Young Master's Chapter 113: The Saintess’s Question

Chapter 113: The Saintess’s Question

Seraphina found

before I found her.

I’d been planning to ask her after evening lectures. To send a note through Ren or simply approach her in the corridor. The architecture of the day-into-night transition would give us the right amount of light for a conversation, and the practice halls would be empty by then. I’d worked it out the way I worked out everything now — thodically, with backup plans for the backup plans.

But Seraphina was waiting outside Room Seven when I returned from afternoon training.

She wasn’t leaning against the wall. Saintesses didn’t lean. She stood with her hands folded in front of her, silver-white hair catching the corridor light, golden eyes lifted to mine the mont I rounded the corner. The Church of Radiance trained its candidates in a posture they called *receiving stillness* — readiness without tension, attention without expectation. I’d read about it in one of Ren’s footnotes. Seeing it in person was different. She looked like she’d been standing there for hours and could stand for hours more without strain.

"Cedric," she said.

"Seraphina."

"Will you walk with ?"

I’d been preparing argunts. I’d been preparing the conversation. I’d had three internal speeches drafted depending on her opening line, and none of them began with her asking the question.

"Yes," I said.

She turned and started walking. I caught up.

We didn’t go to the Garden of Whispers. The garden was Liora’s bench and Valeria’s terrace, and Seraphina knew that the way she knew most things — quietly, accurately, without needing to be told. We went the other direction. Through the eastern corridor. Past the Hall of Reflections. Down a staircase I’d never used, into a section of the academy I hadn’t explored.

The Old Chapel.

It wasn’t actually a chapel. The Empire’s official position on religious architecture inside academies was permissive but cautious — the Church of Radiance was tolerated but not endorsed, and dedicated worship spaces were reserved for the seminaries in Veylinor, the holy city in the southern Empire where Seraphina had spent the seven years before enrollnt. The Old Chapel was a ditation room with no formal religious function. The Empire’s official position. The room itself disagreed.

The space was small. Maybe twenty feet across. A vaulted ceiling, low windows of stained glass that let in light filtered into colors I couldn’t na. No pews. No altar. Just a stone floor, a few cushions arranged loosely, and a single candle burning in a recessed alcove — Aether-candle, not wax, the fla too steady to be ordinary.

The air felt different in here. I noticed it as we crossed the threshold. Not sacred, exactly — I didn’t believe in sacred the way Seraphina did. But quieter. The way so rooms had a quality that made you lower your voice without being told to. This was that, dialed up.

"How did you know this was here?" I asked.

"I found it the first week. Most of the candidates from Veylinor find it within the first month. The architecture announces itself if you know how to listen."

"What does that an?"

"It ans the stones were placed by soone who knew what kind of silence they were building for. Most academy architects don’t. The person who built this one did." She moved to the center of the room, sat down on one of the cushions. "Sit. We can talk here without interruption."

I sat across from her. Cross-legged. The cushion was firr than I’d expected — designed for posture, not comfort.

For a mont, neither of us spoke.

The candle in the alcove burned. The stained glass shifted as a cloud passed outside, and the colors on the floor moved with it — green to blue to gold and back. The silence had weight. Not heavy. Not oppressive. Substantial. The way water has weight when you stand in it up to your chest.

"You ca to ask

sothing," she said.

"I was going to. Yes."

"You don’t need to. I already know what you’re going to ask."

"How?"

"Because Liora told

yesterday, and Valeria told

this morning. I’ve had eight hours to think about it. By the ti you formulated your question, I had already prepared three answers. Then I rembered that your conversations with the others were not about answers. They were about exchanges. So I ca to find you instead."

"You’re saying I shouldn’t ask."

"I’m saying you don’t have to ask the way you think you do. The others needed you to start. I don’t. I can start. If you’ll let ."

I looked at her. Golden eyes. Steady. The kind of steady that ca from years of ditation, not from political training. There was a difference, and Seraphina embodied the first kind. Where Valeria’s calm was an instrunt she’d trained herself to play, Seraphina’s was sothing the Church had taught her how to listen for.

"Start," I said.

"Thank you." She closed her eyes for a mont. Opened them. "My question is this. When you walked into the Great Hall on the first day of classes, and the entire academy turned to look at you — Cedric Valdrake, the heir, the villain everyone in Empire society had been preparing to position themselves around — I felt sothing I have never felt before. Not from anyone. Not from any cultivator at any rank. It was a particular kind of resonance, and I have been trying for two months to understand what it was."

"What did it feel like?"

"It felt like soone praying. Quietly. Not for anything specific. Just praying. The way I sotis pray when I don’t know what I want, only that I don’t want to stop reaching for sothing I can’t na."

The room was very quiet.

"I don’t pray," I said.

"I know. That’s part of what made it strange. You weren’t praying. But the resonance ca from sowhere in you that prays whether you know it or not. I want to understand that part. So my question is — when did you last reach for sothing you couldn’t na?"

I had to think.

The Old Chapel didn’t push. It waited. Seraphina waited. The candle burned without flicker.

"The last six months in Chicago," I said, eventually. "Before I died. I played a ga for 4,127 hours. Every day. Twelve, fifteen hours a day sotis. I told myself it was because I liked the ga. It wasn’t. I was reaching for sothing. I couldn’t na it. I couldn’t even admit I was reaching. But when I close my eyes now and try to rember those hours, that’s what I feel. The reach. Whatever it was looking for, it never found it."

"What were you looking for?"

"My sister. I thought it was her. Now I think it was just — anywhere that didn’t hurt. Any room I could be in where the world wasn’t pressing on

about sothing I couldn’t fix."

"And then you died."

"Yes."

"And then you woke up here."

"Yes."

She was quiet again. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty. The kind that received what I’d said and made a place for it in the room before responding.

"That’s what I felt," she said. "The reach. It didn’t stop when you died. You’re still doing it. Every conversation in that garden. Every kindness that costs you NDI. Every step you take that the Script doesn’t approve of. You’re still reaching."

"For what?"

"I don’t know. I don’t think you do either. But I know what it sounds like. I’ve heard it before. In novices at my ho cathedral in Veylinor. In dying farrs who never learned to read. In a woman who walked seventy miles to ask the Hierophant a question and arrived too tired to rember what it was. The reach is the sa in all of them. It’s the sound of a person who hasn’t stopped being a person yet, no matter what the world has tried to do to them."

"That’s a kind way to describe it."

"It’s not kindness. It’s recognition. There’s a difference."

I almost laughed. Liora had said sothing similar. Different words, sa idea. Three won, three fraworks, the sa observation arriving from different directions: I was visible to them in ways I hadn’t expected. The mask I’d been wearing for two months hadn’t been doing its job. They’d all seen through it. They’d just chosen not to ntion it until I was ready.

"Seraphina."

"Yes."

"Why are you on this team?"

"Because the boy who walked into the Great Hall on the first day was praying without knowing it, and I have spent my life learning to recognize that sound. The Church teaches us that the prayer is the prayer regardless of whether the person knows they’re praying. If I had walked past you, I would have failed the only training that ever mattered to ."

"That’s a very Church answer."

"It’s the only kind I have. The sa way Liora’s answers are very Liora. We each speak the language we were taught."