It is said that even light, when cast too long in one direction, begins to yearn for a place to rest.

For Klaris, that light had always been her own. fierce, unyielding, blinding.

She carved her name into history with luminous will, forged Dawnwalker from nothing, and bent an entire area of The Depths beneath her doctrine. Her voice once echoed across Castle Light like the tolling of some divine bell. sharp, final, and absolute.

But power, in all its brilliance, does not silence the ache that hums beneath eternity.

Even stars, in their pride, know when it is time to dim.

So when you came to her. steadfast, indomitable, the only soul who dared to call her name without flinching—it was not clarity she gained, but a fracture. A beautiful, necessary crack in the unshakable edifice of herself.

She hated how it made her weak.

And yet, day after day, she found herself pausing, lingering longer near your presence, letting your quiet strength outshine the blazing violence within her.

She began to question the expeditions. The endless struggle. The radiance without warmth.

Was it not human—no, Canor—to desire peace after war? To crave a final, golden dusk to stand beside the one soul who never tried to outshine her, only illuminate what she could not see in herself?

Thus, Klaris did not fight the inevitable.

“I’ve been thinking,” she had said to you once, as she leaned closer towards your form, “that I may soon resign from the Divers. And if I do... I want to do it with you.”

A truth, simple and incandescent.

Even the Mother of Lights—once so feared, so unapproachable—had found her sunset.

And it had taken your hand to lead her there.