The Last Strokes Of Divine

The room was quiet when Soleil returned, the kind of stillness that made the walls feel like they were listening.

She closed the door softly behind her and stood there for a moment, staring into the space that had once been bare and impersonal and now marked by the faint presence of her things. It was empty , after all she had nothing only her blankets. but it had her scent .

And then she saw it.

Laid neatly on her little bed was a scroll.

The parchment was thick and cream-colored, the kind only used for inner court instructions

Her throat tightened.

She picked it up carefully and unrolled it.

"Personal servant to his Imperial Majesty ".written boldly on the parchment

Her eyes scanned the list of duties.

It was straightforward but somehow heavier than anything she'd done so far.

She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, the paper trembling slightly in her hand. Her eyes scanned the schedule again and again, trying to read between every line, every opening. Most of the tasks were ordinary, but the timing especially the evening hours near the meditation half left narrow windows when she might not be directly observed.

But her eyes lingered on a single line near the bottom:

"Bearer of this schedule is granted upper wings passage at all hours unless specifically revoked" .

Upper wing passage, that includes the corridor leading to the sanctum doors.

If she could memorize the patrol patterns. If she could find out which guards rotated and when. If she could fake the need to retrieve or deliver something just beyond the sanctum arch…

Then maybe just maybe she could slip through.

Her fingers ran over the edges of the scroll. It was starting to feel real again, this sliver of escape, the idea that maybe fate hadn't closed its last door on her after all.

But she would have to be perfect.

No mistakes. No hesitation.

The sky was fading into evening, bathed in deep rose and soft indigo, as Soleil stood just outside the threshold of the Upper Sanctum Wing.

Her fingers brushed over the folded work schedule tucked into the lining of her new uniform. The dark fabric felt too fine, too heavy, and far too official. A small embroidered emblem of the Black Flame was stitched near the collar. It burned against her skin like a secret.

She wasn't due to report to the emperor's chambers for another half hour.

Which meant… if she moved carefully and quietly, this might be her only chance.

Soleil stepped into the corridor.

Unlike the bustling Noble Wing or the warm glow of the servants' quarters, the Upper Sanctum Wing was silent. The air was cooler here, touched by some unseen magic. The walls were high and pale, lined with sculpted columns and oil lamps that burned without smoke or scent.

She kept her head down, footsteps light. She passed elegant doors etched with personal sigils, private suites for nobles, visiting dignitaries, and upper court advisors. Beyond them were the Emperor's personal chambers, the ones she'd soon be entering as his servant.

But that wasn't her destination now.

She needed to find the path that led to the Sanctum.

The rumors had said it was sealed. That the doors would only open to those bearing the right sigil, or divine attunement. She had neither.

But the Black Flame seal on her collar it might just be enough to get her close.

She walked deeper into the hall, being careful while taking note of side paths, and the rhythm of guard rotations. There weren't many up here, only two that she passed, both giving her a brief glance before nodding and moving on. Her uniform did the talking.

Just a servant, their eyes said. No threat.

She turned down a another passage hall lined with glass lanterns. The light here was dimmer, almost bluish in tone. The air colder.

Then she saw it.

The Sanctum.

She stepped closer, slowly and finally she was here.

The corridor was quiet. Almost too quiet.

Soleil stood before the Sanctum doors, heart pounding in her ears. No guards. No footsteps. Just the deep hush of the Upper Wing at twilight. A golden glow from the hallway lanterns lit the carved duskwood doors in a soft shimmer.

She glanced over her shoulder one last time.

Then, with a breath held tight in her chest, she stepped forward and reached for the serpent-shaped handles.

Warmth flickered under her collar where the Black Flame sigil was stitched into her uniform.

The doors opened. Smooth. Silent.

Soleil slipped inside.

The Inner Sanctum was vast, round like a temple, and impossibly still. The floor was polished black stone that shimmered like water. The high ceiling arched into a dome painted with constellations and swirling lines of silver and flame. Strange symbols marked the walls, divine marks she didn't understand.

She walked slowly, careful not to let her shoes tap too loud.

Every part of her was alert.

She passed ancient relics sealed in glass. brushes, ink pots, chipped palettes that pulsed faintly with hidden magic. One of them had a feathered handle that hummed softly as she passed. Another had carvings that changed shape when she blinked.

Everything here breathed with power. Old power. Sacred power.

And then she saw it.

Not far from the center of the Sanctum, resting on a raised celestine pedestal like it had been waiting for her all along, the Divine Brush.

It shimmered with light. Bristles like strands of silver starlight, its handle made of a dark, smooth wood, streaked with veins of glowing ink and fire. It looked alive. It felt alive.

Something inside her stirred.

A pull. Like it was calling her by name, not aloud, but inside her chest, deep and unmistakable.

She stepped forward.

One step.

Another.

The closer she got, the more her breath caught in her throat. Her hands trembled. Her heartbeat echoed in her skull.

She reached out, fingers hovering just above the brush.

And everything shattered.

The pain hit like lightning.

Her head snapped back, and suddenly a thousand voices screamed inside her mind. Words in no language she understood. Cries. Whispers. Songs. Screeches. Memories that weren't hers flashing through her, images of fire, of color, of someone painting the sky with their bare hands. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed hard onto the cold floor.

She gasped, trying to breathe, but the air felt too thick. The room tilted sideways. The walls warped like melting paint. Shapes moved in the shadows, dancing on the edges of her vision.

The brush still glowed on the pedestal.

She should've run.

She couldn't.

The voices were so loud now, filling every part of her until she couldn't hear her own thoughts anymore. Her chest ached. Her hands clutched at her head, nails digging into her scalp. It was too much. It hurt too much.

She was slipping, falling into something she couldn't control.

Make it stop.

Then a sudden warmth engulfed her.

Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her upright against a solid chest. The world still spun, but the voices dimmed, as if muffled by the warmth enclosing her.

"Azeriah!"

A voice. Real. Urgent.

"Look at me."

The panic in the voice cut through the noise in her head like a thread of light.

"Azeriah!"

Her vision was blurred she could barely make out the features in front of her. Gold flickers danced at the edges. She tried to focus, tried to speak, but the pain was too much.

Everything tilted.

The last thing she felt before darkness claimed her was the warmth of his hand pressed to the back of her head, steadying her. The faint scent of ash and night-blooming lilies.

Then the world went still.