The glow faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.
For a few stunned heartbeats, Naera stood there in the temple's dim light, wrapped in a soft radiance that made the worn stone and flickering candles look suddenly sharper, more defined. Then, like breath on a mirror, the brightness thinned. It drew inward, sinking beneath her skin until only the memory of it remained—a faint warmth along her arms, a tingling behind her eyes.
The priest did not calm as quickly.
"By the paths," he whispered, staring at Naera as if he'd never seen her before. "A sign. A true sign."
He dropped to his knees, hands half-lifted, eyes shining with a mixture of awe and fear. "Lady Althera," he breathed, gaze switching between Naera and the statue. "Your light upon this child—"
"Wait," Trin said.
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the priest's rising fervor like a clean line. Both Naera and the priest looked at him.
Trin stepped slightly forward, placing himself just off-center between Naera and the priest, enough to interrupt the line of reverence without making it obvious.
"What you saw," he said gently, "was a blessing. A touch. Nothing more—for now."
"Nothing more?" The priest's voice wavered. "She glowed, man. I saw—"
"Yes," Trin said. "And it faded, as such things do. It was a response to devotion, not a coronation. Your goddess acknowledged her, thanked her. That does not mean she's here to overturn your altar or rewrite your rites."
The priest blinked, breath coming fast. "But—prophets burn," he said, half-reciting. "The texts say—'Those who bear her light shall stand above—'"
"Those texts were written by people who liked drama," Trin said, still mild. "If Althera intended a prophet, she would make that clear. She has not."
He let that sit a moment.
Naera shot him a quick, grateful glance, though her hands still trembled.
Trin went on. "What she has done," he said, nodding toward Naera, "is recognize a faithful servant. Someone who has carried her name quietly, without reward. She lent her a little light to remind her she is seen. That is enough. More than enough."
The priest's shoulders sagged slightly, some of the wildness leaving his eyes. "You speak as if you know her will," he said, not accusing, just uncertain.
"I know something of how gods think," Trin replied. "And how mortals suffer when we put too much weight on a single person's shoulders. If you call her a prophet now, you make her life harder, not holier."
Naera flinched at the word *prophet*.
The priest looked at her, really looked, taking in her pale face, the way she clutched her pendant not like a relic to display but like a lifeline. "Do you—" he began, then faltered. "Child, are you…something more now?"
Naera swallowed. "I'm still Naera," she said. "I still have patrols and reports and a bunk that creaks when I roll over. I don't…know what this means yet. But I know I'm not meant to stand on a pedestal in your hall and have people bow."
Trin nodded. "Let her be what she was yesterday," he said. "A woman who prays, who doubts, who works. Watch her. Listen. If, in time, the goddess plants something larger in her steps, that will show itself. By deeds, not by one moment of light."
The priest's gaze dropped to the spilled offerings at his feet, then back up.
"Perhaps I…got ahead of myself," he admitted softly. "It has been a long time since anything like that happened here. Or anywhere."
"Your reaction was understandable," Trin said. "Just…don't freeze her life in place because of it."
The older man's shoulders eased. He bent to begin gathering the scattered coins and bread, setting them carefully back into the basket. When he straightened again, his eyes were gentler.
"Naera," he said. "If you ever wish to speak of what you saw…my door is open. But I will not push you onto any altar you don't choose."
Naera managed a small nod. "Thank you," she said, voice hoarse.
Trin inclined his head to the priest. "We'll leave you to your work."
They stepped out into the daylight together.
The temple door closed quietly behind them, shutting away the smell of wax and stone and the statue's carved gaze. Outside, the town moved as it always had: carts creaking, voices calling, a dog barking at something only it could see.
They started down the slope in silence.
Naera walked with her shoulders hunched slightly, as if she were trying to take up less space, to hide the echo of the radiance that had so recently wrapped her. Trin matched her pace without crowding.
"Thank you," she said at last, not looking at him. "For…what you said. To the priest."
"If I hadn't," Trin replied, "you'd be waking up tomorrow with half the town at your door asking for miracles."
"That sounds…awful," she muttered.
He glanced sideways. "You're already overwhelmed. Adding other people's expectations would not help."
She huffed a faint, humorless laugh. "Understatement of the year."
They walked a few more steps.
"Do you feel…different?" he asked quietly.
Naera considered. "Yes," she said. "And no. I'm still me. But it's like—" She searched for words. "Like there's a faint map drawn over everything now. I can't read it yet. Just…see that it's there."
"That will grow," he said. "Slowly. She meant it that way."
Naera nodded, fingers brushing the pendant under her tunic. "I'm not sure whether to be grateful or terrified."
"Both is allowed," Trin said.
By the time they reached the busier streets, she had straightened a little, pulling her cloak around herself like armor. The glow had faded completely now, at least to ordinary eyes. Only a very faint sense of brightness clung to her in Trin's perception, like residual warmth from a recently banked fire.
They stopped near a crossroads where the road to the barracks split from the way back to the inn.
"I should…" Naera gestured vaguely toward the compound. "If I vanish too long, Garran will assume I've joined a cult."
"He would be half right," Trin said gently.
She gave him a look that was half glare, half gratitude. "You're not funny."
"A little," he said.
"A very little," she corrected. Her expression sobered. "Will you be all right?"
He blinked. "You're the one who just had a goddess's arms around you. I should be asking you that."
"That's not what I meant," she said quietly. "You told her goodbye."
"For now," he echoed Althera's phrase. "I've had practice."
Naera studied him, then nodded slowly. "Get some food," she said. "You look like you forgot to eat yesterday."
"I ate," he said. "The stew was…present."
"That sounds like the inn's stew," she said dryly. "Try not to meditate yourself into forgetting meals."
"I will endeavor to maintain a schedule," he replied.
Naera drew in a breath, then let it out. "We'll talk later," she said. "When my head stops spinning."
"Take your time," Trin said. "The world will not collapse if this rests for a day."
Her eyes flicked upward, as if she wasn't entirely sure of that, but she nodded anyway and turned toward the barracks.
Trin watched her go until she disappeared around a corner.
Then he headed back toward the inn.
On the way, he stopped at a street stall selling skewers of spiced meat and vegetables. The vendor handed him one, the aroma sharp and smoky. He ate it slowly as he walked, more out of the need to anchor himself in something mundane than hunger.
By the time he reached the Copper Crescent, the afternoon had settled into a steady hum. A few patrons were already nursing drinks. The innkeep nodded at him as he passed. He returned the gesture and climbed the stairs to his room.
Inside, the quiet met him like an old friend.
He closed the door, set his pack aside, and sat on the floor rather than the bed, crossing his legs and resting his hands loosely on his knees.
For a while, he simply breathed.
Then, cautiously, he reached inward.
The faint ember of his power, which had felt so small and distant since the battle, responded more readily now. It was still diminished—no vast well, no roaring sea—but it no longer felt like a single coal in a cold hearth. It was more like a small, steady flame, protected by cupped hands.
He traced its edges with his awareness.
There was something different about its texture—threads woven through it that hadn't been there before. A familiar signature. The echo of paths.
"Of course," he murmured.
If Althera had written or bent many of the laws that governed this world—if her way of seeing had shaped how magic flowed, how fate tangled, how choices echoed—then being in her presence here, in *her* sphere, would do more than stir old memories. It would pull his own nature into closer alignment with the local rules.
He would regain himself faster here than he would have in some neutral, untouched realm.
*But only if I keep crossing her paths,* he thought. *Only if she keeps stepping close enough to nudge the pattern.*
He doubted that would happen often.
Even as she had spoken of existing along many threads, he had felt the effort it took for her to gather enough of herself into a singular, coherent presence. She could not simply appear every time he knelt.
"Not easy," he said quietly. "Not safe to count on."
Still, the fact remained: his power had grown, if only a little.
He opened his eyes.
The room looked the same—bed, table, shuttered window, tools on the corner. But he saw it slightly differently now; edges seemed a fraction clearer, as if the world's weave had come into sharper focus.
He reached for his tools.
The staff he began to craft was not grand. That was deliberate.
Naera did not need a relic that would draw eyes and questions. She needed something functional, sturdy, aligned with the work she already did—just…better.
He selected a length of wood from the modest supplies he carried—straight-grained, with a subtle natural curve that fit well against the hand. With his knife, he stripped the bark, revealing pale, smooth heartwood beneath. The scent of fresh-shaved wood filled the room.
He worked slowly, shaping the staff to Naera's height and reach, considering how she planted her current one, how she swung it when casting or when knocking aside an over-eager recruit.
He added slight flares at the top and bottom for balance. The head he left simple, only carving a small groove where a focus stone could be bound if she chose. Down the length, he etched shallow lines—not decorative flourishes, but subtle path-marks that echoed Althera's symbol without copying it outright. The grooves would help her grip, give her fingers purchase when sweat or rain slicked the wood.
Every so often, he let a whisper of his recovered power seep into the grain—not to make it unbreakable or unbearably potent, but to attune it to her. To the threads now tangled with her own perception.
It would be easier, in theory, for her to focus through something built with her in mind. A gentle guide, not a cage.
By the time he finished, the light outside the shutter had dimmed toward evening.
He sat back and regarded the staff.
It looked unremarkable at first glance—just a well-made piece of wood, smoothed and carved. But it felt…right in his hands. Balanced. Waiting.
He imagined Naera holding it, the way her fingers would find the grooves without thinking, the way the faint sense of threads might hum a little clearer when she used it to channel.
"Not fancy," he murmured. "But you never liked fancy."
He set the staff carefully against the wall near his pack, where he would remember to bring it to her when the moment was less raw.
Then he stretched out on the narrow bed.
The day's weight settled over him slowly: the temple, the void, Althera's touch, the lingering warmth of her hand over his heart, Naera's shaken whisper, the priest's dropped basket.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time in a long while, as he drifted toward sleep, the vastness of what he had lost and the smallness of his current world felt less like a punishment and more like a deliberate narrowing. A path, not an exile.
Tomorrow would bring questions, work, perhaps more trouble.
Tonight, there was just a well-made staff leaning against a wall, the memory of a goddess's smile, and the soft, careful flame of his returning power.
He let himself slip into rest, trusting—for a few hours at least—that the world would keep turning without him watching it.