The light in the void resolved slowly, almost shyly, until it took on the suggestion of form.
It began as a silhouette—graceful, upright, edges blurred by radiance. Then details sharpened: the sweep of a cloak that seemed woven from shifting paths of light, the curve of shoulders that carried age lightly, hair that moved as if stirred by a wind this place didn't have.
And the face.
Trin knew it before it fully formed.
"Your entrances are getting theatrical," he said softly.
Althera smiled.
"Coming from you," she replied, "that's almost a compliment."
Her voice rippled through the space with a familiar, layered timbre—gentle, wry, tinged with an echo of a thousand echoed prayers she'd never directly requested. She wore something like the statue's aspect—cloak, path-marked, hands open—but less rigid. Less idealized. More *her*.
"It seems you've been taking stylistic notes," Trin added, gesturing faintly to her luminous cloak. "You didn't used to glow this much."
She glanced down at herself, then back up with a half-mocking tilt of her head. "You're one to talk. I remember a time when you couldn't say 'good morning' without a sunrise chorus and a constellation rearranging itself."
Trin's mouth twitched. "That was one time."
"Three," she corrected. "I counted."
Naera made a faint, strangled sound.
She hadn't moved since the voice spoke. She still hung—stood—floated in place, pendant cupped in her hands, eyes wide as they tracked between Trin and the woman of light now smiling as if this were an ordinary reunion instead of the rupture of everything Naera had ever believed about gods and distance.
Althera's gaze shifted to her.
The light around them softened.
"Naera of Eastridge," Althera said.
Naera flinched as if struck—not from pain, but from the sheer fact of being named.
"H-how do you—" she began, then stopped, clamped her mouth shut, and sank to her knees as if the lack of ground didn't matter.
Her pendant dangled between her fingers, caught between fear and reverence.
"Goddess Althera," she whispered. The words came out raw, half-sob, half-prayer. "I—I didn't think— I wasn't sure you—"
"Existed?" Althera suggested gently. "Listened? Remembered you?"
Naera swallowed hard. "…Yes."
Althera's expression turned tender. "I remember you," she said. "Every time you whispered my name into the dark without expecting an answer. Every time you wrestled with doubt and still lit a candle. Every time you argued with your own faith and chose to keep it anyway."
Trin watched Naera's shoulders shake, watched her fight the instinct to apologize for doubting.
Althera glanced sideways at him, amusement flickering. "You bring interesting company," she said.
"They found me," he replied. "And you seem to be taking liberties with my dramatic void."
"Our dramatic void," she corrected. "You don't own all the in-betweens, Trin."
"That's debatable," he murmured.
She turned fully to face him.
Up close, the differences were clearer. She was not exactly as she had been in the old realm. There was a new weight in her gaze, a layering of experiences he hadn't watched directly. The lines at the corners of her eyes were deeper, not from age in the mortal sense, but from watching over a world that had learned to bruise itself creatively.
"You look tired," she said, softer now.
"So do you," he answered.
"That's what happens," she said, "when you walk too many paths and then try to invent a few more."
He huffed a small laugh. "Still incapable of staying on a straight road."
"Straight roads are boring," she replied. "And rarely honest."
Naera made another small noise, like someone trying to politely interrupt a conversation between thunderclouds.
Althera returned her attention to her.
"You're handling this well," she said. "Fainting is a common response. So is screaming."
Naera shook her head slowly, eyes bright. "I…don't know what I'm doing," she admitted. "I just know I wanted to see you. Or to know if you were more than a story. And now you're here and I—" Her voice broke. "And he said—you died."
A shadow moved through Althera's expression, but it didn't dim her light.
"Death," she said, "isn't always a door that closes. Sometimes it's a hallway that opens sideways."
Naera frowned, struggling to parse that.
Trin spoke quietly. "She walks different rules now," he said. "Ones I didn't write."
Althera smiled at him. "You're catching on."
She took a slow step—if *step* meant anything here—toward Naera.
"Trin told you some of it," she said. "Enough to frighten you. Enough to make you cry in a hallway and clutch a pendant until your fingers hurt."
Naera flushed, but didn't deny it.
"He told you I died," Althera went on. "He was not wrong. But he sees things in lines, still, even after everything. Before and after. Alive and gone. Power and loss."
Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "Paths aren't lines, Trin," she murmured. "You should know that by now. You made the space I proved it in."
He inclined his head slightly. "You always did enjoy contradicting my neat diagrams."
"They needed contradicting," she said. "You built beautiful foundations. But you liked things clean. Symmetrical. Accounted for. Life prefers…variation."
She spread her hands, and for a heartbeat, the void around them shimmered with faint, ghostly roads—some circling back, some branching, some fading, some leaping across impossible gaps.
"I walked more of these than you knew," she said. "Even before the fall. Quietly. Off your charts. Not in defiance, but because I needed to see what would happen if someone stepped where the ink hadn't dried yet."
Trin watched the shifting patterns, the intersection of familiar paths with those he'd never documented.
"How much did you keep from me?" he asked, without accusation.
"Enough not to scare you," she said. "You had an entire cosmos on your back. I had a few side streets. I didn't think you needed to know every detour I took."
"That sounds dishonest," he said.
"It was sparing you from watching me make mistakes you couldn't fix," she countered. "Trust me, you had enough of those already."
He conceded that with a small shrug.
Naera looked between them, bewildered. "So you're…alive?" she asked Althera. "And dead. And…here. And not?"
Althera smiled. "I am…continued," she said. "The paths I walked in the old realm reached a point where they could no longer stay within the lines Trin drew. So I stepped sideways. Away from what Lucifer could kill directly. Into something that is less about flesh and more about threads."
She gestured to the void. "This space? It's not his. It's not entirely Trin's anymore either. It's an intersection I've learned to nudge. A place between moments where I can exist in a way your world can withstand."
Naera's brows knit. "And you brought me here," she said. "Why?"
Althera's light dimmed slightly, gentling.
"Because you called," she said simply. "Not with the loudest voice. Not with the grandest ritual. But with persistence. With doubt and devotion sitting side by side and refusing to eject each other."
She stepped closer, until she stood directly before Naera.
"You lit candles for me when you weren't sure I was listening," Althera said. "You defended people's right to believe and to question in the same breath. You looked at the world's cruelty and still chose to stand between it and those weaker than you, even when no one told you I would reward you for it."
Naera's eyes overflowed.
"That," Althera said, "is faith I do not deserve, and yet you gave it. So the least I can do is tell you myself: I see you."
Naera's breath hitched. A sob escaped despite her attempt to swallow it.
Althera opened her arms.
The motion was simple, unadorned, nothing like the grand gestures carved into temple walls. It was the hug of someone who had watched a child grow up from very far away and finally been allowed to step into the same room.
Naera hesitated only a heartbeat, then moved.
The embrace looked strange in the void—two figures holding each other where there was no ground, no gravity—but it felt solid. Naera buried her face in Althera's shoulder, clutching at the light as if it might vanish if she let go.
"You're real," Naera whispered.
"I am," Althera murmured. "Though not in the way your priests would put in their books."
She rested her cheek briefly against Naera's hair. "And you," she added, "are braver than you think."
Light flared, softly, where they touched.
Trin felt it—not as heat, but as a shift in the pattern around Naera. Threads that had been loose or faint now glowed a little brighter, twining more deliberately through her.
"What are you doing?" he asked quietly.
"Thanking her," Althera said.
She pulled back just enough to look Naera in the eyes, hands resting lightly on her shoulders.
"Oh, Naera," she said. "You asked so often for signs. For proof. For something that would make belief easier. I couldn't give it to you then without unbalancing what I was trying to build."
Naera sniffed. "That seems unfair," she managed.
"It was," Althera agreed. "Which is why I want to give you something…different now. Not an answer. Not a miracle that solves everything. Just…a lens. A way to see a little more of what's already there."
Naera frowned. "I don't understand."
"You will," Althera said. "Over time. Slowly. No sudden thunderclaps. You'll begin to notice threads—connections, patterns, paths between people and choices. You'll see how small acts ripple further than anyone expects."
Naera's eyes widened. "You're changing me."
"I'm inviting you," Althera corrected. "To share a sliver of how I see the world. It won't make you omniscient. It won't give you visions on command. It will be subtle. Annoyingly so, some days. You'll think you're imagining it at first." Her smile turned rueful. "But that's how understanding works. It grows."
Naera swallowed. "Will it…hurt?"
"Only when you care too much," Althera said softly. "Which you already do."
Naera let out a shaky laugh. "That tracks."
Althera squeezed her shoulders once, then released her.
"Nothing will change immediately," she said. "You'll walk out of here the same Naera who walked in. Staff, duty, barracks snoring and all. But as you move, as you listen, as you choose—you'll start to feel it. The paths. Not all of them. Just enough to guide. Not enough to trap."
Naera nodded, even if she only half understood. "Thank you," she whispered.
"You've thanked me for less," Althera replied. "Consider us even for the candles."
She turned back to Trin.
He had watched all of this with a mixture of fondness and something like envy—not of the blessing, but of the immediacy of the connection. He had always known Althera as colleague, as fellow steward. Seeing her as goddess to someone who loved her from a distance added a new dimension.
"How many more times will I see you like this?" he asked quietly.
Althera's smile shifted—sad, knowing, mischievous all at once.
"Always with the metrics," she said. "How many times. How long. How far."
"Old habits," he said. "Indulge me."
She stepped closer, the light around her dimming just enough that her features were more clearly visible—not goddess now, but friend. Sister. Co-conspirator.
"I can't promise numbers, Trin," she said. "Paths don't like being boxed into schedules. I exist along too many threads now. Some of me is with you. Some is watching Therion dream beneath his mountain. Some is in the prayers of a child who will never know my full name."
She reached out, resting a hand lightly over his heart.
"But I will say this," she continued. "This is not the last. Not while you're still walking. Not while you're still trying. I'm not done nudging you. Or being irritated by you. Or being proud of you."
His throat tightened at that last word.
"You're proud," he repeated. "Of this?"
"Of you choosing to mend leather instead of rewriting stars," she said. "Of you letting mortals matter enough to shape your decisions. Of you sitting in a small inn room and worrying about whether your presence will break what I tried to build."
Her hand squeezed once, then fell.
"Goodbye, Althera," he said, the words heavier than he liked.
"For now," she corrected.
She turned slightly, including both of them in her final glance.
"Walk well," she said. "Both of you. And remember—paths don't have to be straight to lead somewhere worth reaching."
The light around her brightened, edges blurring.
"Wait," Naera said, reaching out a hand.
Althera's eyes softened. "I am closer than you think," she said. "You'll notice."
Then she was gone.
The void collapsed—not violently, but like a breath being let out. The soft illumination dimmed, the horizon of nothing folded in on itself.
Trin closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
When he opened them, he was kneeling on stone.
The temple returned in an instant—the cool air, the scent of wax, the quiet. The statue of Althera stood before them again, stone and still. Candles flickered on their stands. Outside, faintly, the town moved on with its ordinary life.
Beside him, Naera drew in a sharp breath.
"Trin," she whispered.
He turned his head.
Naera was glowing.
Not blazing, not in some overwhelming, searing way. It was a soft radiance, like sunlight filtered through leaves, clinging close to her skin. A faint halo of light traced the lines of her shoulders, her hair, the pendant at her throat. It flickered gently, pulsing in time with her breathing.
Her eyes were wide, reflecting that same glow back at him.
"I—" she began.
The temple door creaked.
Both of them turned at the sound.
The priest—an older man in simple gray robes, arms full of a small basket of offerings—stepped inside. His gaze went automatically to the altar, the habit of years.
Then he saw them.
His eyes landed on Naera's radiant outline.
The basket slipped from his hands.
Coins, dried flowers, and a small wrapped loaf tumbled to the floor with a clatter and a soft thud.
The priest's mouth fell open.
Naera froze.
Trin's hand twitched toward her, instinctively protective, even as he knew there was no quick explanation that wouldn't unravel everything.
The soft glow around Naera flared once in the quiet.
The sound of the dropped offerings echoed in the stillness as all three of them stared at one another, the weight of what had just happened settling over the temple like a held breath.