Not cloaked in fire or war now. Not towering or terrifying.
Just present.
Syrathe, silent and moon-eyed, drifting forward like mist.
Thaleia, hair tangled in vines, water pooling at her feet with every step.
Vaerith, all flame and sharp smiles, kneeling beside her like a brother not quite of this world.
And Yseron, scarred and steady, reaching for her with a hand calloused by eternity.
They surrounded her.
Not to claim.
To witness.
“You severed the Veil,” Thaleia whispered, eyes shining. “You did what we could not.”
“You unmade the goddess of mercy,” Vaerith murmured, a smile crooked with admiration. “And gave none.”
Yseron bowed his head. “You were never our pawn.”
“You are our equal,” Syrathe said softly, and though her mouth never moved, her words echoed like truth across stars.
Maris felt something then. A warmth that wasn’t heat. A hum of energy thrumming beneath her spirit.
She was still connected.
To the world she had saved.
“Can I go back?” she asked.
Thaleia tilted her head. “You may.”
“But,” Yseron said slowly, “the path ahead is cracked. Something lingers. A shadow deeper than Eiren ever dared cast.”
Maris’s breath hitched, if breath even existed here.
“What is it?”
The gods looked at each other. For the first time, they didn’t answer.
The light began to pull.
And she followed.
Not because she was forced.
But because she chose.
Chapter seventy-eight
A Flicker of Dawn
Somewhere on the battlefield, every soul Maris had blessed now sat waiting.
The Veil faded, terrors misted, a curse lifted. A goddess damned.
