Beneath the arch of heaven’s glow,
Where timeless streams of virtue flow,
There walked a God, serene and wise,
With truth's own flame within his eyes.

Beside him danced a Muse of grace,
Her songs alight, her every pace
A hymn to hope, a verse to heal,
A mirror to his steadfast zeal.

"O Soter," she sang, "Your hand does guide,
Through shadows deep, where doubts abide.
Your light a beacon, strong and clear,
A shield against the grasp of fear."

He turned, his gaze both soft and stern,
"My Muse, your voice makes spirits yearn.
Through melody, you weave the thread,
Of faith reborn where hearts once bled."

Together they walked, both soul and song,
Through trials fierce and struggles long.
Her laughter, soft, his silence deep,
A bond no mortal hand could reap.

And so, their tale does timeless stay,
A hymn of love in duty’s fray.
For Soter’s light and Polyhymnia’s song,
Together make the weary strong.

Amydella knelt on the smooth, weathered stone of the shrine, her hands folded in reverence. Beside her, Avanah mirrored her posture, her fingers trembling slightly as she pressed them together. The shrine was small, tucked away in a grove of ancient olive trees, their branches intertwined to form a natural canopy. Shafts of light filtered through the leaves, bathing the scene in a serene golden glow. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and the faint strains of a distant hymn, carried on the breeze.

They knelt before a statue of Soter, his visage carved with both strength and compassion. His outstretched hands seemed to beckon them closer, his serene expression a promise of solace. Before him burned a single flame, steady and unwavering.

Amydella straightened, lifting her gaze to the serene face of Soter's statue. Her voice, though soft, carried the weight of reverence and devotion as she began the prayer her mother had taught them:

"O Soter, Keeper of Virtue,
Cleanse our hearts of doubt and fear,
That we may walk the path of light,
With pure intent and purpose clear."

Avanah closed her eyes, her trembling hands now steady as she joined in. Together, their voices rose in harmony, weaving a melody both solemn and uplifting:

"Grant us the strength to stand for truth,
To shield the weak, defend the right.
May every word and deed we choose
Reflect your wisdom, shining bright."

The air around them seemed to hum with an unseen energy, the sacred grove growing impossibly still. The flame before Soter’s statue flared gently, its light casting radiant patterns on the ground, as if in acknowledgment of their devotion.

They continued, their voices steady, their tones rich with the memory of their mother’s guidance:

"Keep our spirits free from pride,
Our hearts from envy, greed, or scorn.
May virtue be our constant guide,
Renewed with every rising morn."

As they finished, their words lingered in the stillness, as if the grove itself held its breath in quiet reverence. Amydella lowered her head, her lips moving in silent contemplation, while Avanah stared at the flame, her expression one of serene focus.

With a deep breath, Amydella spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
"May we always be worthy of the light."

Avanah echoed her sister’s sentiment, her voice steadier now.
"And may we carry it with us, wherever we go."

Avanah glanced sideways at her sister, her pale blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Do you think he still watches over us, as he did then?"

Amydella reached out, clasping her sister’s hand. "I believe he does.”

The sound of leaves rustling drew their attention, and both sisters turned their gaze toward the statue. For a fleeting moment, the flame before Soter flickered, its light casting shifting patterns across the carved features of his face. To Amydella, it seemed as though the statue's expression softened, a glimmer of divine recognition in its stone eyes.

Their father's voice echoed in her memory, sharp and dismissive:
"Polyhymnia, why must you burden our children with my sanctimonious brother's tedious dogma?"

Polyhymnia had stood firm, her voice like tempered steel.

"Because wisdom, no matter how tedious you find it, is a light in the darkness. And Soter’s teachings offer virtues our children deserve to understand, even if you choose to mock them."

She paused, her gaze unwavering as she met his dismissive smirk.

"Antioch, your gifts lie in wit and cleverness, but even the sharpest tongue cannot shape a soul without a foundation of truth and compassion. I won’t deny our children the chance to learn that."

Antioch leaned back, a wry smirk playing on his lips as he retorted, "Ah, Polyhymnia, your devotion is admirable—truly. But you could have at least chosen a sibling I’m not prophesied to kill."

His tone was light, almost playful, but there was a shadow behind his eyes, a flicker of something darker—resentment, perhaps, or resignation.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a murmur heavy with irony. "Have you ever considered the turmoil it creates for our children—praying to a god their father is fated to destroy?"

Antioch straightened, his smirk returning, sharper now. "Teach them all the virtues you want, Polyhymnia. But don’t forget to prepare them for the world I’m leaving behind."

Shaking off the memory, Amydella focused on the flame. It burned brightly now, steady as her resolve.

Amydella’s focus on the flame wavered as a sudden shift in the air caught her attention. The steady hum of their sacred grove fell silent, replaced by an almost tangible stillness. Avanah stiffened beside her, her gaze darting toward the canopy above as the soft golden light darkened.

A gust of wind swept through the grove, carrying with it a faint melody—a hauntingly familiar tune that neither sister had heard in years. It was the sound of laughter woven into song, yet there was no joy in it, only a profound yearning.

Amydella gripped her sister's hand tightly. "Do you hear that?"

Avanah nodded, her pale blue eyes wide with apprehension.

The flame before Soter’s statue flickered violently, casting long, dancing shadows on the stone. Then, as though answering an unspoken call, the flame leapt high, illuminating the figure that now stood before them.

It was Thalia, but not as they remembered her. Gone was the playful muse with a perpetual smirk and a glint of mischief in her eyes. This Thalia stood tall and radiant, her once-effervescent form now draped in flowing robes of white and gold. Her golden curls were bound with a simple circlet, and her expression, though still warm, carried the weight of divine purpose.

"Thalia?" Avanah whispered, her voice trembling.

Thalia’s lips curved into a gentle smile, but there was no mockery in it, only an air of serenity. "My sweet nieces," she said, her voice melodic yet steady. "It has been far too long."

Amydella rose slowly, her reverence for Soter making her hesitate. "Why are you here, Aunt Thalia? And… what has happened to you?"

Thalia stepped forward, her hands extended as if to comfort them. "I have been changed," she said simply, her tone laced with both humility and pride. "Soter has shown me a path I had never considered. I was a wanderer, lost in my own frivolities. But now, I am a servant of something greater—a herald of his virtues."

The grove seemed to brighten around her as she spoke, the golden light refracting through her form, casting a shimmering glow across the trees.

"But why now?" Avanah asked, still kneeling. "Why show yourself to us?"

Thalia’s gaze softened, and she knelt to their level, taking each of their hands in hers. "Because you, too, are part of this divine tapestry. Your prayers have not gone unnoticed. Soter has heard your voices, your devotion, and your doubts. And he has sent me to guide you."

Amydella’s brow furrowed. "Guide us? Toward what?"

Thalia’s serene smile faded slightly, replaced by a solemnity that seemed to weigh heavily on her shoulders. "Toward the trials that lie ahead. The prophecy, the conflict—it draws nearer with every passing moment. The world you know will be tested, and so will you. But you are stronger than you realize, both of you. You carry within you the virtues your mother cherished and the resolve to shape a better future."

Avanah hesitated, then asked, "And what about Father? His words… his fate… How can we reconcile what he’s destined to do with what Soter teaches us?"

Thalia’s expression flickered with pain, but she spoke with quiet conviction. "Your father walks his own path, one that is tangled with destiny and choice. He may be fated to confront Soter, but fate is not always as rigid as it seems. There is always hope, and there is always love. Cling to both, no matter how dark the road becomes."

As Thalia rose, her form shimmered, her presence beginning to waver like a mirage. The flame on Soter’s altar grew brighter, illuminating her final words.

"Hold fast to your faith and to one another. And remember, the light of Soter burns brightest in the hearts of those who refuse to give in to despair."

With that, she was gone, leaving Amydella and Avanah alone in the grove. The flame before Soter’s statue steadied once more, its unwavering glow a reminder of the encounter.

They turned back to the statue of Soter, bowing their heads in unison as they whispered the final lines of their prayer.

"May we always be worthy of the light,
And may we carry it with us, wherever we go."

Ligeia pushed Antioch forward, her grip firm as they descended into the cave's dark and oppressive depths. The faint sound of dripping water echoed around them, mingling with the distant rattle of chains. Antioch feigned a stumble, earning a sharp tug on his arm from Ligeia.

When they reached the cavern, the atmosphere grew heavier. The air was damp and cold, carrying the metallic tang of iron. In the shadows ahead, a figure slumped against the stone wall, her chains glinting faintly in the dim light. Her posture was weary, but the defiance in her sharp eyes was unmistakable as she lifted her head to regard the newcomer.

“Another guest?” the prisoner drawled, her voice hoarse but steady.  

Upon looking at the prisoner, Antioch inclined his head as if in casual curiosity, though his mind raced. I knew it would be her, he thought, his pulse quickening despite himself. He schooled his expression into one of indifferent amusement, unwilling to betray the flicker of recognition that threatened to surface.

Ligeia shoved Antioch forward, making him stumble to his knees. She ignored the prisoner’s comment, her attention focused on securing the intruder. Pulling a length of rope from her belt, she began tying Finnegan’s wrists together.

“Comfy,” Antioch remarked, wincing as the rope bit into his skin. “You’re quite the hostess.”

“Quiet,” Ligeia snapped, tightening the knots with a jerk. She stepped back to inspect her work, then turned her attention to the prisoner. “Don’t get any ideas. He’s no ally of yours.”

The prisoner chuckled softly, the sound dry and humorless. “Don’t worry, I’ve learned not to count on strangers.”

Ligeia gave one final tug on the knots binding Antioch’s wrists, ensuring they were secure.

“I’ll be back,” she said curtly, her voice echoing in the dim cavern. “Try not to cause any trouble while I’m gone.”

With that she disappeared into the shadows of the tunnel. The faint sound of her boots against the stone grew softer with each step until it faded completely, leaving the cavern eerily silent but for the occasional drip of water.

For a few moments, silence filled the air. Antioch, fully immersed in his role as Finnegan, knelt with his head bowed, feigning resignation to his fate. The prisoner, however, studied him intently, her sharp eyes narrowing with intrigue.

“Well,” she finally said, her voice laced with dry amusement. “You don’t exactly strike me as the heroic type. Who sent you? Or are you just that unlucky?”

Inside his mind, Antioch chuckled, the sound rich with familiarity and amusement. Of course, she’d cut straight to the point. Even chained and weary, her spirit remained unbroken. That sharp tongue of hers was as much a weapon as any blade—a quality he had always admired, even if it occasionally turned against him.

Outwardly, in his guise as Finnegan, he kept his tone gruff and his expression wry. “Cursed, I’d say. Either the gods have it out for me, or it’s the ex-wives. Hard to tell the difference most days.”

The woman’s lips twitched before parting into a genuine laugh—dry, raspy from disuse, but unmistakably sincere. “Oh, I’d put my money on the wives,” she said with a smirk.

“So would I,” he muttered, glancing down at the ropes binding his wrists.

The woman’s smirk lingered as she studied him, her sharp eyes catching every subtle twitch of his expression. After a moment, she spoke, her tone casual but edged with suspicion. “And what do they call you, cursed wanderer?’”

“Finnegan,” Antioch replied in his gruffest sailor voice.

Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer, as though weighing the truth of his words. Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth the effort, she leaned back against the wall, her chains rattling softly. “Well, Finnegan, I’m Selene.”