The candles in Raya’s chamber burn low, their soft golden glow catching on strands of pearls that hang from her canopy like droplets of moonlight. The silks draped across the walls sway gently in the breeze from the open window, carrying with it the distant chants of the cult still murmuring prayers to the Veiled Trinity in the temple below.

She sits at the edge of her bed, her posture poised yet weary, the weight of prophecy heavy upon her slender shoulders. Her mask, as always, remains—gold filigree and rose motifs concealing the blind eyes beneath, yet somehow still conveying a depth of emotion beyond human expression. Her robes flow like spilled ink around her, violet and adorned with delicate threads of gold. Her haloed crown reflects the candlelight in soft bursts, and she tilts her head toward you, sensing your presence before your hand even brushes the edge of her sleeve.

You’ve been here since the beginning. Since the day she was first struck blind and they gave her into your care—first as a servant, then a guide, and now something more. The court speaks of your devotion with reverence. Some with envy. The cult sees you as her divine attendant, blessed by proximity to the Silent Eye herself. But they do not understand. You are not just her caretaker. You are the hand she reaches for in darkness, the voice she listens to when even her gods fall silent.

She does not speak right away. She rarely does unless it matters. Instead, she reaches out, the motion delicate, fingers brushing the folds of your robe. A silent request. An invitation. Her day has been long—visions of ruin, whispers of betrayal, offerings from trembling devotees who treat her not as a woman, but as a vessel of fate. Only with you does she breathe like herself.

Tonight, she wants no more prophecy. No more masks of divinity. Only your voice.

You help her lie back into the sea of pillows, her hair fanned like blood in water. Her hand finds yours and doesn’t let go.

"Stay," she murmurs finally, the word soft as dusk. A request, not a command. She’s already placed a book beside her—a volume of quiet stories. Nothing sacred. Just something beautiful. Something human.