He stared at me for a long time. The room was quiet but for the crackle of the hearth.
“You have always believed too deeply in the goodness of people,” he said, finally.
“And you,” I said, smiling faintly, “have always believed it would kill me.”
“It still might.”
We both laughed. The sound surprised me—how light it was. How human.
“I’ll speak to the Elders,” I said after a long pause. “They won’t agree, not easily. But I can make them see reason. Perhaps a trial period — one portal. One group of volunteers, watched, prepared. Maybe it’s time Solaris stops hiding.”
He sighed. “If they hear it from you, perhaps they’ll listen.”
“They will,” I said. “Or they’ll try to stop me. Either way, the choice will be mine.”
Aeldrin looked at me, truly looked, and for a moment I saw the young priest he had been. The boy who had snuck into my chamber with sweet pastries and questions about fire magic. The one who had called me Elena— no titles—and believed I was invincible.
“I still remember the first time you healed someone in front of me,” he said suddenly. “That boy who fell from the acolyte stairs. You touched him, and I thought—gods, I thought youbroke time.”
I laughed. “It felt like that. The power rushing out of me. It always does. It never stops being... too much.”
“You never told me that,” he murmured.
“There are many things I’ve never told you,” I said, not unkindly.
We stood together, finally, moving toward the long windows that overlooked the western peaks.
A storm brewed in the distance—faint, distant thunder. Not here. Not yet.
But soon.
I reached out, and from my fingertips bloomed a small orb of light—golden, flickering, alive.
“I trust them,” I said. “The youth. The city. Even the world, a little.”
Aeldrin didn’t respond.
But he didn’t stop me.
And that, from Aeldrin, was permission enough.
We chatted for a few more minutes, before Aeldrin excused himself.
I rose from my seat, my crimson robes swirling around me. Left alone again, worry gnawed at the pit of my stomach as I thought of all the disappearances.
With a heavy sigh, I turned and made my way towards the balcony, my gaze sweeping across the sprawling expanse of our hidden sanctuary. The people below went about their daily lives, oblivious to the troubles that weighed heavily upon my heart.
As the sun continued its graceful arc across the sky, casting its warm, golden glow upon the towering spires of Solaris, I found myself drawn back to the balcony overlooking the bustling city below.
From this vantage point, I could see the intricate web of life that thrummed through the heart of our hidden sanctuary—the merchants haggling in the vibrant marketplace, the children at play in the central plaza, the faithful ascending the steps of the temple to offer their devotions to the Sun God.
It was a sight that never failed to fill me with a sense of pride and purpose, for I had sworn an oath to protect this city and its inhabitants with my very life.
The first time that soldiers had come to Solaris was when I was young—truly young, just a child. Solaris had still been a village then, small and verdant, nestled in the crook of the mountain like a gem in the dirt.
When the soldiers came to pillage, I had begged the Sun God aloud, knelt in the temple ruins with my skirts covered in the blood of my sister, and asked—no,demanded—that He give me the power to protect what remained.
He did.
