After a while, silence filled the tent.

  Not Quarroth. Not Serevan. Not the others.

  Just that same holy silence.

  I stood there a moment longer, letting their judgment hang in the air like incense that had overstayed its welcome. Then I turned, tail low, paws cold, and walked out of the tent with all the dignity of a mop that had just been used to clean up a theological disappointment.

  The sun hit harder than expected.

  Too bright. Too clean.

  My siblings were waiting in line, tall and gleaming. Eline’s head tilted the moment she saw me, just a fraction, like a question mark with fur. The others didn’t look. Didn’t need to. I think they already knew.

  I took my place at the end of the line. As always.

  After they all exited the tent, the bishops proceeded to their seats.

  However, Grand Solar Vicar remained standing, his voice slicing through the air with all the warmth of carved stone.

  “By light and lineage, by rite and resonance, the Sunmire recognizes these six as its new pillars.”

  Each name followed like a drumbeat, like the click of locks closing on a future I didn’t ask for.

  “Vaelric, the Sunbound Shield.”

  “Saphiel, the Kindling Beneath Ash.”

  “Rinvara, the Light that Never Flickers.”

  “Gorran, the Mountain that Never Remembers.”

  “Eline, the Spark that Dances Toward Ruin.”

  “Pophet, the Gentle Faith that Echoes.”

  No pause. No hesitation. But still, I heard it.

  The way my name barely echoed at all.

  A cleric stepped forward for each of us in turn, draping a golden necklace around our necks, each one etched with the sigil of Sunmire: a sunburst surrounded by six rings.

  When they lowered mine, I felt every ounce of it.

  Heavier than gold.

  Heavier than legacy.

  And somehow, not heavy enough to matter.

  I don’t remember how the rest of the ceremony ended.

  There was talking. A lot of it. The Grand Solar Vicar launched into another long monologue about light, about legacy, about how we were now “lamplighters on the road of destiny.” Or maybe “sunflames that mustn’t flicker,” or “beacons stitched into the hem of prophecy.” Something dramatic with celestial verbs.

  Maybe before.

  It all blurred.

  At some point, I nodded. Or bowed. Or didn’t. Either way, nobody stopped me as I walked back toward the Basilica. Nobody called my name. No priests scrambled to usher me to a blessed chamber or shower me with sacred oil.

  I don’t even remember reaching my room.

  One second I was standing in a field with a necklace that felt like a leash, and the next—

  Stone walls. Familiar rug. One half-dead lantern.

  The weight in my chest stayed.

  I lay down, pulled the cushion over my face, and tried not to exist.

  Time did strange things after that.

  The days passed in fragments. Sounds dulled. Light faded faster than it should have. Meals came and went, mostly untouched. A few bites here and there. Enough to quiet the headaches.

  I slept.

  Or I stared at the ceiling. It was hard to tell the difference.

  It wasn’t sadness, exactly. Or pain. It was like… I’d sunk beneath the floorboards of feeling and found a space where nothing hurt because nothing moved. And it was easier to stay there. Quieter. No judgment. No failure. Just breath.

  One. Two.

  Repeat.

  I wasn’t waiting for anything. I didn’t think anyone would come. And honestly? I didn’t blame them.

  There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a room, it becomes the room. And I was living inside it.

  I think that’s when I realized it.

  I was depressed.

  Not the romantic kind. Not the kind that gets resolved with a montage and inspirational music. Just the regular, bone-deep, soggy-at-the-soul kind. The kind that makes brushing your teeth feel like an epic quest and existing feel like a statistical impossibility.

  I couldn’t erase it from my thoughts.

  Couldn’t pray it into something prettier.

  So I didn’t try.

  I just breathed. Slept. Avoided mirrors. Tried to avoid thoughts. Waited for the world to forget about me the way I’d forgotten how to care about it.

  Then came the knock.

  Soft. Hesitant. Not priest-like.

  I didn’t answer.

  Soft. Almost polite.

  I didn’t answer.

  The door creaked open anyway. I heard steps. Not priest-robes. Not heavy with judgment.

  Fur on stone.

  Then silence.

  I peeked.

  Rinvara.

  She didn’t say anything. Just stepped in, looked around like she wasn’t sure if she was intruding on a grave or a sulk, and then sat. Near the wall. Not too close.

  And that was it.

  No speech. No lecture. Just... her.

  Sitting there.

  For a solid twenty minutes.

  Then she left.

  I stared at the door long after it shut.

  Was that... pity?

  No. She didn’t look smug. Didn’t look anything, really.

  Weird.

  She came back after a few days.

  Didn’t knock this time.

  Just entered like it was routine, settled in the same spot, and stared at the opposite wall like it owed her money.

  No talking.

  She didn’t even look at me.

  I watched her from beneath the edge of my cushion. Half hoping she’d say something. Half dreading that she might.

  Maybe she was waiting until I was weaker. Emotionally malleable. Spiritually tenderized.

  But no. She just sat.

  And after a while, left again.

  The third visit, she brought a cushion.

  Placed it beside her, then moved it slightly farther away like she didn’t want to assume.

  Again, no words.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek and tried to ignore the gnawing thought: Is she building up to something?

  What if she was here to deliver some pity-soaked parable about how I no longer mattered?

  Or worse.

  What if she was just here to witness the fall?

  People do that sometimes. They show up for the crash. Quietly. Politely. Like good citizens watching a holy building collapse from a safe distance.

  She stayed longer this time. Maybe an hour.

  Still said nothing.

  Then gone.

  By the fifth visit, I was getting twitchy.

  I pretended to be asleep. Twice.

  She didn’t call my bluff.

  I tried glaring at her once. It was a slow, over-the-blanket kind of glare. She met my eyes. Didn’t flinch.

  Just sitting.

  Quiet.

  And in that quiet, something began to itch under my ribs. Not quite anger. Not comfort either.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Just… curiosity.

  Why was she here?

  It was around the fourth or fifth week that Rinvara finally spoke.

  She sat in her usual spot, tail curled neatly around her side, eyes on the floor like it was easier to talk to than me.

  “I didn’t ask for it,” she said.

  Her voice was soft. Tired, but not weak.

  “My awakening. It’s empathy.”

  She paused. Rubbed one paw against the other.

  “The way I attune to mana makes me feel what other people feel. Not all the time, not perfectly. But... just enough.”

  Another pause. Then she added, quietly:

  “It sucks.”

  That made me blink. Just a little.

  “I used to be happy, you know?” she said. “Like, all the time. I’d wake up smiling. I’d hum during cleaning duty just to annoy the priests. Everything was a joke. Even the serious stuff.”

  Her ears flicked.

  “I thought that meant strength. That if I was cheerful enough, I was doing things right.”

  She looked toward the wall again, like it helped her think.

  “But ever since my awakening, it’s been different. I can’t shut people out the way I used to. If someone’s hurting, I feel it. If they’re angry, it clings to me. If they’re scared, it’s like it’s in my own chest.”

  She drew in a breath and let it out slow.

  “It’s not just noise. It’s heavy. And sticky. And it doesn’t go away just because I want it to.”

  Her eyes flicked toward me. Brief. Honest.

  “I didn’t know you felt like this.”

  Another beat passed.

  “I knew you kept to yourself, but I thought you were fine. Just quiet. The smart kind of quiet, like you were watching everything and was having fun with us.”

  Her brow creased.

  “But I was wrong. And after I felt the hatred that came out of that tent... what I don’t know they said to you... I felt something break.”

  She shifted her weight a little.

  “And I’m sorry. For not saying anything sooner.”

  She stood, brushing a bit of dust off her side with one paw.

  “I don’t know if talking helps. I don’t even know if sitting here helps. But I’ll keep coming. If that’s okay.”

  A beat.

  Then, like always:

  “I’ll see you later.”

  And she left.

  She kept coming.

  Not every day. Every few days. No schedule. Just often enough that the space between her visits started to feel like something was missing.

  She never asked if I wanted company. Never asked if I was okay. She just walked in, sat in the same spot, and talked.

  Not about me. But about what was going on.

  “Quarroth took Vaelric,” she said, sitting down and shaking her fur out. “They’re training near the outer garrison. Not inside the Basilica anymore. Somewhere with more rocks to smash.”

  She stretched out her legs.

  “He’s doing fine. I think. “There’s a priest out there who said Vaelric nearly collapsed a stone column by accident. That Quarroth didn’t even look surprised and told him to aim higher.”

  She didn’t wait for me to react. I didn’t. That was how our interactions worked.

  A few days later, she walked in chewing a piece of jerky.

  “Serevan left. Took Gorran. They went back to the west border, the big outpost with the trenches. You know, the one with all the broken statues.”

  She sat down and pulled a second cushion into place with her paw, looking a bit sad.

  “Gorran didn’t say anything before he left. Just nodded once. Like that was enough. I guess it was.”

  She glanced at the door.

  “I think it’s going to be a bit louder now that he’s gone.”

  Later, she came in with damp fur and shook rainwater all over my rug.

  “Eline’s fine. Somehow,” she said, settling down. “She said something rude to that weird bishop and he laughed. So now she’s working with him.”

  She probably meant Eydor.

  “Not sure how that happened. He says she’s ‘quick on her feet.’ She says he has the energy of a very tired pigeon. I don’t really get it.”

  She picked at the edge of her cushion.

  “She calls it ‘the Scholarchium.’ Said ‘university’ was too boring”

  She glanced over, briefly.

  “She told me to check if you’re breathing.”

  Another visit. Another scroll. This one she dropped on the floor without looking at it.

  “The Head Priest’s making us do weird work now,” she said. “Not spells. Just… thinking and writing. A lot of it. He asks dumb questions and calls it training.”

  She laid down and stared at the ceiling.

  “Saphiel’s good at it. She likes to keep everything neat. But I’m not, I just get tired.”

  A while passed.

  Then, quieter:

  “He says I feel too much. I think he wants to help me. I don’t really know how.”

  She didn’t say anything after that for a long time.

  Eventually, she stood.

  “I thought maybe you’d want to know what’s been happening.”

  She started for the door. Paused.

  “Eline says hi. And that if you’re faking this to get out of training, she said she’s gonna sit on you.”

  She left.

  Her visits were becoming frequent.

  She still talked about everything and nothing. The weather. The food. What Saphiel said during training. What Eline threw at someone during training and how the priests tried to scold her for being sarcastic and she just nodded and took mental notes on it like it was a sermon.

  One day, she walked in holding a strip of cloth in her mouth. Pale yellow, frayed on the edge. She dropped it near the cushion and sat down.

  “Training banner,” she said. “Ripped off one of the practice poles. Thought it might cheer you up.”

  I looked at it. I think it was supposed to say ‘Glory’ or something, but the only legible part left just said ‘GLO.’

  I didn’t say anything. But I left it where it was.

  She didn’t talk right away that time. Just scratched her ear, rolled her shoulders, and stared at the wall for a bit.

  Then, “They’re sending me out.”

  I shifted, just a little.

  “Southwest post. Where Serevan and Gorran are. They need someone to help with the wounded. Not a lot of people who could heal down there. They also said it was good training for me”

  She leaned her head back against the wall.

  “I’ll be gone a while. Month or two, maybe. Depends how bad it gets.”

  I didn’t look at her. I just buried my nose into the cushion.

  “I hope you come back faster,” I muttered.

  She smiled. Not a grin. Just a quiet one.

  “Yep. See ya.”

  She got up.

  The door shut behind her.

  When it opened again, she had mud on her paws and a bundle tucked under one leg.

  “I brought stuff,” she said.

  She dropped the bundle near my cushion. It fell open: books. Worn, mismatched covers. One still smelled like dried grass.

  “I asked around what you liked. Some people didn’t know. One priest said naps and books. Then I found the librarian, Sister Elara. She remembered you.”

  She nudged the top book with her paw.

  “Said you used to sneak into the archive wing and fall asleep on texts about international trade. So I got you these.”

  I looked.

  Tactics and Terrain of the Western Shield

  Zorthari Field Sketches, Vol. 2

  Medic Notes from Fort Kessan

  “These were the only ones they’d let me borrow. They’re all about the western line. Thought you might want to know what it’s like.”

  She sat down hard.

  “They put me with the medics. Actual ones. I was supposed to help keep people stable. It worked... mostly.”

  She didn’t look at me.

  “I don’t have a lot of mana yet. Not compared to a proper healer. After a few hours, I’d get dizzy. Couldn’t save everyone.”

  She scratched at her leg.

  “I know that’s how it works. It still sucks.”

  Silence.

  She shifted again. “Serevan was there the whole time. Never said much. But he watched. Every time I failed, I felt his glare.”

  I looked at the books again.

  Then at her.

  “Did you come back okay?” I asked.

  She blinked. A bit surprised.

  “Sort of,” she said. “But seeing you helped.”

  Then, like always:

  “I’ll come back later. I still need to visit the Head Priest”

  When she showed up again, she dropped her travel pack near the cushion like it was something she’d stopped respecting three miles ago, then collapsed beside it with a grunt.

  “Eline’s stuck,” she said. “Scholarchium’s got her doing assistant stuff for Bishop Eydor. She said she hasn’t seen natural sunlight in four days and tried to escape by hiding in a supply crate labeled ‘parchment.’ She got caught. And now she’s in charge of stamping said parchment.”

  She stretched out her legs, scratched behind her ear.

  “She said the Bishop feeds her enough to survive and talks to her like a living glossary.”

  She reached into her travel pack and pulled out something wrapped in leaf paper.

  “Here. Another bun. This one’s healthy. The cook who made it said it has beans, roots, and greens. Don’t complain.”

  She dropped it in front of me.

  I stared at it.

  So did she.

  Eventually, I ate it.

  She looked smug about it.

  Next visit, she came in carrying something that looked like a medical kit.

  She set it down, unwrapped it, and started laying things out like a kid showing off a weird rock collection.

  “I learned some stuff while I was out there. A few tricks. Since we didn’t have enough healers and I couldn’t use mana all day without passing out, one of the medics taught me this.”

  She held up a small squishy marble wrapped in clear wax. Dull blue inside, with a slight shimmer.

  “Herbal mix. Mana-infused base. If you’re bleeding or shaky, this helps.”

  She poked it with a claw.

  “You stomp it. It breaks. The ooze goes into your fur, you lick your paw, done. Even though it tastes awful, it works fast.”

  She looked up at me.

  “And because we don’t have hands like the humans do, we wear them.”

  She pulled out something else, a cloth harness, narrow and curved to sit over the shoulder like a sash. It had ten stitched pockets. Each marble fit snug inside.

  “I made you one. I had it tailored and left space so you can grow into it.”

  “Five,” she said. “That’s all I could make with what I brought back. But I can make more. If you use one, I’ll bring another.”

  She looked at me.

  Didn’t say anything for a second.

  Then, softer:

  “Just don’t use them all in one go, okay?”

  She pushed the harness, the pouch-belt, next to me.

  “Serevan didn’t say anything the whole time I was gone. He has the same expression every time I failed. You’d think it would get easier, but it doesn’t.”

  She scratched her leg. Tapped the floor with her paw.

  “But I’m back.”

  She stood, shook out her fur, then looked back at me.

  “I’ve gotta report to the Head Priest. I’ll stop by later.”

  She hesitated.

  “Oh, and Sister Elara said she has a few old scrolls tucked away that you used to chew on.”

  She came by looking like she hadn’t slept in two days.

  Dropped into the usual spot and rubbed her face with both paws like she could erase the exhaustion.

  “It’s getting worse out there,” she said. No buildup. No context. Just that.

  She sat still for a moment, breathing through her snout.

  “They’re asking for more medics. They want me back at the southwestern border.”

  She didn’t look at me right away.

  “I told them I’d go. It’s not like I can say no. But I’ll be fine. The medic zone’s just a bit beyond the wall. Close, but not in the line.”

  She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite get there.

  “I’ll bring you more books,” she said, nudging a bun toward me that I hadn’t noticed she brought. “Something weird and heavy. Maybe with maps. You like maps, right?”

  She stood slower than usual. Shook out her legs like they were full of sand.

  “I won’t be gone long. Just a few weeks.”

  She scratched behind her ear. Her tail twitched.

  Then, quieter:

  “Don’t worry. I’m not dumb enough to die in a medical tent.”

  She turned, trotted to the door, and paused only once.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  And that was it.

  The door shut.

  A few weeks passed.

  Then more.

  The bun sat on the shelf, untouched.

  I didn’t ask where she was.

  There was no one to ask in my room anyway.

  Eline, Saphiel, and Vaelric didn’t visit. Gorran was gone.

  Rinvara had said the zone was behind the walls. She said it was safe.

  So I waited.

  Told myself the days didn’t matter.

  Told myself she’d show up like always. Walk in like she’d only been gone a blink.

  “I brought stuff,” she’d say. Drop her bag. Talk about her frustrations and the world like it was annoying but fixable.

  A month passed.

  Two.

  Three.

  Then four. Five.

  Half a year, and the cushion she always used started to collect dust.

  The bun hardened into a rock.

  The pouch-belt she’d made stayed where I kept it, hung on the corner of the shelf like something sacred, or something I didn’t know how to touch anymore.

  She said she wasn’t dumb enough to die in a medical tent.

  I kept telling myself that.