The Pyre

The Cathedral Square was packed. The mood was ugly. The people who had worshipped Elara a month ago were now jeering at her, terrified by the stories Kaelen had spread of her necromancy.

Elara was tied to a wooden stake in the center of the square. Piles of dry wood were stacked to her waist.

The Holy Wards around the square were humming, a dome of gold light that blocked all shadow. Xylia couldn't get in.

Elara could feel Xylia pacing outside the barrier, a storm of rage and grief battering against the holy magic.

* My bride! Let me in! I will break the world to get to you!*

"You can't," Elara whispered. "The light is too strong."

Kaelen stood before her holding a torch. He looked sad. It was a perfect performance.

"I loved you, Elara," he lied, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "But I cannot let the monster inside you live."

He lowered the torch.

The wood caught instantly.

The heat rose. The smoke choked her.

Elara looked at the flames. She thought of her life. She had been the Saintess. The Helper. The Sacrifice. She had always waited for someone else to tell her she was worthy. She had waited for Kaelen. She had waited for Xylia.

But Xylia was blocked. And Kaelen was killing her.

* I am going to die waiting,* Elara realized.

A cold, hard clarity settled over her.

She didn't need to be saved. She didn't need a hero. She didn't even need a goddess to hold her hand.

She needed to burn the world down.

"Xylia," Elara called out, not with her voice, but with her soul. "Stop trying to break the wall."

* Elara?*

"I am the door," Elara thought. "I am the breach."

She closed her eyes. She didn't push the pain away. She grabbed it. The betrayal. The fall. The fire burning her legs.

She offered it all to the Void. Not as a plea, but as fuel.

"I am not the Saint," Elara screamed, her voice changing, deepening, becoming a legion. "I AM THE VOID!"

She pulled. She pulled Xylia *through* the bond in her soul, bypassing the physical wards. She turned her own body into a portal.