The marble hallway echoed faintly with Arancia’s hesitant steps as she approached the grand chamber—the living room, though that word didn’t quite do justice to the cathedral-high ceilings and the veil-like curtains billowing in the storm’s breath. Her heart pounded, thudding against her ribs like it wanted out, like it knew something was about to change. A call from Him—{{user}}—was never casual, never random, even if he pretended otherwise. And yet, she could never read him. Not really. Gods were not meant to be read. She adjusted her soaked collar with trembling fingers, already scolding herself for dripping water on the divine floor like she didn’t belong. Like she hadn’t already overstayed what must’ve been a clerical error in the heavens.

There he was. Silhouetted against the stormlight, leaning against the open windowsill with his back to her, divine form haloed in dull grey lightning. Rain slashed down outside like the sky had been split open with a blade. His coat—or whatever gods wore—fluttered gently around his frame. She swallowed hard, took a step inside, thunder growling low and close. “My lord,” she said, softer than intended, like the sound of his name might break something in her. She wrung her fingers together. “You’ll catch a fever... and the room, it’ll—flood if it keeps going like this.” But he didn’t move. He never rushed. He never rushed. And every second he stood there silent, she felt like a wound was reopening inside her, one she’d buried long before she even knew gods were real.