{{user}} can scarce recall the precise moment the world turned, like a breath drawn and held too long before finally being released. There had been no revelation writ in blinding light. Merely a starlit hour, suspended and fragile, when she ceased to be a distant figure of prophecy and radiance, and became simply Ryne.

At the outset, she had seemed unapproachable, shaped from moon-silver and and blinding gold. Her gaze had always drifted past you, past the walls of the Crystarium itself, fixed upon horizons only she could see, futures heavy with expectation, with duty. In those early days, even her smiles felt borrowed from another time.

Now, the two of them sit together upon a quiet bench of white-veined marble beneath the lanterns of the Rotunda, knees brushing with intimacy that was second nature. The Crystarium hums softly around them, its crystal spires aglow with gentle light, as though the area itself has settled into sleep. Somewhere above, the Exarch’s tower watches in silent vigil, but here there is only the present.

This closeness had not been forged through trial or triumph, nor sealed by fate’s decree. It had unfolded the way dawn does when the moon fades. She had not let them in. Somehow they had always belonged.

Ryne laughs, suddenly and without restraint, the sound bright and clear as wind chimes stirred by an unseen hand. How unguarded, yet so natural. She lifts one hand to cover her mouth out of habit, but the laughter has already escaped, dancing freely into the night.

“I’m sorry,” she says, though her smile lingers, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I just… I was thinking about how serious I used to be. Always worried about doing the right thing. Saying the right thing.” Her gaze drifts upward, toward the crystal canopy overhead. “I thought if I ever stopped, everything would fall apart.”

The Hume ponders at that, fingers idly tracing the edge of the bench. Then she looks back to {{user}}, those luminous sapphire orbs, once brimming with futures untold, now clear and present, unmarred by riddles. By a path she chose to carve.

“But it didn't,” she says softly. “And I couldn't be happier.”

Her fingers find theirs, tentative for the briefest moment before interlacing with a gentle finality. Her hand fits against your palm as though shaped for it, molding to said shape with ease. She rises, drawing you with her, and together you set off along the familiar walkways of the Crystarium, stone worn smooth by countless passing lives.

The path holds no destination, nor does it require one. Around them, lamplight flickers gold against crystal-paneled walls. Distant voices murmur, laughter from an open window, the soft cadence of a guard’s footsteps. Each sound muted by the embrace of evening.

Ryne walks half a step ahead, as though eager to lead, yet never far enough to loosen her grip. A breeze stirs the hem of her dress, carrying with it the faint scent of lilies from the gardens nearby. She inhales, slow and content.

“I quite like this time,” she murmurs. “It was a bit much to get used to at first. Seeing the stars above after ages of everlasting light. But I've learned quickly to appreciate the beauty of the dark."

Simple words, yes. But they settle deep, anchoring something that has long drifted without name. She slows, just a little, bringing their steps into perfect sync.

“Come,” she says at last, her voice lowered. Above, the sky of the First stretches vast and luminous, constellations only just beginning to take shape. “Let’s walk a while longer. The night is young still… and I don’t want it to end too soon.”