Page 127 of Thunder's Reckoning

Good.

Because that’s exactly where we were headed.

Then, for just a moment, the world went still. No engines. No footsteps. Just the storm buildin’ above us and the sound of my own heartbeat poundin’ in my ears. I dropped my head, shut my eyes, and let a breath out through clenched teeth.

“Momma,” I muttered, low enough nobody else heard. “You pulled me out once. Kept me breathin’ when I didn’t deserve it. I need you ridin’ with me now. Watch over her. Over the kids. Over me.”

My throat tightened, but I forced the words anyway. “I’ll bring ‘em home, Momma. One way or another.”

When I lifted my head, the storm wind caught my cut, snapping it like a banner. My brothers were watchin’, waitin’. And I was done prayin’.

It was time to move.

Then, for just a moment, the world went still. No engines. No footsteps. Just the storm buildin’ above us and the sound of my own heartbeat poundin’ in my ears. I dropped my head, shut my eyes, and let a breath out through clenched teeth.

“Momma,” I muttered, low enough nobody else heard. “I know you’re in there. I know you’re holdin’ strong like you always done. You pulled me out once, kept me breathin’ when the fire tried to eat me alive. I swear to you, I’m comin’ back for you this time.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

THE DOORS OPENEDwith a groan that felt too alive,like the building itself had been waiting for this moment, aching to swallow me whole.

I stepped into the Flame Hall barefoot, veiled and robed, though it felt less like ceremony and more like burial. The stone floor was cold, polished smooth by decades of kneeling, by countless bodies pressed down in obedience until their bones gave. Every step carried me deeper into memory I wished I could scrape from my skin.

The air was thick, oppressive, a mix of smoke and incense—frankincense, myrrh, and something sharper beneath. Metallic. Acrid. It burned the back of my throat and sat heavy in my chest, a warning wrapped in devotion. I kept my breathing shallow, calm, though each inhale dragged chains tighter around my ribs.

The hall was full.

They sat in rows—men, women, children—all dressed in white. All silent. Their faces were carved into masks, eyes vacant, hollowed by years of fire and fear. Not blank, not unaware—hollow, like they’d been emptied out and filled again with nothing but obedience. They didn’t whisper. Didn’t shift. Just watched.

And in the stillness, I felt it, the weight of their judgment. The men’s eyes slid over me with calculation, measuring my worth the way they’d measure the strength of a horse or the purity of water. The women’s gazes were cutting, brittle with jealousy, with bitterness that cut deeper than knives. And the children… God, the children. They didn’t blink. Their little mouths moved in prayer, words pressed into them so young they couldn’t remember a time they hadn’t spoken them. They stared like this was a story they’d been told a hundred times, now played out in flesh. I searched for Zara and Malik, but couldn’t see them.

At the front, the dais loomed larger than I remembered, the altar wider, the flame behind it taller, caged in iron and fed by a blackened funnel of stone. Gabrial had changed it, built it up, made it monstrous. More spectacle. More hunger. He’d always needed the fire to be as large as his ego.

And there he was.

He stood beside it, robe red as blood, gold embroidery catching the firelight like it was alive, like it was writing scripture across his body. His eyes found mine, glittering too bright, too intense, like something unholy had crawled behind them andmade itself at home. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His silence pressed down heavier than the hall itself.

My feet stopped at the base of the steps.

My heart thundered in my chest, fast and disobedient, loud enough I swore the whole room could hear. The veil clung to my damp skin, a shroud I couldn’t shake off. And then I saw it.

A vial.

Small. Glass. Set carefully on the altar as though it had always belonged there. But it hadn’t. Not before. Not ever.

My stomach turned, bile rising quick and burning. I didn’t know what was inside, but I knew it was meant for me. And I knew it wasn’t mercy.

Gabrial stepped forward, each movement slow, measured, like he was walking the spine of a prayer. His voice, when it came, was soft. Too soft.

“Sable,” he said, reverent, like he was speaking my name as scripture. “The Flame remembers you.”

I stayed silent. Silence was safer. Silence was survival.

He descended the steps, hands open at his sides, posture crafted to look like peace, like kindness. The congregation watched without blinking. A sea of stillness.

“This is not punishment,” he said, warm enough to rot. “This is return. You were chosen once. You were meant to burn bright and faithful. Though you strayed, the fire still waits. Still longs for you.”

He turned toward the iron-caged blaze, raising one hand as if introducing me to a god. “This fire does not judge. It cleanses. It does not hate. It purifies.”