The faint morning light gave a hint of the worn Sunday clothes that Valentina's mother had carefully laid out for her daughters. The kitchen was already bustling with activity. Her father had already taken care of the animals and Colm had been woken up first, as he took a particularly long time in the morning and didn't see the point in being quiet when he was thrown out of bed at the crack of dawn.

  "Get up, girls!" their mother called out to them. "The Ember won't wait!"

  "Ah, the weekly circus begins," Vyxara mocked in Valentina's head. "Let's see how the good little sheep dress up to pay homage to the Martyr."

  Still yawning, Valentina just let the demon talk and helped Adeline put on one of her best dresses – a simple green gown that her mother had sewn from an old skirt belonging to her older sister Cecily. The seams were barely visible thanks to her mother's skillful needlework. Like her little daughter of the same name, she was a master with the needle through long practice.

  "Thomas, come here!" they heard their mother wrestling with the two-year-old downstairs. "You have to put on your good clothes!"

  "No!" screeched Thomas. "Don't want to! Scratch!"

  "I'll help you, Mother," cried little Mabel and hurried over to them to help her mother squeeze the unruly Thomas into his Sunday best.

  Valentina tied her long brown hair into a simple plait. She didn't want to wear the traditional Martyr braids. She was no longer a little girl. She had thought about wearing one of the more elegant braided hairstyles she had learned at Bridgewater, but that would only have attracted unnecessary attention.

  "How diplomatic of you," Vyxara remarked dryly. "Although I bet your little demonstration with Brentwood has already attracted more attention than any hairstyle could."

  "Probably yes. But still," Valentina thought back. Downstairs, her mother had finally taken Thomas on. "Hold still, little one. The Martyr wants us to be on our best behavior."

  "Martyr scratches!" protested Thomas, while his mother tried to tame his stubborn hair.

  Valentina had to smile. She remembered how she had always resisted the stiff Sunday dresses as a child. The coarse fabric had scratched her skin and the tight collars had felt like they left strangulation marks.

  When she finished and came into the kitchen, she saw her mother already busy braiding Adeline's hair into the traditional Martyr braids. The practiced fingers moved quickly and precisely, shaping the complicated braid in a way that emphasized Adeline's best features.

  "Come here," said her mother when she had finished with Adeline. "Let me do your hair too."

  "That's not necessary, Mother," Valentina protested gently. "I can do it myself-"

  "Nonsense," her mother interrupted her firmly. "You're still my daughter."

  So Valentina sat down on the stool, sighing but obediently, and let her mother perform the familiar movements. The gentle hands in her hair brought back memories of countless mornings like this.

  "How touching," commented Vyxara. "The mighty Essence Weaver lets her mother braid her hair like a little girl."

  "Shut up," Valentina thought back. "Let me have this moment."

  Her father came in, already wearing his best shirt, deep red, showing its years despite numerous skillful touch-ups. "Is everyone ready? We should be on our way."

  The family stepped out into the cool morning. Other villagers were already on their way to the Flametower, their Sunday best a colorful patchwork of mended fabrics and carefully preserved heirlooms. They all greeted politely as they passed.

  Valentina felt the stares that followed her, heard the hushed whispers. A group of young girls giggled nervously as she passed by. One older woman looked over at them with a particularly judgmental gaze, like a fierce hawk.

  "... has put Brentwood on the run..." she heard someone mutter.

  "...say his sons cried like little children..."

  "...Essence Weaving in the middle of the yard..."

  "...here in Palewood, unheard of..."

  Thomas, who was hanging on their mother's arms, seemed to sense the tension. He snuggled closer to his mother and watched the villagers with wide eyes.

  "Look how they fear you," Vyxara whispered with relish. "The power of rumors is almost as sweet as power itself, isn't it?"

  The humble Flametower came into view, the puny wooden tower a pale shadow of the majestic Burning Tower of Bridgewater. But the eternal flame burned bright and steady, carefully tended by the village Ember Godwin.

  She could already see old Ember standing in the doorway, his worn once rust-colored robe now almost so faded that it looked yellowish. His alert eyes scrutinized the approaching worshippers.

  When his gaze fell on Valentina, he gave her a serious nod. She returned the gesture respectfully, even though she could hear Vyxara's mocking laughter in her head.

  "Oh, this is going to be interesting," said the demon, amused. "He's got that look – I bet he's come up with a very special sermon for you. Don't tell me, I recognize that sort, once they start babbling you can never get them to shut up. I can already hear him slobbering about the sins of the cities and trying to make us believe that evil is at home wherever there's more than a barn and three milk churns."

  "He's definitely not the only one you just can't get to shut up," Valentina thought, sighing inwardly, which only amused Vyxara even more.

  Together they entered the Flametower, which was little more than a sturdy wooden building with a small tower in which the eternal flame burned. The smell of incense and the oily smoke of the sacred flame mingled with that of the many candles that bathed the simple wooden benches along the walls in a warm light.

  "How modest," Vyxara mocked as she sat down on one of the benches with her family. "No wonder you were so impressed with Bridgewater. After the... rustic charm of this old dump, the university's Burning Tower must have seemed like a palace to you."

  Valentina helped her mother to hold Thomas on the bench. The little boy was fascinated by the dancing flames of the candles and kept trying to get up to see them better.

  The other villagers gradually filled the benches. She could see Old Martha with her three grandchildren, the blacksmith and his family, the Millers from the other side of the village. All in their best, albeit worn, clothes. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed some of them glancing over at her and then hastily looking away when she returned their gaze.

  Ember Godwin stepped in front of the assembled congregation. His robes may have faded, but his bearing radiated a natural dignity. He had handed them all the ashes, listened to their first prayers, accompanied their growing-up. Valentina remembered how he had told her the first stories about the Martyr as a child.

  "Brothers and sisters, beloved children of the Martyr," he began in his deep, familiar voice. "Today we have a special guest among us. Valentina, the daughter of our good Aldwin, has returned from Bridgewater and is once again in our midst."

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  A murmur went through the crowd. Valentina could feel everyone's eyes on her. She could have done without the personal address.

  "Oh, now it's getting theatrical," Vyxara commented with amusement. "Let's see what the old man has to say."

  "Her name reminds us of a great saint," Ember Godwin continued. "Saint Valentina, whose story seems particularly significant to us today. Let me tell you about her."

  His voice deepened, taking on the rhythmic tone of the experienced storyteller: "Almost 900 years ago, a young Kindle named Valentina lived in the great city of Rosavenna. In those days, the city-states of Northern Padavo were experiencing a golden age. Rosavenna, the city of marble spires, was famous for its skilled Essence Weavers and its wealth. Valentina, born into one of the richest merchant families, had given all this up to serve as a simple Kindle in the great Flametower and dedicate her life to the Martyr – much to the chagrin of her family."

  He paused, letting his gaze wander over the tense congregation. "The disaster began in the summer of that year. At first, there were only isolated reports from the surrounding villages. People who were afflicted by a strange fever. First they had high fevers, then cramps. But the worst came at the end – they were seized by an unnatural hunger, trying to devour everything they could find. And even after they died, their bodies did not decompose, remaining fresh under the hot Padavese sun."

  Thomas on his mother's lap became very still, his eyes wide. Ember Godwin continued: "The disease followed the trade routes between the cities. The more people fell ill, the greater the panic became. But Valentina, who had dedicated herself to caring for the poor and sick, recognized a pattern that had eluded everyone else – the disease spread fastest among the rich and powerful, those who drank imported wines and ate exotic foods."

  "How clever of him," Vyxara commented with amusement. "Combining this amateur epidemiology with criticism of the rich. That always goes down well."

  "Through prayer and the study of ancient writings in the Flametower's archives, Valentina discovered a terrible truth," Ember Godwin continued, his voice now more subdued. "A demon of gluttony and corruption had crept into several prominent merchant houses. The entity poisoned their wares with its corrupted Essence, feeding not only on the suffering of the diseased, but also on the fear and chaos that spread through Rosavenna's refined society as neighbor turned against neighbor and threatened to tear apart the bonds of civilization."

  "That's terribly crude," Vyxara remarked. "If I didn't know you humans so well, I'd be amazed that these stories full of obvious gaps in logic work so well on you."

  He stepped closer to the eternal flame. "The crisis reached its climax during the Feast of Summer's Height, when Rosavenna's most powerful families gathered at the Palace of the Legate. Valentina, who had been denied entry to the feast because of her insistent warnings about the imported wines, kept watch in the Flametower. Through her prayers, she foresaw what would happen – dozens of the city's most influential people would be turned into raging monsters at the same time."

  A collective intake of breath went through the congregation. Even the children, who usually got restless during sermons, sat completely in quiet.

  "But you have to hand it to him," said Vyxara approvingly. "He's a gifted storyteller. Amazing to see the heights of mastery you can reach when you've been telling people complete bollocks for decades.

  Valentina sighed inwardly as the Ember continued to speak, the audience hanging on his lips.

  "The guards wouldn't listen to her when she tried to stop the festival. So Valentina did the only thing she could do – she climbed to the top of the Flametower and began to pray and sing, pleading for the Martyr's intervention. Her voice, carrying an ancient hymn of the Martyr, echoed across the city. Those who witnessed it said the flame itself seemed to pulsate with her song."

  Ember Godwin's voice became reverent. "In that moment of complete surrender and desperate need, the miracle of Rosavenna occurred. The Martyr himself worked through Valentina. Her body began to glow with a holy fire that did not burn her flesh, and her voice carried a power that shook the foundations of the city. As she walked through Rosavenna's streets to the Palace of the Legate, the stones shook beneath her feet."

  He paused dramatically. "She arrived at the palace just as the disease began to affect the party guests. Eyewitnesses described how she stood in the great hall, her small form enveloped in flames, and faced dozens of afflicted nobles who were already beginning to transform. Through her, the Martyr manifested his power in our world from his infernal refuge. Holy fire burst forth from their hands, burning away the demon's corruption without harming those it had infected."

  Ember Godwin's voice became even more insistent: "The demon itself, forced to manifest by this direct attack, appeared as a grotesque creature of bloated flesh and a thousand mouths and maws. Through Valentina, the Martyr fought him directly, a divine battle in our material world. The battle ravaged the Palace of the Legate, but not a single innocent was harmed by the Martyr's holy fires that cleansed the hall."

  "In the end, the demon was destroyed, its corrupted Essence burned away by the Martyr's flame. The disease was cleansed from all those infected, even if they carried the terrible memory of their transformation with them for the rest of their lives."

  "A highly inaccurate, not to say willfully distorted version of events," muttered Vyxara. "This supposed 'demon of gluttony' – which I happen to know, by the way – wouldn't stoop to infect some imported bottles of wine and delicacies with ominous diseases. The rich and mighty of Northern Padavo had the demon to thank for their so-called 'golden age' in the first place. But the truth doesn't lend itself so well to a sermon. And your namesake? Oh, she was nowhere near as... innocent as this story suggests."

  Valentina became thoughtful. She had never really questioned the story. Could what Vyxara was suggesting be true? Had the powerful people of Rosavenna – like herself – summoned a demon? Had they made a deal with the creature and paid for it?

  Ember Godwin's voice became softer now, almost sad. "But such direct intervention by the Martyr had its price. From that day on, Saint Valentina could never lead a normal life again. The barriers that usually protect humans and our world from demonic influence had been broken by the Martyr's presence within her. She spent the rest of her days in a specially consecrated chamber in the Flametower of Rosavenna, guarded by the Emberwardens, the holy warriors of the Church."

  Valentina had completely forgotten that part. The Martyr's presence in the Saint... did that mean...? "Vyxara, does that mean Saint Valentina was… possessed by the Martyr...?", she asked her own demon.

  "As I told you once before," Vyxara replied smugly. "The Martyr is more like us than he is like you now."

  Before Valentina could think seriously about the implications of what she had just learned, the Ember continued.

  "But this was no imprisonment, of course," Ember Godwin continued, his voice now stronger again. "Through Saint Valentina, the Martyr occasionally spoke to the faithful, giving guidance in times of crisis. She became known for her prophecies and wisdom, and pilgrims traveled from all parts of the continent to seek her counsel. More importantly, her sacrifice had not only saved Rosavenna, but all of Northern Padavo from the demon's plans."

  He stepped even closer to the eternal flame, its light bathing his wrinkled face in moving shadows. "When she died thirty years later, they say, the eternal flame in every Flametower in all of Northern Padavo blazed higher for a moment as a sign that her soul had joined the Martyr in his eternal vigil against the demons."

  Ember Godwin let his gaze wander over the assembled congregation. "Today, Saint Valentina is especially revered by women, healers and the Kindles of the Church of the Martyr. She is the patron saint of doctors. In Northern Padavo, it is still a tradition to sing hymns when caring for the sick, they say."

  His voice became quieter, more intimate. "The great Flametower of Rosavenna still stands today, and pilgrims can see the chamber where she spent her later years. The walls are covered in beautiful frescoes depicting her battle against the demon. Her feast day falls on Summer's Height, which marks both the day of her great sacrifice and celebrates her victory over corruption."

  He paused meaningfully and his gaze found Valentina in the crowd. "The true power of the Martyr lies not in violence or dominance, but in sacrifice and devotion. Saint Valentina's story teaches us that true power lies not in the domination of others, but in the willingness to sacrifice oneself for the good of all. It teaches us that the Martyr's gifts were not given to us for our own benefit, but to serve others."

  "How subtle," sneered Vyxara. "He cares for your soul, little Weaver. If he knew how late it is for that..."

  Valentina slid uncomfortably back and forth on the hard bench, barely listening to Vyxara. She was too busy thinking about the somewhat forced parallels Ember Godwin drew between her and her namesake. The subtle warning in his words was unmistakable.

  The rest of the service went on as usual. Prayers were said, hymns sung. Valentina moved her lips to the familiar words, but she felt strangely distant. As if she was simultaneously part of this community and yet already far removed from it

  The familiar words and rituals of her childhood now seemed to belong to a different world – a simpler, more innocent time that she had irretrievably left behind.

  When the service ended and the people turned to leave, she saw Netta Thimbletack standing at the entrance and froze for a moment. They had once been something like best friends. Now Netta was heavily pregnant. She stroked her bulging belly and their eyes met briefly. There was a mixture of longing and reproach in Netta's eyes that stung Valentina. She moved slowly through the crowd towards Valentina.

  "She wants to see you," Vyxara remarked. "Your old childhood friend. This is sure to be a fascinating conversation."

  Valentina sighed inwardly. She would not be able to avoid this conversation. She helped her mother take the now restless Thomas as the congregation slowly streamed out of the Flametower, out into the brighter morning.