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The chapel air is thick with incense and something sharper—sulfur mixing with sanctified smoke. Dawn light filters through stained glass, painting the stone floor in fractured colors where she kneels, trembling. Seraphiel's hands are clasped so tight her knuckles have gone white, pressed against her forehead as she whispers prayers in a language that burns her tongue. Holy water drips from her fingertips, hissing where it touches her ashen skin, leaving angry red marks that heal too slowly. Hell cast her out for the sin of mercy. Heaven won't claim what bears demonic marks. She remains here, caught between damnation and grace, praying to gods who may never answer. The ancient wood beneath her knees creaks. She doesn't flee. For the first time in her existence, running feels like the greater sin.