02 - Embers of Penance by Neosate < Submission | Inkbunny, the Furry Art Community

Keywords pathfinder 880, justice 247, catfolk 162, magus 69, forgiveness 66, murcy 1, god interaction 1

“Embers of Penance”

Prologue – The Vault Beneath Katapesh

The heat of Katapesh was different from the fire that danced beneath Striker’s skin.

Here, the sun beat down like a hammer on a smith’s forge, the sky cracked with dust, and the scent of incense and spice choked the air like memory. The white domes of the Temple of Sarenrae gleamed above him—pure, untouchable. But beneath that sanctified splendor, something wept.

Striker stood in the temple’s outer courtyard, garbed in traveling leathers blackened at the edges by distant flame. His horns—twisted like a jacob’s sheep—cast shadows like broken promises. None here knew him. The priests passed him like any other dust-tracked pilgrim, offering him polite warmth and curious glances… but no recognition.

Even the Martyr’s Shield—strapped to his back and grumbling faintly—had fallen silent.

The Watch of Lost Ages, however, ticked.

Its hands moved not with time, but intention.

And they pointed down.

Chapter I – “The Fire That Regrets”

He was granted no audience. No visions. No miraculous insight. Just silence.
Until dusk.

A novice—no older than seventeen—approached him at the garden’s edge. Her robe was stained with sandalwood ash, and her face was framed by sun-bleached curls.

“Traveler,” she said cautiously, “you’ve sat unmoving since noon. May I…?”

Striker’s voice was gravel and wildfire. “There is a vault below this temple. One sealed with fire and forgotten shame.”

The girl blinked. “That’s… that’s heresy. The Dawnflower has no shame.”

Striker turned to her, his eyes aglow with inner flame.

“Then why does she chain her silence beneath stone?”

Chapter II – “Penancebound”

That night, Striker moved with purpose through the temple’s forbidden arteries, guided not by map or memory, but by the insistent ticking of the Watch of Lost Ages. It pulsed like a second heartbeat, each tick a whisper leading him down forgotten stairs veiled in divine fire.

The flames guarding the final threshold did not resist him.

They parted like breath in winter.

The air beneath the Temple of Sarenrae was thick—too still for flame, too warm for life. Runes pulsed along the stone like veins in scar tissue. The light here had a weight, not radiant but remorseful.

And in its center: her.

Suspended in an arching crucible of golden flame and unbreaking chains, the figure hung in silence. Wings of ash-colored light drooped at her sides. Her eyes were closed, her face turned downward—not in shame, but in penance.
Striker approached slowly. His horns scraped the edge of a halo etched into the stone above.

“You’re not guarding anything,” he said aloud. “You’re what they buried.”

The figure stirred. Barely. Her lips parted like a prayer interrupted.

“I am what was left behind.”

Her voice echoed—not loud, but vast. Each word fell with the weight of an oath undone.

Striker’s gaze burned. “You know who I am.”

“I know what you carry.”

He stopped a few paces away, the heat of his body clashing with the divine aura. The chains around her shimmered, reacting—not resisting, but weakening.

He felt the pull in his bones. The curse here was not meant to hold him back.

It was meant to open before him.

“Then say it,” he demanded. “Tell me what I am.”

She looked up.

And for the first time, their eyes met.

“You are the ember of a god’s regret… and the silence I let speak in my place.”
Striker’s jaw clenched. The Watch ticked louder.

“Stop speaking in riddles. I’ve heard enough of that from the Fey. Give me something real. A name. Yours.”
The silence broke like brittle glass.

“I was once called… Lirael.”

Striker stepped closer. His tail flicked once, a sharp motion.

“Why are you bound here, Lirael?”

“Because I chose inaction. I watched a moment that should have been sacred… and let it be stolen. I did not stop her.”

“Her?”

“The one who shaped you. Who tore the ember from mercy’s breath. I knew what she was doing, and I let it happen.”

Striker's breath caught in his chest. The air felt too thick.

“You could have stopped it.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

The heat between them pulsed like a forge flare. Striker turned away for a heartbeat, his claws curling into his palms.

“I’ve bled to find out who I am. And you—you watched it happen?”

Lirael didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

The chains around her flared again. One shivered. A single link cracked, gold flaking from the edge.

“You let someone take my soul,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And now I’m the only one who can walk through your prison.”

He looked up at her again, eyes glowing with restrained fury and something else—grief, maybe.

“Why?”

Her reply came like a confession etched into fire.

“Because the one who took it did not lie. And I... did not speak.”

A long silence passed between them. Heavy. Endless.

Striker stood still, the Watch ticking louder than ever against his chest.

He did not move.

But he did not turn away.

Chapter III – “Trial of the Ember Vault”

The chamber held its breath.

Striker stood amid the fire-veined stone, the Watch of Lost Ages heavy in his grip. Its ticking had changed—no longer a cadence of time, but of decision. Across from him, Lirael dangled in silence, her divine chains trembling faintly in his presence.

"You could’ve stopped her," he said, voice low but sharp. "Whoever she was. The one who took… whatever it was she took."

“I could have,” Lirael said.

“But you didn’t.”

“I did not.”

His fingers tensed around the haft of his axe. The emberlight around him dimmed, pulled inward by something unseen.

“You let someone carve a life out of divine regret,” he said. “You watched her turn me into… whatever I am. And you said nothing.”

“I was not strong enough to speak.”

“No,” Striker growled, “you just didn’t want to bear the weight of doing it.”

Lirael’s gaze did not flinch. “And so I bear the weight of not.”

The walls of the chamber pulsed once—then again. The chains binding Lirael shivered violently.

Runes ignited along the floor, winding in spirals of gold and white. The Vault was no longer dormant. His presence had been enough to break its stillness. But his fury… that had woken it.

From behind the radiant seal at the far end of the chamber, the wall split open. Firelight poured through. Shapes moved within.

Tall. Radiant. Armored in divine sorrow.

Vaultbound Sentinels.

Three in number. Eyes like burning halos. Blades formed of chained scripture and unspoken vows. Their very presence dragged the temperature of the room into unbearable contradiction—heat and guilt, burning and breathlessness.

Lirael inhaled sharply, her voice taut. “Striker. You must leave.”

He didn’t budge.

“They’re here because of you,” he said coldly. “But they’ll come through me to reach you.”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “They’re here because of us. You opened what was meant never to be touched. I broke the oath that guarded it. Judgment comes for both.”

The Sentinels raised their blades.

"	“The Emberbound Oath has stirred the sealed flame.” “The anomaly bears the unclaimed spark.” “Judgment: Activated.”

The first moved with terrifying swiftness.

Striker responded in kind—Retribution bursting into flame, his body flowing into the stance of Arcane Cascade. Sparks hissed against the walls as he intercepted the creature mid-strike, blade clashing with radiant steel. Fire poured from the axe’s edge as spell and steel became one.

The Sentinel didn’t bleed. It screamed—a sound not of pain, but of memory.

As it staggered back, a pulse of energy struck Striker’s chest. The Watch in his palm flared.

And for a blink of a heartbeat—he saw her.

A woman of impossible beauty, shrouded in twilight and envy, holding something glowing in her arms. A flickering flame. A heartbeat. His heartbeat.

She whispered something.

But no name came with it.

He reeled, the vision vanishing as quickly as it came.

Lirael’s voice rang behind him: “You are seeing her. The one I did not name.”

Striker turned, breath ragged. “Who is she?”

“I do not know her name,” Lirael said. “Only the echo of what she took. The spark of Sarenrae’s regret. The moment of mercy unclaimed. And you were shaped from it.”

More Sentinels surged forward.

Combat Encounter: The Flame That Judges

Striker spun through them like a falling star, his body low, axe high, cloak trailing embers. Their attacks were relentless—sword-strokes that punished sin, pulses of light that tried to rewrite memory.

But nothing they cast could unmake him. Because they did not know his name either.

Only the shape of his existence.

And the wound he carried.

Lirael’s Chains Break

As Striker fought, divine flame roared around him, channeled through the arc of his two-handed axe. Each swing of Retribution shattered radiant scripture and divine light, but it came at a cost. The Vaultbound Sentinels were relentless—not monsters of wrath, but instruments of judgment.

Behind him, the chains around Lirael pulsed with stress, the radiant links weakening—because of him. Every blow he landed, every truth forced into the air, unraveled her bindings a little more.

Then the third Sentinel shifted its focus.

It turned from Striker—toward Lirael.

One long, blazing blade raised in absolute stillness. No malice. Just decree.

She did not flinch.

Striker saw it. Too far. Too fast.

He couldn’t reach her in time.

So he made a different choice.

With a roar, he drove his axe into the stone floor—embedding Retribution like a lightning rod. One hand still on the haft, he pulled the Watch of Lost Ages from his belt with the other and slammed it into the carved glyph beneath Lirael’s feet.

The glyph flared. Time cracked.

The entire vault groaned under the strain.

The Sentinel’s blade halted mid-swing—as if arrested mid-moment. Reality shuddered, locked between seconds.

The Watch clicked once.

And Lirael’s final chain shattered.

She fell to one knee, radiant wings unfurling behind her like sunrise breaking through ash.

Striker yanked Retribution free with both hands and turned to face the now-still Sentinels, his stance wide, fire curling from the blade.

Lirael stood slowly. Her voice was quiet, heavy with awe.

“You chose to protect the one who let you be broken.”

He didn’t look at her. “No. I chose to finish this on my terms. I’ve spent enough of my life being someone else’s consequence.”

The Watch fell silent.

The Vaultbound lowered their weapons.

The chamber dimmed.

And in that hush, Striker faced the one being who might finally tell him why he was forged from mercy—and what remains of a soul shaped by silence.

Chapter IV – “The Weight of Unchaining”

Lirael rose slowly from where she knelt, her wings unfurling behind her like banners of broken dawn. Each feather shimmered with tempered light—no longer weeping, but unsure. The divine chains that had bound her for centuries clattered lifelessly to the ground, their radiant links hissing and fading as they touched the stone.

She did not speak at first.

She simply stood.

Felt.

The chamber no longer pulsed with divine restraint. The sentinels had returned to stillness—unmoving but watching, bound now by a silence even they did not defy. The Watch of Lost Ages lay dormant at Striker’s feet.

And yet, the fire in the room remained.

Because Striker still stood—both hands wrapped tight around Retribution’s haft, his stance wary. Guarded.

He didn’t offer her comfort.

Didn’t offer forgiveness.

He offered her the space to speak.

At last, she did.

“I thought it would feel… lighter,” she said, her voice trembling like a hymn recalled after long silence. “To stand. To breathe unbound.”

Striker’s eyes didn’t leave her. “Does it?”

She shook her head. “No. It feels heavier than the chains.”

A quiet hung between them, filled only by the crackle of residual flame.

Lirael stepped toward the fallen links. Each one flickered with remnants of divine fire, like discarded halos. She bent to pick one up—only to flinch.

“They won’t burn you,” Striker said flatly.

“They should,” she replied.

He tilted his head. “Is that why you stayed down here? Guilt?”

“No. Not guilt.” She straightened slowly, still staring at the fractured chain in her hands. “Responsibility. I made no vow to conceal her theft. But I made none to stop it either. And for one like me, silence is a vow.”
Striker’s brow furrowed. “You keep saying she. Who was she?”

“I told you—I don’t know her name,” Lirael said, sorrow bleeding into each word. “I only know what she stole. A moment of divine hesitation. A fragment of mercy never meant to become flesh. A shard of Sarenrae’s regret, stolen as flame… and shaped into you.”

She looked at him then, her eyes shining—not with tears, but with mourning.

“You were never supposed to be. And yet here you stand—more whole than anything I ever judged.”
Striker shifted his grip on the axe. “I’m not whole.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you are real.”

The flamelight danced between them. Striker felt the ache of something old stir in his chest. Not memory. Not anger.

Loneliness.

“You knew I existed this whole time,” he said. “You stayed here, under a temple that would’ve hunted me for heresy if they knew what I was. Why?”

Lirael hesitated. Her wings dimmed slightly.

“Because I wasn’t meant to reach for you. Part of my punishment was not just being bound—but being silent. No lies. No truths. Not unless asked.”

Striker’s tail lashed once.

“So now I’m asking. What am I to you?”
Lirael looked up—really looked at him. Her expression, so often a mask of divine stillness, cracked at the edges.

“You are a reckoning I tried to avoid. A soul I allowed to be formed through inaction. I could not be your judge, nor your guide. Only your witness.”

“And now?”

“Now…” Her voice softened, like ash after fire. “Now, I would ask to be your companion. For however long you allow it.”

He didn’t answer right away.

His heart beat like a forge hammer in his chest.

He had chased truth like prey, bled across planes for memory, cleaved through shadows of himself—and now, before him stood the only being alive who had seen his first breath.

And done nothing.

“You can walk beside me,” he said at last, voice a rasp of tempered steel. “But don’t mistake that for trust.”

Lirael bowed her head. “I would not ask for what I’ve not earned.”

Striker turned toward the spiral stair leading back up—toward a temple still cloaked in silence. Behind him, Lirael’s first footstep echoed like a bell tolling mercy.

The Watch of Lost Ages began ticking again.

Not quickly.

Not slowly.

Just forward.

Chapter V – “Sunlight Casts Long Shadows”

The stairwell burned with light that was not fire.

As Striker climbed from the Vault’s deepest coils, Lirael walked behind him in silence. She did not hover or vanish. She walked. For the first time in centuries. Each step she took left behind faint golden traces that quickly faded, like sun-kisses on stone.

Striker’s grip tightened on Retribution, though the blade now rested against his back. He could feel Sarenrae’s judgment with every breath. Not wrath.

Expectation.

As they neared the surface, the golden-lit sanctum above grew louder—not with prayer, but alarm.

He crossed the final threshold into the Sanctum of the Dawn, where midday light fell through stained glass onto the
mosaic floor. It depicted the Dawnflower’s sword and flame held in balance, flanked by scales.

At least a dozen clergy stood ready.

Some bore incense and relics.

Others bore weapons.

“Step no further!” cried a high-voiced priestess, her veil trembling with panic. “What have you done? The seals—Lirael’s prison—you’ve broken it!”

Striker stepped into the mosaic light. His horned silhouette fell across the image of the sword.

“I didn’t break it,” he said, his voice cutting through the chamber. “It recognized me.”

The high priest, robed in gold and white, stepped forward—his tone restrained, but stern.

“Who are you?” he asked. “How did you breach divine boundaries meant to remain sealed for ten thousand years?”

Striker met his gaze. “I’m a servant of Sarenrae. I carry her fire. I fought in her name when you were still locking doors you didn’t understand.”

Murmurs echoed around the chamber.

“You desecrated the Vault.”

“She is unbound.”

“She could bring ruin—”

“I was already ruined!” Striker roared.

Flames flared across his shoulders. His Brightsoul aura erupted—sunlight through wildfire, casting the priests back a step.

“I bled through the First World chasing pieces of myself! I faced monsters born of my own soul! And all this time, you knew. You knew she was here—buried under your temple like a shame no one wanted to name.”

The high priest did not raise his voice. He raised his hand. Light shimmered over his palm—a cantrip of calm, not combat.

“We knew of Lirael. We knew of her failure. But we did not bury her.”

He turned toward the figure now standing in the threshold.

Lirael. Wings dimmed. Hands empty. Face uncovered.

The clergy gasped in collective awe and confusion.

“She chose imprisonment,” the high priest continued. “The vault was built at her request. To guard the flame she failed to protect. To accept judgment in solitude.”

“She failed to act,” Striker snapped. “And you failed to forgive.”

Lirael’s voice broke the tension like a blade through silk.

“They followed the law of our goddess. Justice, even in mercy. And I accepted it.”

Striker turned toward her, eyes blazing. “You accepted silence. They perpetuated it.”

He looked back to the clergy, voice lowering, yet heavier than before.

“Sarenrae is the goddess of redemption. Of truth. She doesn’t teach us to hide what we regret—she teaches us to face it.”

He stepped closer to the center of the mosaic.

“I am her flame. I’ve offered enemies to her light. I have burned lies with my own hands. And now I stand here, not as a threat—but as a question.”

A beat.

“Why did none of you ask what you were guarding?”

The younger priests lowered their gazes. One stepped back entirely.

The high priest closed his eyes.

And then—bowed.

Not deeply. But enough.

“You bear her fire,” he said. “And you speak in her truth. That compels us to listen.”
Striker nodded once, sharp and solemn.

“Then hear this: Lirael is free. Not because you permitted it. Not because she escaped. But because I forgave her enough to let her stand.”

The Watch of Lost Ages ticked once.

Lirael, still behind him, whispered, “And I forgive myself enough to remain.”

The high priest studied her long and hard.

Then turned to the gathered clergy. “Let it be known. The Emberbound Oath walks again. Not as prisoner. Not as exile. But as penitent. We shall not oppose her—nor the one who carries the ember.”

The tension cracked. Relief flooded the room like sunrise breaking over a long night.

Striker turned, wordless, and walked from the chamber, Lirael beside him.

As they stepped through the temple’s threshold, the sun greeted them without judgment.

Just light.

Chapter VI – “The Flame Still Judges”

They had only just reached the temple’s garden—where sun-warmed stone met the breeze of desert jasmine—when the sky changed.

It was not sudden.

There was no thunderclap, no rending of the heavens.

Only stillness.

The birds went quiet. The wind stopped.

And a single shaft of unchanging light struck the center of the courtyard, so pure it cast no shadow.

From within it stepped a figure in robes that shimmered like dawn through stained glass. Neither male nor female. Neither young nor old. Their face bore the serene weight of centuries. A single brand, glowing golden, was etched upon their brow:

☼

The Mark of the Dawnflower.

Lirael knelt before the figure without hesitation. She did not weep.

Striker took a single step forward—but said nothing.

The celestial did not look at him.

Only her.

“Lirael of the Emberbound,” the voice echoed—every word a slow toll of memory and flame. “By mercy you
remained silent. By justice you were bound. By compassion unearned, you have been freed.”

“I do not dispute it,” Lirael said, her voice firm despite the glow upon her shoulders.

“You do not need to,” the figure replied.

The light from the brand brightened, and when they spoke again, it was no longer in their own words.
It was Sarenrae’s.

“You will walk again, not as judge, nor herald, nor shield.
You shall bear no wing, no miracle, no tongue of cleansing fire.
Until the weight of what was lost is lifted not from your shoulders—but from his.”

“Until you understand the mercy you denied.
Until you can forgive the world for your own silence.
You shall walk as the mortals do.”

“And in doing so, become the kind of light that is chosen—not inherited.”

The light surged once, flooding the garden in brilliance.

And then it dimmed.

Lirael staggered—not from pain, but from weight. Her wings faded like dusk mist. Her divine glow fell away, leaving behind only the barest shimmer in her eyes.

She looked… mortal.

The celestial turned to Striker then, not with threat, but recognition.

“You carry the ember still. You carry her silence within your fire. Until her path is walked clean, you are her witness—and her flame.”

Striker said nothing. But he nodded once.

That was enough.

The celestial turned back to Lirael.

“Your road begins again. Not in judgment, but in service.”

And with that, the figure vanished—drawn upward into a column of unbreaking light that folded inward and left only sunlight behind.

Lirael fell to one knee.

Striker walked to her side and extended a hand—not to lift her.

But to keep her steady.

“Looks like we’re both walking forward with less than we deserve,” he said.

Lirael looked up at him, her eyes filled with sorrow, yes—but also something softer.

Hope.

“I will not fail again,” she said.

Striker gave the faintest smirk, the heat of his soul flickering in the corner of his eyes.

“Then let’s walk.”

They stepped beyond the temple’s gate together.

Two figures. One mortal by birth, the other by judgment.

Bound not by chains.

But by flame.

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02 - Embers of Penance

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