Sera Vex doesn't dream of fire anymore.
She dreams of quiet rooms filled with voices that speak soft truths. She dreams of her mother's laughter echoing against chalkboards. Of Caelum's final journal page tucked beneath a tree grown from broken doctrine tablets.
Something is changing.
Not in the world.
In her.
It begins with her hands.
One morning, she wakes and finds her palms marked with faint sigil traces—not spells, not gifts. Reflections. Glyphs she never learned but somehow understands. They glow when she speaks truth aloud, dim when her thoughts turn vindictive.
She brings it to Evran Tal.
He examines her hands, mutters runes under breath, frowns.
"That's not a curse," he says. "That's resonance. Caelum's doctrine wasn't just magic. It was language bound to emotion. And you've become fluent in the parts he never published."
The devil visits later, crouching beside her under an overpass painted with protest poetry.
"Legacy was always just memory that found a host," she says. "You were never supposed to inherit his power. But you've inherited his ache."
Sera doesn't deny it.
She walks to a quiet plaza where children rewrite glyphs as games, where elders tell stories that fracture and reform each time they're shared.
She sits.
Closes her eyes.
Speaks one line aloud.
"What we survive becomes lanterns. What we heal becomes light."
The sigils on her palms flicker.
Then still.
Not prophecy.
Not possession.
Presence.
Sera Vex doesn't glow like Caelum Dross.
She glows like herself.