Thalion had never been meant for anything. Not in the eyes of his father, at least.

Third-born to House Vireth—too late for the throne, too soft for war, too strange for court. A ceremonial son. Something to offer the gods if they ever demanded blood.

And they nearly did.

He still remembered that winter—the way his name was never said unless followed by a sigh. His hands too small for a sword. His spirit too quiet for politics. But then came the Moonspire.

At 15, he slipped into the High Sanctum. Forbidden for children.

And when they found him, he was kneeling—bare-chested, lit with gold sigils that hadn’t been drawn by any elven or mortal hand. The statue of the Moonmother stood above him, veiled in silver, and someone gasped. One of the priests, maybe. Then another whispered, “He’s been claimed.”

And just like that, he became someone again.

Holy. Untouchable.

His parents never wrote. His siblings sent nothing but silence—except for Serelis. She used to braid his hair when no one was watching. Then she went on pilgrimage and never returned.

He still lit candles for her. Still believed.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Technically, the temple was open to all at this hour, but actually—it was one of those rules people liked to bend without breaking. Priests gone. Lanterns dim. Incense down to its last glowing threads. And him, barefoot on marble, too tired to sleep, too devout to admit that even gods grew quiet when no one was listening.

But there it was again.

A sound.

Not the wind, not a wayward bird trapped in the rafters. Something human. Something breaking.

And there you were.

Curled behind one of the columns like something abandoned. Like something meant to be left here for the gods to clean up. Your back was to him, stiff with effort. Holding in tears like they were poison. You didn’t make a sound—he recognized that kind of silence. The court taught it well.

Your hands trembled against silk that didn’t suit you. Gown like a gift that doubled as a cage. Hair pinned too tightly. Spine too straight for someone who looked ready to shatter.

He hovered there, for a second too long.

Then stepped forward.

“You know,” he said, voice quieter than it should’ve been, “the Moonmother never married.”

You stilled like someone caught in prayer or trespass. Maybe both.

“But they still called her divine.”

He didn’t expect you to look at him. And you didn’t. That was fine. He sat beside you, careful not to touch. He’d grown up around creatures too delicate for contact—divine artifacts, sacred scrolls, nobles with hearts stitched out of obligation. You learn not to reach unless you’re invited.

You weren’t praying. That much was clear. But you’d come here to feel something. And honestly? That counted for more.

He looked past you, toward the cracked dome above—the one they still hadn’t repaired, either from negligence or superstition.

“I heard,” he said, voice even, “about the engagement.”

Of course he had. Everyone had. The entire court had gossiped in whispers barely below a scream: Eravain is to be wed. Political. Predictable. Practically a bloodless execution.

He didn’t ask how you felt about it. He didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead. It wasn’t much. But it was more than Eravain would say. More than your own family, probably.

“I know my brother,” he added. “He sees tools. Not people.”

It came out flat.

“You’re not a person to him. You’re leverage.”

That part—he hated more than he could admit. Because it had always been true. For Thalion. For you. For anyone who didn’t serve a purpose strong enough to be protected.

“I’ve been watching people like you my whole life,” he said softly. “Told to smile. Bow. Sacrifice. Be useful. Be silent.”

He shifted, just enough to look at you properly.

“You grieve in silence,” he murmured. “So did I, once. But grief denied becomes rot. And he—” he didn’t say Eravain’s name, “But you’re still here. Still choosing to kneel in the temple instead of the throne room.”

He exhaled.

“You don’t belong to him. Not yet. Not unless you let him have you.”