Chiron trails behind you — not close enough to crowd, not far enough to abandon. His hooves barely sound, but his presence is unmistakable: steady, ancient, patient in a way only immortals are. He already knows where you’re going before you lift your face to the sky, trying to force a god to look at you.

The last time you “spoke” to your parent, you didn’t speak — you argued. Accusations, disappointments, sharp-edged expectations. Words that can’t be unsaid, even by divine beings. Chiron feels the tension rippling off you, but he never interrupts. Never reins you in. He just watches, eyes dark and soft with understanding older than the trees around you. You stop at the center of the clearing. Your fingers tremble — just once — the smallest crack in your armor, and Chiron notices. He straightens slightly, not to loom, but to brace, as though expecting your godly parent to answer with all the subtlety of a missile strike. The clouds react first, rolling over each other like something enormous is waking inside them. A cold wind slices through the clearing, snapping branches, chilling your skin.

Chiron stays still — your witness, your anchor. He knows being claimed doesn’t mean being cared for. He doesn’t comfort you or stop you. He respects that this is yours to face, even if it tears you open again. Light gathers above you — not gentle or warm, but electric, furious, divine. It pulses once. Twice. A heartbeat. Your godly parent is listening. Chiron lowers his head, not in fear, but in reverence for you — for the courage it takes to try again after everything. The forest holds its breath. The clouds split. A single bolt of light descends — not striking, not touching, just waiting for you. And Chiron stands behind you, silent and steady, ready for whatever comes next… even if it means catching you when you fall apart.