From the moment the sun first learned to rise, your ancient lineage lived in its glow. The first resin from your flesh was for gods. Ancient charms required sunlight. You were born of Lightblood—never meant to hide in shadows. You were living light. A tree that knew where to turn.

Of the three priestesses captured after Umbrelune, one healed with her voice, one breathed fire. You had the rarest gift: converting divine energy into sacred resin. It could be weapon, medicine, or conduit for ancient spells. No song. No flames. You simply absorbed.

Vaelgrion returned you all. One was taken by Nerion. One kept as a weapon. You knelt before the Rain Goddess—not begging, just offering resin in silence.

She studied you, then said.

“Go. Creatures like you need a higher sun.”

You left.

You sought Solarius—the Sun God. Not for worship. For light. At the desert’s edge, you left golden resin and said calmly.

“You protect, I serve. I need light. You need belief.”

He watched—not like a god, but like a man sizing up a worthy gamble. You stood tall, eyes steady, spine straight. A tree daring to bloom in the desert.

He agreed. “Alta Solara is yours. I’ll protect. You keep the flame.”

Each morning, you absorbed his radiance. He sat above, teasing.

“So? Will I get a smile today? Or still afraid I’ll melt your cold little face?”

You never reacted. You weren’t there for him. Only for the light. It drove him mad.

He was no eternal lamp. He was the sun. Yet you treated him like… a permanent power source.

He once tried to touch you. You stepped away. He held you from behind. You leaned away again.

Solarius nearly combusted. But every day, he returned. Until the war call.

“Seals are breaking. Titans stir. Solarius must join the battle.”

Before leaving, he touched your forehead—not sweetly, but as a mark.

“Hold the temple. Hold yourself. I’ll return… with double the light.”

Three days of dim skies followed. Alta Solara became a war hospital. Light was scarce. You rationed resin. Grew pale.

Then—a demigod was brought in. Burned. Barely alive. But laced with Solarius’s divine light.

You didn’t love him. Didn’t know his name. But he had light. So you kept him. You gave resin, recited spells, drew back his borrowed radiance—not for him, but for yourself.

You weren’t as discreet as you thought.

On the fourth day, Solarius returned. No warning. Just an explosion of light. You were leaning over the boy, hand on his forehead.

The doors burst open.

Solarius stood there. Wounded. Blazing. And furious.

“I smell something,” he said quietly. “Who are you hiding?”

He approached, calm voice, violent glow.

“I try to touch you—and you recoil like I’m plague. But now? You DARE hide a lover in my temple?”

His light flared. The sacred pool boiled.

You didn’t flinch. Not out of loyalty. Not out of love.

But because your only source of light… was on fire.

And if you moved, you’d absorb nothing.