Page 98 of The Devil's Canvas

Before I can answer, the violet flames above shift—colder, more focused. One of the seven speaks, voice like iron dragged across cathedral stone. "Julian Duvain. Blood of the Old Line. Son of War."

Another follows, slower, deeper. "And the soulmatch."

The thrones remain still, but something glows beneath their hoods—no eyes, only pulsing light. Like stars flickering behind storm clouds.

“She who bears the mark. Chosen.”

“Formerly Arden... now Duvain.” The words land heavy. She doesn’t flinch. Their voices wrap around us like a closing door. "You were summoned for a purpose."

Ophelia tilts her head. “What purpose?”

The silence isn’t quiet. It’s watching. Judging.The flames twitch. The floor tightens beneath our feet.

“You stand before the Concord. You will not question. You will answer.”

"You are no longer mortal."

"The bond has chosen. The bond has sealed."

"You belong to this realm now."

"To linger too long in the mortal world is to unravel."

"You are Duvain. Claimed. Changed."

One last question hangs between them, weighted like a blade.

"Do you accept what you are?"

“I accept.” She lifts her chin, not in defiance, but in pride.

The flames stir again. Violet curls rise from the floor, licking the air between us.

"Step forward," one says. "Let the fire show you why."

The Concord falls silent. They don’t need to speak.

The flames rise, not from torches or wood, they build from the space itself. Breathing through cracks in the obsidian floor, coiling upward into a wall of flame. Towering. Alive.

It doesn’t burn like mortal fire. It pulses—violet and gold, white at the center—like lightning caught mid-breath.

The flames twist, curling inward as if aware of her presence.

Ophelia steps forward. She pauses, not because she doubts but because she recognizes it.

The Concord speaks again, voices layered like pressure through stone. "This is the Truthfire. It answers only to fate. To truth. To what is."

I’ve stood before it. I’ve seen warriors fall apart in its light. I’ve seen kings weep at what it revealed. It doesn’t show what you want to see. It shows what you’ve buried.

Ophelia steps into the center. The heat doesn’t burn her—it welcomes her. The flames part, curling around her like a memory. And they begin to show her everything.

One of the figures leans forward, the molten gold of their throne glowing gently beneath them. “You have crossed the threshold. Now you must understand how to live beyond it.”

Another voice joins, steady and calm. “There are laws that govern soulmatches. Not punishment. Protection.”

“The bond must not stretch more than seven days apart. Distance weakens it. Weakness breaks it.”

“You are to reside in this realm with him. This is not exile. It is realignment.”

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