The cathedral remained hushed around them, its vast halls holding whispers of prayer and fragments of sunlight caught in colored glass. Luke and Ilyrana sat with Saint Cynthia in one of the inner chambers, where the air felt still, untouched by the noise of the outer city.
They had come from the barracks, where old comrades clasped forearms and traded familiar jests. They had declared their intention to sail. And now here they were—before the one person whose presence seemed to bind so many threads of Virencia together.
Saint Cynthia regarded them with her usual calm attentiveness. It was not an authority that pressed down upon others, nor the distant poise of someone elevated beyond reach. It was something gentler—like a steady flame that did not waver even when winds shifted.
"I have heard," she said softly. "That you intend to join the naval project."
Luke blinked.
"News travels fast."
