The last echoes of the battle still shimmered faintly in the air when the three of them returned to the quiet edge of the Confluence. The silver light of the Veil dimmed around them, the battlefield dissolving back into mist until only the low hum of that endless realm remained.
Nora dropped her blades with a clatter and groaned.
"Remind me to never pick a fight with anything taller than a house again."
Naeem gave her a sidelong glance. "You'd still do it."
"Probably," she admitted with a grin.
Elaine let out a slow breath, the memory of Aysu's radiance still flickering behind her eyelids. Even after the spirit's departure, its presence lingered, like static in her veins.
"I think…" she said quietly, "I'll meditate for a while. The Veil feels strange after today. Like it's still watching me."
Nora threw herself down onto the smooth silver stone. "Of course you will. We nearly die, and your first instinct is more self-reflection."
"Someone has to," Elaine replied with a faint smile.
"Go on then," Nora said, waving lazily. "We'll keep training. Naeem says my form's sloppy."
"You'll prove him right," Naeem said.
"Watch me."
Elaine smiled again, softer this time, and left them to their familiar rhythm — the clash of banter and steel fading behind her. For a moment, she let herself enjoy the sound. It felt real. Grounded.
The silver rivers wound beneath her feet as she walked, crossing and recrossing in patterns no mortal map could hold. Above her, the crescent moon hung vast and close, painting the world in quiet luminescence.
She stopped at the base of a great Silver Tree. Its roots sank into the liquid light, and its branches spread into constellations. Disciples said the Goddess had planted it herself, a memory given shape.
Elaine knelt, set her bow beside her, and closed her eyes.
Her breath evened out. Her heartbeat slowed. The hum of the Veil softened until it became a rhythm; not unlike breathing, but deeper, older.
And for a moment, there was peace.
Then —
"You found your way back."
The voice was quiet, unhurried.
Elaine turned. Seren Valen stood a few steps away, half-shadowed by the glow of the Silver Tree. His pale hair caught the light like flowing metal, his expression calm, almost distant, as though he were listening to something only he could hear.
"Senior Valen," she said softly. "I didn't sense your presence."
"The Veil chooses who it shows," he answered. "It seems it wished to show you, not me."
He approached without sound, the silver beneath his feet barely rippling. Even the light seemed to dim slightly in his wake, not out of fear, but as if giving him space.
Elaine kept her gaze steady. "I was meditating. Trying to understand what I felt during the battle."
"What did you feel?"
She hesitated. "Like the moon was calling to me. But… it wasn't gentle."
Seren regarded her for a long moment. His expression didn't change, but something in his stillness made her feel small, not diminished, but seen too clearly.
"The divine rarely is," he said. "When you reach toward the light, it must first burn away what is not meant to rise."
His words settled over her, heavy, like scripture spoken from memory.
She frowned slightly. "Then how do I know what's meant to rise?"
"You listen." His eyes caught the moonlight then, a strange shimmer moving behind the reflection, subtle, like ripples beneath glass. "And when the light reaches for you, you don't turn away."
Elaine nodded, uncertain why the words felt both comforting and cold.
He turned his gaze toward the Silver Tree. The runic threads woven into his sleeve caught the light — intricate, fluid markings unlike any temple script she knew.
"The Veil remembers those who surrender fully to it," Seren murmured. "Not all are remembered kindly."
She looked up at him, startled. "What do you mean?"
He smiled faintly, not mocking, not kind, merely distant. "Only that memory is the Goddess's way of keeping what she cannot hold. To be remembered is to belong to her."
Elaine swallowed, lowering her gaze. "I'll meditate more on that."
"Good." His tone softened. "Most seek power. Few seek silence. The Veil favors the latter."
When she looked up again, he was already walking away. His reflection didn't follow him across the silver surface; it simply faded, as though the light itself forgot him.
He paused at the edge of the clearing, his voice carrying just enough to reach her.
"Keep listening, Elaine. The Veil has a voice, you need only let it find you."
Then he was gone.
Elaine stayed kneeling beneath the Silver Tree for a long while after, her mind quiet but her pulse uneasy. The moon above shone gently, yet as she bowed her head to pray, she couldn't shake the faint impression that something else had heard her first.
Far from the Confluence, the air folded inward and released a whisper of silver dust. Seren stepped out into the quiet of his quarters in the Temple of Dreams.
The chamber was dim, lit only by drifting motes of pale fire. Incense curled lazily toward the ceiling, blurring the murals of sleeping gods that lined the walls — their faces calm, their eyes half-closed, as if not quite asleep.
He crossed the room without a sound and stopped before a mirror cracked through the center. His reflection stared back, fragmented, doubled by the break in the glass.
For a long moment, he simply looked at himself. The silver light caught his eyes, turning them pale, almost colorless. Then, slowly, his expression changed. Not into a smile, not entirely, but something close, too measured to be warmth, too quiet to be satisfaction.
He lifted a hand and brushed the edge of the mirror with his fingertips. The surface trembled faintly, like water remembering movement.
"Still," he whispered, though no one was there to hear him.
The word lingered, barely audible, and the air seemed to listen. The faint glow of the candles leaned toward him, their flames steady but elongated, reaching.
He stood there until even the incense smoke had settled. Then, with a breath that seemed to empty the room, he turned away.
When he left, the mirror kept trembling — long after he was gone.