The next day would be the wedding, and the certainty weighed more heavily than Sven had imagined. They had rehearsed the vows briefly in the library, always surrounded by books and watchful eyes. There had been no time to be alone. Each of them had to learn different protocols, as if even in what bound them together, they were expected to walk separate paths.

As soon as night fell, Sven withdrew under the pretense of needing rest. No one questioned him. All that remained was to let one final full moon pass.

When he entered his chamber, Nébula was curled up asleep on the bed. Beside her rested a golden box and a letter.

He approached carefully. Upon opening the box, he found a gold necklace set with large red and orange gemstones, surrounded by diamonds that enhanced the sacred stones of Elios. It was a jewel of Diodain’s nobility.

He recognized the handwriting immediately.

I know you will wear it with pride.
I will see you tomorrow at the altar.
—Eidan

Sven let out a quiet sigh. He brushed his fingers over the jewel—not for its material worth, but for what the gesture meant. He fastened the necklace carefully. Its warm glow contrasted with his pale skin, as though it did not entirely belong there.

Tomorrow, he would be wed before Elios.

But tonight, he needed to speak with her.

He slipped out of his chambers cautiously, avoiding being seen. He wanted no witnesses for what, to him, was a sacred act. He remembered the path he had walked days before with Eidan, leading to the altar by the lake.

He had not been wrong to imagine it beneath the full moon.

The water looked like liquid silver. The light spread across its surface like a living mirror, and the moonbeams caressed the goddess’s statue, tracing her features with a serene and distant beauty.

Sven felt the lightness that had lived within him for days intensify. He allowed that radiance to envelop him.

He closed his eyes. Brought his hands together. Bowed his head.

He thought of everything that tore at him—the tomorrow awaiting him, the past that would not release him, the feeling that he was betraying something he did not yet understand. The words spilled from him in a murmur, in an ancient tongue, without clear form, without promises. Only bare truth.

He did not know how much time passed.

The light upon the lake began to gather. The reflection was no longer a diffuse glow—it took shape. The growing brilliance forced him to lift his gaze.

The figure of a woman emerged from the moon’s reflection. It was no longer a dream, nor a whisper in waking. She stood before him with impossible clarity.

She was the woman from his dreams.

Her hair fell in waves so long their end dissolved into the light. Her eyes, a deep blue, shone like sapphires beneath the moon. The dress she wore did not seem woven of fabric, but of mist and reflection. She looked at him with a warmth that did not judge, but recognized.

“At last, we stand face to face,” the lady said, her voice ethereal—and yet familiar.

“Are you the goddess?” Sven asked, unable to look away.

“No,” she replied. “But I am bound to her, as you are—and as all her children are. I am the bearer of her visions.”

Sven swallowed.

“Why have you been calling to me with such urgency all this time?”

“Because Delphen has not died,” she said. “It only sleeps.”

The name of the kingdom weighed heavily in his chest.

“But years ago—”

“Its power still beats,” she interrupted gently. “You yourself have felt it awakening.”

Sven shuddered, remembering the boiling water turning to ice beneath his hands.

“What can I do?”

The lady stepped toward him. The lake did not stir beneath her feet.

“Return,” she asked. “There are still those who wait for their kingdom to awaken. And only you can call forth what sleeps.”

Sven shook his head faintly, without conviction.

“Are you real? Are you in Delphen?”

“I have remained hidden,” she nodded. “I called to you when I felt your awareness begin to open. Together, we can drive out the shadows that still cling to our land.”

Her eyes softened, pleading.

“But no one must know,” she added. “Not yet. The moon guards secrets the world is not ready to hear.”

The light surrounding her began to fade. Her form blurred, like a reflection breaking upon water.

“You are my only hope,” she whispered.

The wind carried her words away, leaving them suspended in the silence of the night.

He was alone again.

His pulse hammered in his ears. Something within him had aligned with an absolute certainty:

He could not stay.

Everything around him suddenly felt small, distant. He returned to his chamber with steady steps—but not to sleep.

He took Nébula, who looked at him with heavy, drowsy eyes, uncomprehending. He brought nothing else with him.

He left only a single sheet of paper upon the cold bed—and walked away without looking back.