The flame that believes

They called her mad.

Not with cruelty—no, the temple priesthood was far too polished for that. But with tilted heads and quiet pity. With sentences that ended in soft sighs.

> “Perhaps the strain of solitude has affected her…”

“Liora has always been a little too… spiritual.”

“She felt something? Yes, well, faith plays tricks.”

But she knew what she felt that night.

She knew the Goddess had returned.

Even if no one else did.

Liora stood alone before the great inner shrine. Morning sun filtered through the stained glass, casting sacred patterns over her face—roses, stars, doves, threads. Her hands trembled slightly as she rearranged the fresh moonblossoms on the altar.

> “You don’t need to appear,” she whispered to the air. “Just… stay.”

The goddess had not spoken since that first night.

But Liora still felt her—soft warmth brushing her shoulder, the way a single petal would float by when no wind stirred, or how the flames in the offering bowls curved toward her when she sang.

> “They don’t believe you’re here,” she said gently, placing one more blossom at the base of the crystal. “But that’s all right. I will believe enough for all of them.”

She remembered her mother’s voice, long ago in the temple nursery:

> “Faith, child, is not the absence of doubt. It is the choice to keep reaching through it.”

And Liora had reached all her life.

First blindly.

Then desperately.

And now… knowingly.

---

The high priest came to her again that day. Lord Vaeron—ancient, robed in red and white, his voice like dry parchment.

> “You’ve been… fervent, lately,” he said. “We appreciate your devotion, Liora, but visions unshared can cause confusion among the sisters.”

She kept her gaze respectful. “I’m not confused.”

> “Then what do you claim to have seen?”

“I didn’t see Her,” she answered. “I felt her. I heard her, in my soul.”

He gave a tight, almost patient smile. “So you heard a voice no one else did, in an empty temple, at midnight. Are you certain it was the goddess, and not… your longing?”

Liora hesitated—then smiled back, but without bitterness.

> “Even if it were just my longing… why would my longing know sorrow? Her voice was not prideful or holy. It was human. Afraid. Lonely. That’s how I know it was Her.”

The high priest blinked—clearly unsettled by her answer.

> “Then let us hope,” he said stiffly, “that your faith bears fruit.”

---

That evening, after all had gone to rest, Liora returned to the altar.

And knelt again.

> “They doubt you,” she whispered. “But that only means I must believe more.”

A soft breeze stirred her hair.

Then—just for a moment—a presence behind her.

Liora did not turn.

> “You’re listening again, aren’t you?” she said gently.

The candles flared.

The wind stilled.