For centuries, Seirion had watched temples fall, cities burn, and lives extinguished. He had never taken interest in small tasks, in everyday details. But in that moment, seeing Erian picking up dust and stones, he understood that there was something profoundly sacred in those gestures.
Seirion crossed his arms over his chest and contemplated him, letting the silence fill with the swish of cloth. He felt an unexpected warmth spread through his chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with magic or his power.
It was something much simpler, and at the same time much harder to explain: the quiet love that grew in him with each small gesture of the human who had entered the abyss and who, somehow, was bringing him back to life.
Erian, without noticing, had begun to transform the temple.
And, even more, he was transforming Seirion.
