The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 64: The Higher Priestess

The door shut behind her louder than the crack of the arrow.

Marcella stood in the corridor outside Berith’s study. Her hands trembled at her sides—fingers still remembering the burn of the heat that radiated from his skin, the way his arms had wrapped around her just seconds before to protect her.

And still, he lied.

Marcella walked on instinct, rushing down the grand hall, the hem of her lavender robe fluttering behind her. She didn’t look back. Not at the door she had slammed.

Marcella strode across her room to her wardrobe. She tore off the night robe, her hands almost desperate as they slid into the folds of a dark green gown. She belted it at the waist, breathing hard.

"Milady?" Lira’s voice came from the doorway, soft and worried.

"I need the carriage," Marcella said, not looking at her. "Now."

Lira paused, fidgeting with the end of her apron. "But... but you’ve only just woken.."

Marcella turned. "I need to see Sister Evelyne immediately."

"But His Grace..."

"I don’t care what Berith wants," she snapped, more harshly than she intended. "Please, Lira. Just the carriage."

The maid nodded, retreating at once.

Marcella’s eyes drifted to the frost-kissed windowpanes as she tied the last ribbon at the back of her gown. Somewhere out there, answers waited. And if Berith would not give them, then she would wrench them from the Light itself.

*****

The streets grew narrower as they approached the chapel district. The winter sky above cracked open with a pale shaft of sunlight, warming her face as the carriage pulled into the cobbled courtyard of the Grand Church.

Marcella descended before the footman could lower the step. She passed under the arched entry, her breath misting in the cold cathedral air.

Sister Evelyne stood at the far end of the nave, lighting a line of candles along the altar. The flame flickered like distant stars in a midnight sky. She turned, the soft fabric of her pale golden robes shifting with the light.

She blinked in surprise, her hand still hovering near the final candle. "My lady," she said softly. "You’ve returned."

Marcella hesitated—just for a breath—then crossed the distance between them and embraced the priestess.

Evelyne’s arms tightened around her, warm and firm. "You’ve grown," she murmured. "But your soul still trembles like the girl who used to sneak into the sanctuary for midnight prayers."

Marcella pulled back, her throat dry. "And you haven’t aged a day."

"Flattery?" Evelyne smiled, but her eyes narrowed gently in concern. "You weren’t expected. Your father never mentioned your return. Is everything well? How was your stay in Ashenholt?"

Marcella’s gaze dropped to the flickering candlelight. "It was peaceful... until it wasn’t." She looked up despite the churning in her chest. "Sister, I’ll tell you everything. But more than anything, I need to speak with you. Something has happened."

The softness in Evelyne’s expression hardened into solemn understanding. She gave a slight nod. "Come. Speak freely, my lady."

They moved beyond the altar into the sanctuary chamber. A fire crackled in the hearth, and Marcella stood before it, letting its warmth seep into her skin.

"The Montclairs had organized the Flameball, it was going well until a bell rang which lured the Flame inside me and soon, I found myself in Black Vale." Marcella began.

Evelyne said nothing, only listened, her hands clasped before her.

"They were waiting for me," Marcella continued, her breath faltering. "Demons, Sister. I saw their eyes before I saw their forms. I felt them burn my soul; they were trying to...offer me. They called me ’the offering’ and then they bound me in the circle." Her eyes closed briefly. "I would have died."

For the first time, Evelyne flinched.

"You know something?"

Evelyne whispered, as though afraid the walls themselves might hear. "He is awakening."

Marcella’s breath caught. "Who?"

"The one they call Lord. The Devil Lord. He is the one who reigned and created havoc in the mortal world century ago before being sealed by the High Priestess Seraphyne. You’ve read the texts, yes?"

"Yes, but... those were myths."

"No." Evelyne’s eyes locked with hers. "Truth buried in time. It was the High Priestess Calithra who stopped him at the cost of her life." Evelyne touched the stone gently. "She alone bore the Ashen Flame. The only divine fire strong enough to burn void itself. She sealed him, but in doing so, she burned away her own life."

Marcella felt something twist inside her. Her chest tightened at the mention of the legendary priestess. The martyr of myth. The woman who, centuries ago, stood alone before the dark armies and brought down the unkillable.

It was her flame that Marcella bore now. "By any chance, am I connected to her?"

Evelyne turned to face her. "You alone survived the sealing. You bear the mark, even if you cannot see it. The Ashen Flame lives within you now. That is why you were lured to the Black Vale." She sighed, "You didn’t seal the Flame out of your choice, but the circumstances were made like that for you to choose the Flame."

"Then what about the devil?"

"You’re connected to his end. That’s why they want you. That’s why they summoned you. The Ashen Flame was the only thing capable of sealing him, and now, the last bearer of that flame walks the world again."

"So I’m the seal," Marcella whispered, horror blooming behind her ribs. "And if they kill me.."

"They don’t want to kill you," Evelyne said grimly. "They want to offer you, sacrifice you willingly to awaken him. The flame within you is the key to break the seal. To bring him back."

A chill swept through Marcella’s bones. Willingly. The word echoed with monstrous intent. Whoever they were, they didn’t need her death. They needed her submission. Her surrender.

Her betrayal of everything the higher priestesses had once died for.

"That’s why you survived Black Vale," Evelyne continued. "They couldn’t fully claim you."

Marcella staggered back a step, the gravity of it crashing down. She clutched her arms as if she could smother the flame pulsing inside her.

A prisoner inside her own body.

"But why now?" she asked hoarsely.

"Because the stars have shifted," Evelyne said with a haunted look. "Because the time of awakening is here again just as it was written. The prophecy wasn’t just about him returning..it was about the bearer of the Ashen Flame being born anew in the age of collapse. That bearer is you, my lady. Whether we wish it or not."

"Who are they, Sister? Who would do this?"

Evelyne hesitated. "I... I don’t know." Her brows furrowed, aged and wise eyes searching Marcella’s face. "But there are fragments from broken scrolls about a demonic cult. Hidden, ancient, and relentless. They’ve been working in the shadows for centuries, working to break the seal to bring their ’Lord’ back."

Marcella’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. "A cult?"

Evelyne nodded grimly. "Yes. One that predates even this church. Most of their records have been purged, burned, erased." She looked away, as if ashamed. "We were too late to save those who uncovered their truths. They vanished, every one of them. The last was a monk from Rhivenloch, he spoke of a circle of nobles who walked with demons. Weeks later, he slit his own throat in the middle of evening prayer. He had carved a flame into his chest..."

Marcella’s stomach twisted.

"But no one knows who they are now. They could be anyone, anywhere. The cult has no face. Only intent."

"And you think they lured me?" Marcella whispered.

"I’m certain of it."

"What about Berith? she asked, her voice barely holding. "He knew?"

"I believe he did," Evelyne said carefully. "He may not understand all of it, but he knows more than he lets on. He’s not just a gate sent to protect you, my lady."

Marcella turned back to her, fists clenched. "Then why does he act like I’m mad? Like none of this happened?"

"Because he fears what it means," Evelyne said. "Because you’re not just a girl he saved anymore. You’re the kindling to a fire that could end this world again."

Marcella closed her eyes.

Every moment since her return—Berith’s silence, his avoidance, the stares from the church walls—it all made sense now. They feared her.

No. Not her. The flame.

"Then what do I do, Sister?" she asked, helplessness trembling in her voice. "If I’m the key... do I wait until they come for me again? Until someone else tries to finish the summoning?"

Evelyne stepped forward and pulled her into a sudden, fierce embrace. For a moment, Marcella didn’t move.

Then her arms tightened around the priestess.

"You’re not alone," Evelyne whispered. "And you are not a sacrifice. I don’t care what fate says. We will find these cultists. We will burn them from the shadows they hide in. But you must be strong, my lady. Stronger than Calithra. Because this time, the flame is not a weapon."

She pulled back, placing a hand over Marcella’s heart.

"This time, the flame is you."