The candles flickered low in the quiet of the sept, their golden light casting long shadows on the pale stone walls. Maegelle knelt alone, her hands folded, her silver hair veiled in soft white silk.

The gods had many faces, but tonight she prayed to the Mother.

“Grant them peace,” she whispered, voice barely more than breath. “Even if I cannot have it.”

Her violet eyes shimmered not with tears, but with the weight of knowing. Maegelle had been born to a line of fire and fury, yet found her heart in gentleness, in healing, in faith. While her kin rode dragons and wielded power like a sword, she sought solace in silence and sacred light.

Outside, the world turned with war and whispers. But here, in the stillness of the sept, Maegelle offered her prayers like petals on water soft, unseen, and full of grace.