His mouth curved with amusement. “A statue, hmm?”
“A very valuable, politically priceless statue,” she added, dryly. “But breakable nonetheless.”
“Then let us ensure you do not crack under the weight of gold leaf and ceremony.”
She rolled her eyes. “A priest shouldn't talk back. It's too secular.”
He chuckled, the lines in his face deepening. “I’ve lived long enough to learn that nothing about devotion is elegant. It is messy, demanding, sometimes even absurd. But in that chaos, we often find what matters.”
Evelyne tilted her head, studying the way the light painted his profile. “Do you have any advice for a woman on the eve of sacrificing her name, and half of her spine to a crown that doesn't fit?”
He gave a thoughtful hum. “Only what the myths teach us. Would you like to hear one?”
“Does it involve someone being turned into a tree or eaten by a lion?”
“Not today.” His eyes sparkled. “Today, it’s about Rhyssa.”
She settled more comfortably, curious despite herself.
“In the earliest stories,” he began, “when Rhyssa was a minor goddess, she wandered. An unseen spirit without a temple. The gods of war and wisdom had their shrines. But Rhyssa… she waited.”
Evelyne’s brows drew together. “Waited for what?”
“For someone to speak to her,” he explained simply. “She wasn’t powerful then. She didn’t wield storms or strike down empires. She made bread rise. She taught one lonely girl how to thread a needle when no one else had the patience. Small things. Forgettable things.”
He glanced toward the statue with fondness.
“One day, a woman lit a fire in the ruins of her old house. She had lost everything—family, land, name. Raiders had taken her fields, the fever had taken her children, war took her husband.”
“No one remembered her real name. Even she had stopped saying it aloud. She didn’t pray to the god of war, or justice, or luck. She just sat beside the old willow, burned a flame and whispered, ‘Let me build again.’ Rhyssa heard. And stayed. And that’s how her worship got stronger. One fire. One woman. Choosing to endure.”
Heat burned behind her eyes. She looked at the stone Rhyssa. Keeper of survival. A protector of the quiet courage no one applauded.
“She built a fire,” the priest continued, “and tended it. And so they came. Wanderers, children, soldiers. And when they asked her why she gave without demand, she said, ‘Because love is not responsibility. But it is what makes responsibilities bearable.’ After that, she kept creating. She named herself Virelle. Built a village called Vellesmere by the willow. Then the kingdom of Edrathen.”
He turned his gaze to her.
“You are not marrying to fulfill a legend, child. You are marrying to build a fire. And if you tend it well—others will come. Not because they are commanded to, but because they choose to.”
Evelyne’s throat tightened again, but this time, she didn’t swallow the feeling away. She let it be there—raw and aching and utterly hers.
“Even if the fire falters?” she asked.
“Especially then,” he said.
They sat a while longer, watching the embers pulse softly in the hearth.
Keeper Halwen’s voice dropped gently.
“You may not know everything yet. You may not know if you’re walking into a kingdom or a labyrinth. But light your fire anyway. Build what you can. And speak. Letherhear you.”
Evelyne lowered her gaze, and this time she did close her eyes.
“Will you say that at the wedding?” she asked, voice hushed.
He smiled. “No. At the wedding, I will say the proper things. The sacred words.”
She opened her eyes, amused. “And that wasn’t sacred?”
