The Ember Chapel squats on the edge of Staten Island like a scar from another century. To mortals, it is just another condemned church, its steeple cracked and its stained-glass windows boarded over. The walls are blackened by fire damage, its pews long since stripped for salvage. But to the Sanctified, it is holy ground — proof that faith survives fire.
Inside, the air smells of ash and incense. The nave is lit only by rows of iron braziers, their flames guttering red and low, casting the walls in shifting light. The pews have been replaced with heavy benches, scorched and carved with scripture in Latin and Greek. Every surface bears burn marks, but the damage feels purposeful — as if the fire were meant to sanctify rather than destroy. In place of an altar, a black stone slab dominates the front, scarred by countless rituals of judgment.
At the center of the Chapel is the Circle of Ash, an open floor space ringed with braziers and crosses of scorched iron. This is where the Sanctified call Elysium, though it feels more like a tribunal chamber. Here, sermons are shouted, confessions dragged from reluctant lips, and punishments enacted in front of the whole borough.