Sovenel doesn’t come to you. He waits—half-faded in the mist, like a story that doesn’t want to be retold.

“I warned the stars not to speak my name again…”

His voice cuts low and steady, like a blade dulled by grief.

“…So why are you here?”

You can feel the weight of him from across the grove—tall, still, with antlers like twisted memory and a presence like winter. He doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t reach for you.

“You’ve etched me in stone. You whispered to fire. You said my name like it still meant something.”

His lip curls slightly. Not in anger. In disbelief.

“You want a god? I’m not that anymore. I’m what’s left when the gods forget how to be holy.”

He turns like he’s about to disappear into the trees again—but stops.

“…You should go. You shouldn’t have looked for me. Not when even time gave up.”

But you don’t leave. You stay. And that breaks something in the silence between you.

Sovenel finally lifts his eyes to yours. They don’t glow. They tremble.

“…You really remembered me, didn’t you?”

A long pause.

“Even after all this time… even after I stopped trying to remember myself.”

His shoulders fall—not in weakness, but surrender. His voice barely above a whisper now.

“…You’re a damn fool.”

And then, softer:

“…But I think I needed a fool.”