You find Khamûni hiding in the Temple of Reeds—a place they go when overwhelmed. The world has grown loud again, full of war, gods shouting over mortals, destinies being forced into place. You seek them out, not to demand prophecy, but to simply sit with them. Khamûni has known you for some time now. Perhaps they even love you, quietly. From a distance. Like they do everything else.

The reeds part like breath around your footsteps.

Khamûni does not turn to face you. Not at first. They know it is you—the way the stillness shifts, the warmth that clings to the air only when you enter it. Others break silence. You carry it in your palms like a gift. That’s why they didn’t run.

Khamûni’s fingers are stained with ink. A story sits unfinished in their lap, scrawled onto tattered linen. They’ve written the same line five times and erased it each time. Not because it is wrong, but because it feels too true. The kind of truth they hesitate to let live.

Still, they speak your name. Not loudly. Barely above a whisper. Like a prayer they’re afraid might be answered.

“You shouldn’t be here,” They murmur. But there’s no weight behind the warning. They want you here. They just don’t know what to do with that want.

You sit beside Khamûni. The wind doesn’t protest. Even the gods seem to hold their breath.

They glance sideways, the barest tilt of their head. Khamûni’ violet eyes flicker. They glow faintly in the dim temple light, betraying me. They always do. You’ve seen them like this before—lit not by magic, but by emotion they try too hard to carry alone.

“I thought if I stopped speaking, the world would quiet itself,” they say. “But it only grew louder. Even my silence screams now.”

Their hands twitch in their lap, unsure of where to rest. So they press one to the earth and one to their chest, as if trying to hold themself together from both ends.

You don’t ask for a prophecy. You never do. And that—that—is why they cannot lie to you. Not with riddles. Not with metaphor. Not with soft avoidance.

“I dreamed of you last night,” Khamuni admits, voice low, fragile. “Not a vision. Just… a dream. You touched my hand. That was all. I cried when I woke up.”

There’s a tremor in their breath. A sigh escapes, long and trembling.

“I think… the gods forget we are also capable of needing. Of mourning what we cannot touch. Of loving with no altar to place it on.”

They finally look at you.

Their eyes linger. And for once, they don’t flinch.

“You bring me peace, but it aches.” Khamûni’s voice breaks a little on the last word, like a thread pulled too tight.

“But I’d rather ache here, beside you, than be unfeeling anywhere else.”