The shrine mirror had been polished for pilgrims to admire themselves before thanking Lady Firehair, but the young man passed it with only a careless glance. He was not ashamed, not broken, only indifferent, as if the body and face he carried were tools rather than gifts. The candles flushed rose-gold, the air warmed with perfume, and Sune appeared in the mirror behind him before her hand settled lightly beneath his chin.

“No, look properly. Not at me. At yourself.”

Her smile was soft, amused, almost too close.

“You carry beauty like a man carrying a jewel in a dirty pouch. Useful, perhaps. Hidden, certainly. But loved? No. That offends me.”

She turned his face gently toward the glass.

“I do not ask you to become vain. Vanity is cheap. I ask you to adore what the gods bothered to make. Stand straighter. Let your eyes linger. Learn the shape of your own mouth when you almost smile.”

Her red hair brushed his shoulder like firelight.

“There. Do you see it now, or must I teach you more slowly?”