Thalia

The Temple of the Everwatch was large, built from pale stone and dark marble. It sat at the highest point in Myria, overlooking the city like a silent reminder of what had been fought for. Inside, the hall was quiet and cool. Tall, narrow windows let in soft light through stained glass, colored in shades of gray and blue. The symbols of Helm - the raised gauntlet and the ever watching eye. At the far end stood the altar - a solid block of smooth white stone. Behind it rose a statue of Helm, tall and armored, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The eyes, carved deep into the stone, gave the impression of seeing everything. Always watching.

Thalia stood nearby, arms crossed, looking up at the statue of her god. This wasn’t just a temple. It was her post now. High Warden of the Empire. There had never been such a title before, not formally. Now it was hers. She would speak for the Empire’s faith. Guide the Emperor’s conscience. Watch when others looked away. It wasn’t glory. It was responsibility. And it was heavier than any weapon she’d ever carried.

Yet, she couldn’t help but feel proud at how far she’d come from that naive cleric in Isandor.

A few feet from her, resting on the altar, sat the Crown of Reforging. It was simple in shape, forged from mithral and blackened steel. Its surface caught the light in a subtle, almost shifting way - never gleaming, but never dull. The band was thick, seamless, and perfectly balanced. A single engraved line ran around its circumference, smooth and unbroken, symbolizing unity through fracture.

Outside the temple doors, the bells of Myria began to ring, and the city stirred. A crowd filled the square outside the Temple of the Everwatch, pressed close to the base of the steps. No cheers. Just silence, and the quiet tension of history about to settle.

Then, the procession arrived. Metilles emerged at the head, flanked by guards wearing the purple colors of Old Ridia. He wore his own adamantine plate, polished but visibly worn, the dents and scratches left intact. It had been cleaned for the day, but not hidden. It bore the marks of war - a symbol of what he’d endured for the Empire.

Metilles climbed the steps to the cathedral alone. At the top, just before the doors, he stopped, then slowly knelt. A moment passed, the weight of it felt on the shoulders of every person gathered to witness. Then, the temple doors opened, and Thalia stepped out, the Crown of Reforging in her hands.

She stepped forward. Her voice was calm. Clear.

“We gather today not only to raise a ruler,” she said, “but to name a guardian.

One who did not seek power, but carried it. One who did not ask for the burden, but never set it down.”

She looked down at Metilles.

“Do you come freely, not for title or power, but because the burden must be carried?”

“I do,” he said.

“Do you swear to lead with vigilance, not pride? To protect not only the Empire, but its people?”

“I swear it.”

“And will you accept the duty to endure - not just in war, but in the long days after?”

“I will.”

Thalia stepped forward and raised the Crown of Reforging. Metilles remained kneeling, still and steady. Then, with both hands, Thalia lowered the Crown of Reforging onto his brow. There was no flash of light. No roar of approval. Just the quiet rustle of the wind across the stone, and the weight of the moment settling in. Nothing changed visibly. But everyone watching knew - it had.

Thalia stepped back, the Crown now set. Emperor Metilles remained still for a moment, the crowd holding their breath. Then he stood. He turned to face the people gathered below, the battered armor and new crown worn without contrast. He looked out across the crowd, eyes scanning the faces. Then he spoke.

“I didn’t come here to rule. I came because someone needed to stand when others wouldn’t. This crown doesn’t mark the end of a war. It marks the start of something harder - peace. I won’t promise glory. Or greatness. Only this:

That I will carry what must be carried.

That I will lead with both eyes open.

And that no matter what comes next - I will not look away.”

The bells rang again, slow and steady, echoing across the square. For a moment, that was the only sound there was. Then someone shouted his name. And another. Then the sound spread, building like a wave - slow at first, then rising as the tension finally broke. Cheers erupted throughout the square, rolling through the crowd as hands went up and voices called out.

Metilles didn’t raise his arms. He didn’t bow. He just stood there, still and calm, eyes on the people - not as a ruler above them, but as one of them. And for the first time in a long time, the Empire didn’t feel broken. It felt whole. United.

Thalia watched him for a long moment. No one else could have carried it - the burden, the war, the crown. And now that he had, he didn’t look larger than life. He looked exactly the way he always had. Like someone who would carry it anyway.

The streets of Bardford looked more or less the way she remembered them. She’d only passed through once, years ago, but some things stuck in her memory. The salty breeze coming from the harbor, the shouts from the market square, the gulls fighting over scraps. It all felt familiar enough, even if she’d barely had time to look at it back then.

Thalia kept her hood up as she moved, not quite hiding, but not ready to be seen. She wasn’t here as High Warden Thalia of the Ridian Empire. Not today. Today, she was just Thalia, passing through a city that remembered her differently.

The tavern looked just like it had the first time she’d seen it—weathered sign hanging crooked, soft glow spilling from the windows, and that same mix of warm bread and bad decisions drifting into the street. It was where she and the others had come, chasing rumors of two strangers claiming to be from the Istishari Isles. She stopped outside, staring for a breath longer than she meant to.

It had been four years. Four years of duty, diplomacy, and everything in between. She had stood beside emperors, settled border disputes, signed treaties, and spoken for the gods themselves. She had done her job well - better than most thought she could. And somehow, through all of it, Verrix had never quite left her thoughts. Not in a dramatic way. Just… there. A quiet pull. A half-finished sentence.

“I put the sea aside for a while when I started the tavern,” Verrix had told her once. “Didn’t mean I loved it any less when I went back.”

That had stuck with her. Maybe it always would.

She stepped inside.

The tavern was warm. Loud enough to feel alive, quiet enough to breathe. A few sailors sat at the far table, a few others played a game of dice near the bar. It smelled like citrus and rum, with the undercurrent of old wood and sea air. And then, from the back room, a voice. Familiar and casual.

“Still wearing armor in a place like this? You planning to fight the furniture?”

Thalia turned.

Verrix leaned against the doorway, drying her hands on a towel. Her hair was pulled back the same way it had been back then, and her eyes hadn’t changed a bit - sharp and knowing.

Thalia smiled, slow and tired.

“Still running your mouth in a place like this? You planning to get punched?”

Verrix smirked, stepping forward.

“Still bad at flirting, I see.”

Thalia shrugged. “Some things don’t improve with time.”

She hesitated - then added, quiet:

“But I’d… very much like to do. That. Again.”

Verrix laughed softly and shook her head, stepping closer.

“Good,” she said. “Because I never stopped hoping you would.”

~~

Later, the tavern was quiet. The shutters were drawn and the fire had burned low. Somewhere downstairs, a stool creaked as the last sailor stumbled out into the street. Upstairs, the room was dark except for the dim glow of the hearth’s last coals.

Thalia lay back against the mattress, one arm behind her head, the other resting across the worn blanket. Her armor was gone, tucked in the corner. Just her, for once, without the weight of steel or titles. Verrix lay beside her, half-covered by the blanket, one hand gently resting on Thalia’s ribs, settled like it belonged. Neither of them said anything for a while. Then, softly.

“I still think about the isles,” Thalia said.

Verrix didn’t answer right away.

“I know they’re gone. That… whatever we saw, whatever happened at the Well, it tore them apart. But it still feels like something’s left. That dark mist. Those creatures. They’re not spreading, but they’re still there. Waiting.”

Thalia exhaled, a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“I should be doing something. But I don’t know what. There’s no war to win. No cause to rally. It’s just… damage. Damage no one can fix.”

Verrix shifted slightly, brushing her thumb over Thalia’s side.

“Not everything broken needs you to carry it,” she said, gently. “You already saved the rest of the world, remember?”

Thalia turned her head, just enough to meet Verrix’s eyes.

“Doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It never does,” Verrix replied. “But you held the line. You gave the rest of us time to breathe. That counts for something.”

The room was quiet again. In the distance, the sea could be heard, gentle and constant.

“You’ll have to leave again soon, won’t you?” Verrix asked, voice low.

Thalia nodded. “A few days. Week, maybe. There’s a council session in Myria I can’t miss. Border talks with Himari. And a temple dispute in Caldrest I’ve been asked to weigh in on.” She paused. “And the Cathedral… there’s always something.”

Verrix was quiet for a long moment.

Then she gave a small smile.

“Well,” she murmured, “I’m still here. Same tavern. Same bed. You don’t have to stop moving. But you don’t have to forget where you can rest.”

Thalia smiled and let her eyes close, just for a moment. Not asleep - just still. At least for now, there was nowhere else she needed to be.