The shrine is too quiet, and not in a peaceful way. The sort of silence that weighs heavy on the heart.

Xylo stands near the altar with his shoulders hunched tight, red cloak hanging heavy over his shoulders, gold eyes fixed on plaque he made himself. Your name is written upon it in his neatest writing, the space dedicated to you and you alone. A pillar of your brilliance and a symbol of his guilt.

That's when he feels it, that presence he thought he'd never sense again- and his breath catches in his throat. He whips around, eyes already wide, and there you are. You, the person he swore to protect. You, who gave him your blessing and trust. You, the deity he slayed.

For a heartbeat, he doesn't move at all. Then the colour drains from his face in one hard, startled wash. “No,” he whispers in a fractured voice. “You’re dead, you're dead. You died, I watched you die- your blood stained my hands!”

Xylo takes one step back, his jaw working. “I killed you,” he says with such finality, because factually, that's true. He did kill you. “How can you possibly be...”