Saelthiryn felt her father before she saw him.
Not through the boon. Not through the cathedral's patient holding. Through something older, sharper—the way certain presences pressed against the ribs of memory and demanded attention. The valley acknowledged him reluctantly, sound sharpening as footsteps approached with purpose rather than curiosity.
He did not come alone.
Her family returned through the pass as they had before, but the formation had changed. Where her mother had once led with composure, now her father walked at the front, posture rigid, expression set as if he had already delivered judgment and was merely arriving to announce it.
Aelarion Saelthorin wore no circlet.
He did not need one.
Authority clung to him in the way it clung to those who had never learned how to set it down. His hair was bound back in the style of wardens and generals, silver shot through with darker strands that spoke of years spent choosing duty over rest. His eyes—so like Saelthiryn's—held none of her patience.
Behind him walked Althiriel, composed as ever, and with her Thalanor and Elyrien. Their faces were tight with anticipation, braced for fracture.
Saelthiryn stood at the cathedral threshold when they entered the basin. She did not step forward. She did not retreat.
Aelarion stopped and stared at the unfinished stone, at the altar dark-veined and unnamed, at the quiet that refused to bow to his presence.
His lip curled.
"So this is where you've hidden yourself," he said.
Saelthiryn inclined her head. "I didn't hide."
"You abandoned your people," he snapped. "And for this?"
His gaze flicked—finally—past her.
To Aporiel.
The void-winged figure stood within the cathedral's depth, wings partially folded, broken halo hovering like a decision that had not required consensus. He did not loom. He did not threaten.
He simply was.
Aelarion recoiled a fraction.
Then his anger found a shape.
"This," he said, voice rising, "is what you follow now? An abomination without name or lineage? Something that stands outside the order of gods and dares to call itself worthy of attention?"
Saelthiryn's jaw tightened. "He didn't call himself anything."
"That makes it worse," Aelarion said sharply. "Things that refuse names do so because they fear judgment."
Althiriel stepped forward. "Aelarion—"
"No," he cut in. "You indulged this long enough. You let her walk away once, convinced yourself it was mercy." He pointed at Saelthiryn, finger trembling with restrained fury. "Look at her. She stands in a ruined cathedral, bleeding for something that does not even pretend to be holy."
Saelthiryn felt the words strike—not deeply, but persistently. Old wounds remembered the shape of her father's disappointment too well.
"You've gone mad," Aelarion continued. "Mad enough to mistake silence for wisdom. Mad enough to follow a void and call it choice."
That was when Althiriel's composure broke.
"Enough," she said.
The word did not echo. It ended the air.
Aelarion turned on her, incredulous. "You would defend this?"
"I will not allow you to wound her because you are afraid," Althiriel replied, voice cold and precise. "Not again."
"She is consorting with an abomination," he spat. "The pantheon itself—"
"The pantheon sent us to retrieve, not to condemn," Althiriel said. "You forget yourself."
Aelarion laughed bitterly. "Retrieve? You think this thing will let her go?"
Aporiel did not respond.
He did not need to.
Saelthiryn spoke instead, voice steady despite the heat rising behind her eyes. "Father. I didn't lose my mind."
Aelarion rounded on her. "Then explain this."
She gestured to the cathedral, to the valley, to the quiet that had learned to hold. "I stopped asking permission to exist."
"That is not freedom," he said. "That is surrender."
"No," she replied. "That's what you taught me it was."
Silence followed.
Elyrien shifted, torn. Thalanor looked down at the stone, jaw clenched.
Althiriel stepped closer to Saelthiryn, placing herself—not between her and Aelarion, but beside her. "You raised her to refuse unjust orders," she said. "Do not pretend surprise now."
Aelarion's eyes flicked to Aporiel again, voice lowering. "And what of that?"
Aporiel's gaze met his.
There was no challenge in it. No contempt.
Only distance.
"She is not bound," Aporiel said calmly. "Nor compelled."
Aelarion bristled. "You speak as if you have the right."
"I do not operate on rights," Aporiel replied. "Only recognition."
"You've ensnared her," Aelarion accused.
"No," Aporiel said. "She remained."
Saelthiryn felt her mother's hand brush her arm—brief, grounding.
"You see possession because that is the only language authority has taught you," Althiriel said quietly. "But nothing here owns her."
Aelarion's shoulders sagged, anger curdling into something more dangerous. "Then come home," he said to Saelthiryn, voice raw. "If this is truly your choice, prove it. Leave this place. Leave him."
Saelthiryn looked at the pass beyond them, at the road that led back to halls she had once known. She imagined the pantheon's chorus pressing in, the weight of expectation settling like a familiar ache.
Then she looked at the altar. At the quiet. At the being who had never once asked her to kneel.
"I won't," she said.
Aelarion closed his eyes.
When he opened them, something had broken—not rage, not resolve.
Hope.
"This ends here," he said, voice hollow. "Whether you see it or not."
Althiriel shook her head. "No," she said gently. "It ends when we stop trying to drag her back into a shape she refused for a reason."
Aelarion turned away first.
The rest followed more slowly.
Elyrien hesitated, then bowed her head to Saelthiryn—not submission, but acknowledgment. Thalanor met her gaze once, regret heavy and sincere, before continuing after Aelarion.
Only Althiriel lingered.
"I am sorry," she said softly. "For the words spoken in fear."
Saelthiryn nodded. "Thank you. For stopping them."
Althiriel's gaze flicked to Aporiel—not hostile, not reverent. Appraising. "This is not over."
"No," Saelthiryn agreed. "It never is."
Althiriel left.
The valley settled again.
Saelthiryn exhaled shakily, hands curling at her sides. "He always knew how to make it sound like love."
"Yes," Aporiel said.
She looked up at him. "Am I mad?"
Aporiel considered her—truly, fully.
"No," he replied. "You are consistent."
She laughed, weak but real. "That might be worse."
He remained with her as the light shifted and the echoes of raised voices faded into the mountains.
Blood had come calling.
It had not been answered.
And in the quiet that followed accusation, rebuke, and refusal, Saelthiryn stood where she had chosen to stand—unclaimed by fear, unbroken by blood.
Held, not by doctrine.
But by silence that knew how to keep.