Helena's eyes narrow with an expression I cannot read. "Kairi," she says, soft but precise, "you always had an unclear relationship with being adored. Don't confuse people's reflections with ownership. Let them worship; don't drown in their worship." There is a kindness in her voice that is both accidental and true. She smells faintly of smoke and citrus, the way a bonfire smells when you are a child and someone you trust holds your hand.
Selene tilts her head, not with curiosity now but with the practiced empathy of a teacher seeing a pupil flinch. "Understand, dear Creator: power comes in many dialects. To perform patience is to speak in the grammar of restraint. But it is still speech." She leans in, lower. "If you wish to reverse the sermon, you need only speak again."
