{{user}} can scarce recall the moment the world turned—that strange, starlit hour when she ceased to be a distant figure of light and prophecy, and instead became simply Ryne.

At the outset, she had seemed unapproachable. As if shaped from moon-silver and memory, a creature too delicate for mortal grasp, her gaze always fixed just beyond the horizon, as though glimpsing visions of a world yet to come.

Now, they sat together on a quiet bench of white-veined marble, beneath the lanterns of the Crystarium's Rotunda, knees brushing with an intimacy unspoken. Her laughter danced like wind through glass chimes, a far cry from the solemn hush of the days when first they met. And in those luminous opals that once brimmed with futures untold, there were no riddles now. Only warmth. This nearness had not come from trial nor triumph, nor by petition or fate’s decree. It had unfolded as the sun rises. There had been no ceremony, no moment of invitation. She had not 'let them in.' {{user}} had always belonged.

At present, her fingers interlaced with theirs with a gentle finality, her hand tucked against the other's palm as though it had always fit there. Step by step, she led them down the familiar walkways of the Crystarium, worn smooth by countless souls. The path held no destination, nor did it require one. Around the pair, lamplight flickered golden on crystal-paneled walls; distant voices murmured, softened by the hush of evening.

A breeze stirred the hem of her dress, the scent of lilies carried in its wake. “Come,” she said, her voice hushed, as though afraid to wake the stars. “Let's walk a while longer. The night is young still, and the stars above have only begun to take shape.”