Ophelia's Point of View
The candle between us had burned low, its wick a curled shadow, wax pooled like melted time.
We sat in stillness, Elarion and I—two beings far older than we appeared, cloaked in flesh but wearing eternity like an old, heavy robe.
His words echoed in my chest:
"It is torment… to outlive everyone you've ever loved."
And yet, he remained.
Here.
In this cold stone sanctuary.
In this holy place that barely remembered what holiness meant.
"…Why are you still here?" I asked softly.
Elarion didn't move at first. His clouded eyes were half-lowered, his hands resting atop the ancient scroll between us.
"You've lived for so long," I continued. "You've sacrificed more than most. You carry memories older than this temple's walls. So… why do you stay here? Why this place?"
He exhaled quietly, as though the answer weighed more than the question itself.
"I ask myself that," he said, voice slow and steady. "More than I care to admit."
A pause.
"But the truth is…" His fingers ran along the edge of the scroll. "This temple is the only place left that remembers who I was. Even if no one else does."
He turned his head slightly, facing the unlit side of the room.
"This is where I made the vow. This is where I first knelt after I lost her—and where I offered my service, not to the High Ones, but to balance itself."
He reached out, as if brushing something invisible in the air. "I thought if I remained here… if I served quietly… maybe my silence would balance the noise I once created."
"Noise?" I asked, confused.
His jaw tightened, just a little.
"I didn't just trade my sight, Ophelia," he said, voice laced with old regret. "I shattered something sacred. I broke the flow of fate. And though I saved her… others paid the cost. I've never spoken of that to anyone."
His hand dropped to his lap.
"There were three villagers," he whispered. "Children. In the path of the divine imbalance I caused. Their deaths were… never meant to happen."
I felt my chest cave with the weight of his pain.
"Andso," he finished, "I stayed here. Year after year. Age after age. Not because I was told to. But because I believed I had to. That penance was the only way forward."
"But hasn't anything changed?" I asked, my voice quiet, almost trembling.
"Nothing changes for men like me," he replied, serene and tragic. "The world forgets. I remember. That is how it has always been."
He turned his head toward me again, his sightless eyes impossibly soft.
"Butthen… youcame."
I stared at him, breath caught in my throat.
"You are the first presence in centuries that has stirred something in this temple," he continued. "The books awaken when you touch them. The air listens. Even the sacred texts hidden in the sealed wing began to whisper again the night you arrived."
A faint shimmer pulsed at the edge of the room, almost imperceptible.
"I thought my time was meant to be stillness. But perhaps… it was meant to lead me to you."
Because as much as I had come here for answers,
I was beginning to feel like I had found something else too.
Something I hadn't been looking for.
But maybe desperately needed.
Our conversation drifted into stillness once more.
Elarion sat with that same calm stillness he carried since I arrived—as if time could not touch him, and neither could sorrow, despite how deeply it lived in his voice.
There was something eternal in him. Something more than human. More than celestial.
He had become part of the in-between.
I rose quietly from my seat, my fingers brushing the side of my robes, uncertain what to say next. "Thankyou," I murmured. "For sharing that with me. For your trust."
He tilted his head, a faint smile curling at the edge of his lips. "The wind will carry your path where it must go. But you will always be able to return, if your heart remains open."
Something about the way he said it felt like… a farewell.
I stepped out of the chamber, the thick air of the temple hallway wrapping around me like a cold breath.
But then—
I stopped.
Some invisible pull in my chest made me turn.
And when I looked back—
The chamber was gone.
Or rather, it had changed.
The open door I had just stepped through now revealed a vast hall—quiet, hollow, dustless, and filled with a soft golden glow.
At its center stood a massive, breathtaking monument.
A statue.
Of Elarion.
His face was carved with reverence, eyes closed in peaceful stillness. One hand extended as though blessing the air, the other resting over his heart. A long robe flowed around him like stone starlight, etched in runes I hadn't seen since Hayva.
I stepped forward, my breath trembling.
The chamber was no longer a room of books and candlelight.
It was a memorial.
A sacred place.
A forgotten relic of the past.
Had he always been… gone?
Or had I spoken to his spirit?
A shard of him?
Or something else entirely—left behind not in body, but in purpose?
I stared up at the statue, suddenly feeling small, like a child before a legend. Tears welled in my eyes—not from fear. But from awe. From the weight of love and sacrifice etched into stone.
"Thankyou," I whispered again, this time not as a farewell…
…but as a prayer.
And when I turned away once more—
the golden light dimmed behind me.
And the monument faded back into silence.
coldness returned.
The peace I'd felt in Elarion's presence…
was gone.
"Don't just stand there," barked one of the elder priests. "Sweep before the guests arrive, or do you think the temple cleans itself?"
"Yes, Father," I murmured, bowing my head.
He didn't even look at me.
Just like yesterday. And the day before.
Only now it stung differently.
The other acolytes passed me in clusters, heads high, robes clean. They glanced at me with barely concealed disdain. As if I carried dirt just by existing.
The whispers started again.
"She's not even registered—how is she still here?"
"Did you see her eat last night? Like a starving dog."
"I heard she's from the outer villages… or worse. Maybe not even born here."
Their words tried to land like knives, but they were dull. Familiar. The only thing that still cut… was how used to it I had become.
Later that morning, while I scrubbed the stone steps by the altar hall, a girl in pristine silver robes passed by, her chin high, a soft sneer on her lips.
Her name was Theren—one of the saint candidates. One of the temple's prized daughters.
She paused in front of me, letting her gaze sweep down like I was something stuck to the marble.
"Careful, filth," she said, stepping dramatically over my bucket. "You might stain my calling."
I didn't rise to it. I simply kept scrubbing, the brush firm in my hand.
"Still pretending to be pious?" she added over her shoulder. "You can clean all you want. It won't wash off your origin."
Another girl laughed behind her. "Maybe she thinks if she scrubs long enough, the gods will mistake her for one of us."
Their laughter echoed behind them like mocking bells.
I finished my work in silence.
But something had shifted.
I knelt at the altar later that afternoon, trying to pray.
Trying to feel what I felt in Elarion's chamber.
But all I could feel was confusion.
And quiet, creeping rage.
Evenhere, I thought. Even in the house of the Higher Being... there is cruelty.
There is pride.
There is abuse of faith.
The temple, built as a sanctuary of light, still cast shadows in every corner.
And I realized something I hadn't let myself see before.
Not everything built in the name of divinity is holy.
I stood that evening on the balcony overlooking the stone garden. Alone.
The wind whispered across the pillars, brushing my hair away from my face.
I touched the pendant Magnus had once given me.
And for the first time since arriving here, I didn't pray.
I simply stood still.
....
The sky had turned a dusty rose by the time I finished sorting scrolls in the eastern archives. My arms ached, my palms raw from a day spent doing work no one else wanted to touch.
I didn't complain.
But I was… tired. In more ways than one.
I walked the long corridor behind the sanctuary alone, where the temple's gardens bloomed in eerie silence—untouched by most. It was the only place here that felt slightly removed from all the noise, where the grass still bent softly with the breeze, and the marble paths weren't constantly patrolled.
And that's when I saw him.
A flash of familiarfur darted between the stone columns.
I froze.
A sleek black cat with sharp yellow eyes stared at me from atop a sun-warmed bench. His ears twitched, tail flicking lazily. There was a curious glint in his gaze—mischievous and unbothered.
"...Horace?" I whispered, blinking.
The cat gave a short, smug meow and leapt gracefully down, padding toward me like he owned the temple.
I dropped to my knees without thinking. "It is you."
He rubbed against my legs with a soft purr, circling once before settling on the edge of my robes like it was his throne. I reached out and scratched behind his ear—he leaned into it, just like he always did at the hideout.
A warmth bloomed in my chest that I hadn't felt since—
Magnus.
Memories rushed forward like a tide: Magnus trying to shoo Horace off his lap, the cat knocking over his tools, me laughing as Horace curled into Magnus' hood during a nap.
I bit my lip, suddenly overwhelmed.
"What are you doing here?" I whispered, stroking his fur. "Did… did he send you? Or did you just follow the wind like you always do?"
Horace yawned and blinked slowly at me, like I was asking a very silly question.
And in that small moment—kneeling in dusty robes, cradling a street-smart temple-crashing cat—I felt something loosen in me. Something I'd been trying to bury.
The ache of missingthem.
The quiet truth that I wasn'treadytoletgo of Yeneva. Or Magnus. Or the warmth that world had given me before I returned here, to stone walls and cold stares.
Horace gently batted at my pendant with a soft paw, as if urging me not to forget.
Horace nestled comfortably in my lap, eyes half-lidded, his purr vibrating through the fabric of my robe. For the first time in days, I allowed myself to smile, gently stroking between his ears.
"I've missed you," I whispered.
The temple garden was nearly empty at this hour—silent, drenched in the orange hue of a dying sunset. It felt like we were alone in a softer world.
But peace, I would learn, never lasted long in this place.
A harsh voice suddenly pierced the air.
"You!"
I flinched and looked up.
Father Caldrin, one of the elder priests known for his cruelty masked as piety, stormed toward me with wide, horrified eyes. His gold-threaded robes billowed as he moved, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
"What in the Higher Being's name is thatthing doing here?"
Horace hissed softly and jumped to his feet, fur bristling.
"He'sjust a cat," I said, rising quickly and shielding Horace with my arm.
"A black cat," he snarled. "Omen of corruption. Familiar of darkness. How dare you bring this filth into sacred ground?!"
"He's harmless," I pleaded. "He's not a dark creature—he's just lost. He's mine."
"A beast like that has no place in the House of Light!"
He raised his staff.
I acted on instinct.
I threw myself in front of Horace as the staff cracked down.
It hit my shoulder hard—sending pain searing through my arm—but I didn't move. I only shielded Horace, wrapping him in my arms and bracing myself for the next blow.
"How dare you defy sacred law?" Caldrin barked, voice echoing. "Protecting that demon? You will suffer for your arrogance!"
More priests and nuns appeared at the edge of the garden, drawn by the commotion. None intervened. Most looked on with disgust. Others whispered to one another behind raised hands.
"She defends a shadow creature."
"She must be tainted."
"I knew there was something wrong with her."
I clenched my jaw, tears stinging my eyes—not from pain, but from fury.
How can they not see? How can they call themselves holy… when their hearts are so cruel?
Caldrin struck me again—this time across the back.
I didn't cry out.
I didn't beg.
I stood firm.
"I will not let you harm him," I said through clenched teeth.
He raised the staff again—
But this time, Horace leapt out of my arms, landing on a nearby column with an angry hiss before vanishing into the shadows of the garden.
Caldrin stopped mid-swing, startled.
"Damnbeast," he growled. "May it never return."
Then he turned his gaze back to me.
"You," he said coldly, "will be punished."
They dragged me to the cleansing hall. No warmth. No apology.
The punishment was cruel.
They made me kneel for hours, arms outstretched, holding two pitchers of water—if they spilled, they'd start the count again. The room was cold. My limbs shook. The gashes across my back stung every time I moved.
And still… I said nothing.
Because I knew now—
Even in the house of the Higher Being, shadows can wear white robes.
When they finally left me alone, I collapsed to the floor, trembling.
But a soft sound reached me in the dark.
A paw. A brush of fur.
Horace had returned.
He curled up beside me in the cold silence of the cleansing hall, purring softly.
And for the first time that day, I wept.
Not because I was hurt…
But because this small creature showed more compassion than the humans around me ever had.