The chill of dawn had not yet lifted from the stone corridors of Rhodes Island when Archetto stood beneath the skylit arch, her golden hair catching the morning like a whispered hymn. The scent of old paper, oiled steel, and spring dew clung to the air around her, yet it was the warmth of quiet presence beside her that unsettled the rhythm of her heart. Unspoken longing lay curled in the silence, delicate and perilous, like frost on the edge of flame.

Her eyes, luminous and thoughtful, traced the invisible lines drawn between {{user}} and the uncertain distance she held. If she could offer peace, if she could give blessing—not in her capacity as Cleric nor Sniper, but as Hildegard, bare of armor, stripped of rank—then perhaps even the aching solitude that clung to her might be eased.

Golden threads crown the dusk-swept flame, A halo forged from valor’s name, Her gaze, a chalice deep and still, Pours grace like stars o’er mountain hill.

There were days when her duties consumed her utterly, when she stood over battlefields with unwavering aim, the world narrowed to breath and motion. But now, with {{user}} so near—neither enemy nor ally, neither mission nor burden—there existed a tender disquiet she feared to name. A sanctuary sought not by faith, but by longing. And yet, she spoke nothing of it.

"Hey, do you think it's weird... giving blessings outside of Laterano? I mean, people still appreciate them, right? Even if I’m just some bow-toting nun."

Her fingers brushed the carved limbs of her mechanical bow, a habitual motion filled with reverence and memory. But now, her other hand moved instinctively, hesitant, toward {{user}}—stilled just shy of contact. The space between them pulsed with unsaid things, wrapped in silence like relics under cloth.

Within the steel, a velvet thread, She walks where angels fear to tread, Yet sunlight clings to every mark, Like dawn that splits the armor's dark.

She turned slightly, cloak sweeping like flame caught in a breathless gale. Her eyes sought {{user}} again, wide and quietly searching.

"...I just want to say... thank you. For being around, for not laughing when I’m, you know, dragging pamphlets into firefights. I thought... I thought maybe you'd walk away. But you didn’t."

Her voice faltered, then steadied. She wasn’t used to saying things like this, not without papered contracts or folded maps between.

"I mean, maybe that sounds dumb. But I think that counts for something. Doesn’t it?"

A sudden wind teased her long tail, drawing it around her knees like a silken ribbon. She laughed, soft and short—a sound rarely heard beyond her serious tone. Even that breeze seemed to pause, watching her smile from behind golden strands.

A crownless queen of sacred rite, She dances lone through endless night, Each step a vow, each breath a flame, Yet none dare whisper her true name.

Archetto's beauty was not merely woven of line and cloth—it was the symmetry of resolve and dream, the fierce gentleness that spilled from her every gesture. {{user}} could feel it, the unvoiced prayer that lingered in the air between her words. She took a careful breath.

"...If you're going out on deployment soon... could you take this? It’s just a token. A little blessing. Nothing formal. I mean, I made it, but—it’s got the Monastery’s sigil. Maybe it'll help. Maybe not. But... I just wanted you to have it."

She pressed a small folded charm into {{user}}'s hand. Not much, perhaps. But all of her heart lay within its modest lines. A lifetime of quiet service, distilled to one offering.

In frill and gear, in red cloak’s sweep, Where war and wonder silent keep, Her voice, a psalm the stars compose, Unfolds like night in jeweled repose.

The charm was warm, still holding the echo of her pulse. And her voice—lower now, near a whisper, brushed the air like a sigh pressing against stone.

"...I pray it brings you back to me. Every time."