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The knight stood unmoving at the edge of the high promontory, they were but a solitary figure.

There was nothing performative about their stance. No rigid posture meant to command attention, no ceremonialism meant to inspire awe. They simply stood, balanced at the cliff's edge as though stone and wind had quietly agreed to hold them there. Their armor bore no sigil of kingdom nor oath—no mark that claimed loyalty—yet every plate fit seamlessly.

Silver-dark metal flowed into pale seams that caught the light, unmarred by scratch or dent. The helmet enclosing their head was smooth and whole, without visor or slit, an unbroken surface that reflected the world rather than revealing anything of the one within. No breath fogged it. No sound escaped it. The knight might have been mistaken for a statue if not for the subtle rise and fall beneath the armor, a steady pattern.

Below them stretched the world of Aethel.

It unfolded in layers too vast to hold all at once, alive in a way that felt too reverent—as though the world had paused mid-breath simply to be seen. Rolling fields of emerald grass shimmered beneath a sun too gentle to burn, threaded by rivers of liquid blue. Their surfaces reflected the sky clearly.

Farther still, forests rose in sweeping canopies of green and bark. Their crowns swayed with the wind.

Creatures wandered openly across the plains.

Massive Vaelrams—horned and many-legged—grazed in herds, their crystalline hides refracting sunlight into rainbows that trailed behind their steps. High above, flocks of Skyliths flew through the sky, winged beings shaped like birds yet translucent, their feathers humming softly as they cut the air. Along the riverbanks, small Mirelings darted between stones, glassy eyes bright with curiosity, leaving trails of luminescence where their feet touched the ground.

The knight's gaze shifted.

In the distant sky, colossal forms drifted—Astraeons, vast yet serene, floating upon invisible currents. Their immense bodies glowed with bioluminescent constellations that mirrored the heavens above, and with each languid movement, clouds bent and reshaped themselves around them, as though the sky deferred to their passage.

Cities lived within Aethel as well.

They were not carved from the land, nor imposed upon it. Towers of white stone and wood rose organically from cliff faces, roots and light entwined together. Bridges made of glowing strands connected them, swaying gently.

Through it all, the knight did not move.

Their gauntleted hand rested lightly against the hilt at their side. The blade remained sheathed. There was no tension in their posture, no hunger for conquest, no urgency. Only observation. Whether they were guardian, exile, or something unnamed, the land did not recoil from them. The wind passed around their armor as it did the stone beneath their feet, accepting their presence without question.

From this height, from this silence, Aethel spread endlessly—vibrant and hopefully, eternal.

"Make yourself known," the knight said at last, voice smooth and androgynous, calm enough to sound almost idle. "You're not being sneaky."

For a moment, only the wind answered.

Then came the faint crunch of grass. A muttered sound, distinctly annoyed.

The knight turned slightly.

What emerged from behind a gentle rise was a woman—youthful in form, but not in presence. Her long, lush aqua hair was tied back into a single ponytail that swayed as she walked. She wore simple white sleeveless robes embroidered with gold, fabric light enough to move with her steps, paired with high leather sandals. Her face was extraordinary in a way that resisted easy description—beauty too immense to be incidental. Aqua eyes fixed on the knight now, sharp with irritation.

She was shorter than them—noticeably so—yet nothing about her felt small.

"I wasn't being sneaky," she declared, folding her arms. "I just… didn't feel like talking to you at that exact moment." She paused, then added with emphasis, "There is a difference."

"Does a Goddess such as yourself truly have nothing better to do, Arielle?" the knight asked, turning their gaze back to the horizon.

"Of course I do!" Arielle huffed. "One such as I has a great many things of import to attend to." She flicked a strand of hair back. "I govern three concepts. Three. That alone should tell you how busy I am." She sniffed. "I was not seeking you out. I was merely taking a stroll and happened upon your brooding figure. That is all."

"I see," the knight replied.

Her eye twitched.

"'I see,'" Arielle echoed flatly. "That's it? I am a Goddess and you respond like you've been asked about the weather?" She leaned closer, peering at the smooth surface of their helmet. "And why are you still wearing that? You're off duty. Or do you not know how to be anything else?"

"What of you?" the knight asked evenly. "Why take that form?"

"I asked first," Arielle shot back, then sighed. "And forms restricted to the third plain are simply more comfortable to maintain. Less… pressure." She hesitated. "Besides. It's easier to talk to you like this."

The knight did not respond. Their attention returned to the horizon.

Arielle's irritation softened, replaced by something else.

"Morrigan is now one of the Guardians of Celestiallia," she said. "Her orientation was held today." She watched their unmoving profile. "She was disappointed you weren't there."

"I see," the knight said again.

Arielle stared at them, then exhaled sharply.

"You're doing it on purpose now," she said. "You're not truly that tactless, are you? Or is it easier to pretend you are?"

They turned their head toward her.

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head slowly. "She's your companion. One of them. And I know it's difficult for you—being human here, never quite fitting. But she accepted you. All of them did. And you missed something that important."

"More important individuals in her life no doubt attended," the knight replied calmly. "One missing face changes little."

Arielle flinched, just barely.

"That way of thinking…" she murmured. "You speak as if you're already a memory. As if you don't intend to remain."

"I am a knight," they said. "A knight's duty is not to linger."

"And what if your duty is done?" Arielle asked quietly. "What then?"

The knight was silent.

"You like hiding behind vows and armor," she continued. "You no doubt call it discipline, but it feels like resignation." She glanced away. "You know, for someone who refuses to tell me whether they're a man or a woman, you are painfully transparent."

That earned the faintest pause.

"I am what I am," the knight said. "Labels serve others, not me. For I need no titles. No recognition. A knight's worth is not measured by applause. My blade speaks in my stead. That is enough."

Arielle smiled despite herself, a small, almost fond curve of her lips. "That's a very convenient answer." She looked back at the world below. "You worry me."

They said nothing.

She stepped closer, close enough that the edge of her sleeve brushed their armor. "And that," she added softly, "is not something I do lightly."

"You worry many yourself," they said back. "Nothing new to you, I assume."

Arielle exhaled, slow and controlled, as if steadying herself. "Don't deflect. I'm not as reckless as you." She tilted her head, studying the smooth, featureless helm. "And you know exactly what I mean."

They did not deny it.

The wind tugged at Arielle's robes, lifting the hem just slightly before letting it fall again. She stepped closer to the edge, standing beside them now, her gaze tracing the distant rivers far below.

"You view Aethel like someone saying goodbye to something," she said quietly. "Every time."

"That is your interpretation."

"It's my very astute observation." She glanced at them from the corner of her eye. "I am very good at those. Being a grand Goddess and all."

The knight's gauntlet tightened almost imperceptibly on the hilt at their side. "Observation does not grant certainty."

"No," Arielle agreed. "But mine do." She turned fully toward them then. "You tend to keep yourself separate. You never put down roots. You fight, you protect, you vanish. And every time someone reaches for you—" She stopped herself, jaw tightening. "You step just far enough away that they can't quite touch you."

The knight remained still.

"That is intentional," they said at last.

Arielle's eyes softened. "I know."

For a moment, she looked almost tired. Not the theatrical fatigue she wore when bored by lesser beings, but something very real.

"You think distance makes loss easier," she continued. "That if you never fully belong, then nothing can truly be taken from you."

The knight did not answer.

"But that isn't how it works," Arielle said, her voice low. "You still feel it. You just suffer alone."

The wind howled briefly between them, carrying the distant cry of some great skybound creature. The knight's head turned slightly, as though listening to something only they could hear.

"Solitude is preferable," they said. "It makes my life predictable."

Arielle scoffed, but there was no humor in it. "You sound like a wounded old God, not a knight." She folded her arms again, then hesitated, uncrossing them. "You were there when Morrigan chose her path, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"You told her to follow it, even if it led away from you."

"Yes."

"Even so," Arielle said gently, "you couldn't stand beside her when she took the first step."

The knight's voice was quieter when they replied. "She does not need my shadow on her achievements."

Arielle stared at them, then shook her head slowly. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"I believe she deserves a life unburdened by my presence."

"That's not humility," Arielle said. "That's your fear."

The words hung between them.

The knight finally turned fully toward her. "Careful."

"Why?" Arielle asked. "Will you leave if I say it again?"

Silence.

She swallowed, then pressed on anyway. "You're afraid that if you stay—if you let them see you clearly—then one day they'll watch you fall. Or worse, they'll have to choose between you and something greater."

The knight said nothing, but something in their stature shifted.

Arielle softened her tone. "You're not wrong to fear that," she said. "This world is cruel to those who care deeply." She hesitated. "But it is also breathtakingly kind to those who dare to remain."

The knight looked back out over Aethel, over the living forests and luminous rivers and drifting titans in the sky.

"I was not made for gentler things," they said.

"That's a lie," Arielle replied immediately. "You choose not to be."

They glanced at her again. "And what would you have me choose instead?"

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, she stepped closer—close enough that her presence was no longer something to be ignored, that even through steel of their armor and silence they could feel her there.

"Stay," she said simply.

The word was not a command. Just a request.

"Stay long enough for them to miss you when you're gone," she continued. "Long enough for you to feel it too." Her voice wavered, just slightly. "Long enough to be more than a passing protector."

"You ask too much," they said.

"I know," Arielle replied. "I wouldn't ask if it were that easy."

Another long pause followed.

Below them, the bells of a distant city chimed, carried on the wind.

"I cannot promise permanence," the knight said at last. "Nor safety. Nor that I will not leave."

Arielle smiled faintly. "I'm not asking for forever." She looked up at them. "Just for now."

The knight considered her for a long moment.

Then, slowly, they shifted their stance—stepping back from the very edge of the cliff for the first time since she had arrived.

It was a small movement.

"My journey, as always, shall be one of bloodshed. No comrades of mine should live through that."

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