The Church taught saintesses to choose beautifully.
Seraphina Seraphel had learned the doctrine before she learned the taste of unsweetened tea. Prioritize the greatest good. Preserve holy assets. Save the chosen when choice becomes necessary. Light must not be squandered where darkness has already claimed the field.
The doctrine sounded merciful from a pulpit.
It became uglier when written over a bleeding boy's face.
"Saintess," a Gold-tier healer said, voice shaking, "you must conserve Radiance for ranked casualties."
Seraphina looked down at the Obsidian student under her hands.
Twelve years old, maybe thirteen. First-year. One sleeve torn. Echo-light had entered through his left ear and was crawling behind his eye in black threads.
Ranked casualty: negligible.
Narrative weight: almost none.
Pain: real.
Breathing: failing.
Seraphina's fingers glowed brighter.
The Gold healer swallowed. "Saintess, if a Zenith candidate arrives—"
"Then they can wait."
