She returned through the veil and the mortal sky did not notice.
A single golden thread fell from the upper air, too high for any satellite to read, too small for any mortal eye to catch. Then she was in the atmosphere, wings burning low, her form compressed to a pinpoint of celestial flame cloaked so tightly that even the wind she displaced forgot she had passed.
She became invisible.
Her heart was set.
The Source had spoken. She had carried the speaking out of the Hall the way a vessel carries water—without spilling, without questioning, without looking down at the shape of what she held. The question still lodged in her chest, a quiet thorn.
Thorns could be endured. Wardens endured many things.
They did not endure failure.
She would not fail.
She spread her senses.
The way a goddess spreads her senses—not looking, not searching, but being. Becoming the air over the mortal sphere she had been dispatched to cleanse.
