve a purpose. “I apologize for Mr. Sanders’ approach and assure you it will not happen again.”

Her gaze flicks to him, a brief, sharp reprimand that speaks volumes before she returns her attention to us.

“My name is Lady Elsa. I am no sect leader, but a spiritual one.”

Her words settle like a stone in my gut.

A spiritual leader, not bound by laws or politics but by something deeper, something unseen.

The room waits, heavy with unspoken meaning. I cut straight to it. “Then why call us here?”

Lady Elsa folds her hands before her, her expression unreadable.

“Because while the Tribunal governs what can be seen, we are the ones who watch what cannot.”

Silence stretched across the chamber, thick and expectant.

Lady Elsa’s gaze flickered between us, waiting.

Waiting for what, exactly? Applause? A heartfelt thank-you? A dramatic pledge of allegiance?

She got none of it.

The longer we stayed quiet, the more her composure cracked. Her fingers tightened around each other, her lips pressing into a thin line. A soft flush crept up her neck, frustration, maybe? Embarrassment? I could almost hear the mental gears grinding.

I reminded myself to play nice. For now.

Keeping my voice even, I locked eyes with her. “If my understanding is correct, Spiritual Leaders are the watchers of the space between.”

I gestured toward Eric. “Like us, Deliverance Warriors, we exist in both the physical and spiritual realms. So what exactly makes us different from them?”

Lady Elsa’s hands folded neatly as she leaned forward, meeting my challenge with a calm, practiced ease. “Spiritual Leaders ensure that all things spiritual within the sects run smoothly. We enforce the laws that govern spirits, just as the Tribunal enforces laws for humans. Unlike warriors, we do more than fight.”

I mirrored her stance, resting my elbows on the table, fingers intertwined. “As I understand it, Spiritual Leaders also engage in battle, just not in the way we do. Your fights are silent but devastating, like ours, so again, what sets us apart?”

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Because normal warriors cannot barter with otherworldly entities, whether friend or foe.”

She tapped a single finger against the wooden surface, the sound unnervingly precise. “The Tribunal may govern human affairs and sect law, but we enforce laws even they cannot override.”

That caught my attention.

I could almost hear the words forming in Eric’s mind before he spoke them. Shifting in his seat, his brows furrowed, he asked, “So you’re the balance between light and darkness? The guardians of sacred places? The keepers of forbidden knowledge?”

Lady Elsa’s smile didn’t widen, but something in her eyes gleamed. Amusement? A challenge?

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Then, after a beat, she added, “And unlike warriors, we decide what should remain hidden... and what should never have existed in the first place.”

The air in the room shifted. Colder, heavier.

A low hum vibrated against my ribs, the Living Scripture stirring against my skin, sensing something just out of reach.

Eric stiffened beside me, and I felt the silent exchange pass between us.

What exactly were they asking us to become?

Lady Elsa leaned forward just slightly, enough for only us to hear.

“You were never meant to stay what you are, Max. Not you… and certainly not him.”

Her gaze flicked to Eric, then to the glyphs pulsing faintly beneath my skin.

“The Judgment has already begun.”

Before I could ask what she meant, the torches lining the chamber dimmed… and one by one, the mirrors in the room turned to face us, on their own.

And in each reflection, I wasn’t alone.

So.
They bowed. They whispered.
But they never truly saw her. Not all of her. 

This chapter has always been one of my quiet favorites.
Not because of the fire or the fury, though those are sacred in their own way, but because of the restraint.
Because while Max burns, something… someone… breathes with her.

You likely noticed it: a silver thread, a flicker of green through the crowd, the coiling around her wrist.
Yes. That wasn’t random. But no, Max doesn’t know. Not yet.
She feels what her mind can’t name.
Because what woundburn with you silently, unseen.

Lady Elsa also enters here, calm, resolute, with veiled truths and unnerving timing.
She doesn’t speak loudly, but her words echo:

“You were never meant to stay what you are.”

As we cross from prophecy into preparation, remember…
The true war isn’t always fought in screams and swords.
Sometimes, it begins with a single insult, and the fire that answers it.

Thank you for reading with me through the flames.