The footsteps weren't her pursuers after all, but Eldarion, flanked by a pair of guards. A shadow loomed behind them—taller than any man. An automaton, its chest aglow with Lazulli light, runes of Kaelor traced along its plated arms. Even in her half-dazed state, Talia recognized the holy glyphs: the mark of a protector.
Eldarion broke from the group the moment he saw her, just in time to catch a glimpse of the Elementalist before she disappeared in a haze of fog.
Talia sagged against the wall, rain plastering her hair to her face. Eldarion was there in an instant, one arm curling around her waist to steady her, the other braced against the wall beside her head. The closeness was suffocating—protective, possessive.
"Lady Surifarah! By Kaelor—what happened? Who was that woman?"
Talia tried to steady her breath. Her clothes were torn where blades had nicked too close. Blood trickled down her arm from a cut she hadn't been fast enough to avoid, her shoulder already darkening with a bruise where a chain had struck.
Talia's lips parted, but her voice caught. She replayed it in her mind instead:
The chain strike.
The blade from behind.
The way the Diviner's eyes had never truly fixed on her enemies.
Her stomach tightened. She hadn't been looking at them at all. She hadn't needed to.
The Diviner was blind.
And yet… she fought with a precision that made Talia's years of drills and discipline feel clumsy by comparison. Elemental force bent to her will, wrapping her in power as natural as breathing.
"She didn't even look at them," Talia whispered. "She fought as though she could see… but she couldn't."
Eldarion stilled. His arm tightened against her waist, fingers pressing a little too firmly, as though grounding her—or anchoring her to him. Then he gave a low chuckle, too sharp to be amused.
"Talia, you're bleeding and half-delirious. Always with the flair for exaggeration. Next you'll say she descended from the heavens to sweep you off your feet."
She caught his look then—too lingering, too close. His voice brushed her ear as he leaned in, almost daring her to acknowledge it.
"Besides," he added, tone lower now, "you make her sound like some kind of legend. A blind savior, rushing to your side? That's not how this world works. Heroes don't crawl out of alleyways, and you—" His gaze dipped, briefly, to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. "—you don't need saving. Not from anyone."
Heat climbed up her neck. For a moment she was acutely aware of how close he was, of the weight of his arm against her waist. Her pulse stuttered—not with attraction, she told herself, but with irritation. She pushed lightly at his chest, enough to make space, enough to breathe.
"You're a Surifarah," Eldarion pressed, softer now, thumb brushing the back of her hand before he caught himself and pulled away. "A paladin. You've been trained to see clearly. Don't cheapen that by spinning fantasies about common street magi. It's… unbecoming."
Talia looked away, but not before another memory surfaced—one small, impossible detail that set her heart racing all over again.
In the chaos of the fight, when the knife had grazed her arm, the Diviner's head had turned—not toward her attacker, but toward her. As though she had heard the sharp intake of Talia's breath, felt the shift of her fear. Their eyes—sightless as they were—had turned directly to her, steady and unwavering.
It wasn't chance. The Diviner had noticed her.
The sting of Eldarion's words dulled, swallowed up by the weight of that realization.
The world tilted again, but steadied enough for her to catch Eldarion's gaze. He wasn't looking at her wounds.
Heat flared in her chest. She balled her fist and drove it into his ribs.
"My eyes are up here."
He grunted, staggering back a step, then scowled.
"I told you not to come here. Why sneak off like this?"
Talia's voice sharpened, fueled by both pain and pride now.
"You should have come with me. None of this would have happened."
Eldarion pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation plain.
"Honestly, Talia… We're nobles. I don't understand your obsession with playing at commoners' games. Look at you—drenched, bloodied, dressed like…" He gestured at her torn shirt, lips curling. "…like someone beneath your station. Why?"
Talia looked away, jaw tight. The shame burned—shame not from her wounds, but from the way he spoke, as if her curiosity, her choices, were nothing but dirt on his boots.
Talia's jaw tightened. She kept her gaze fixed on the rain-slick stones at her feet. If she looked at him now, she might strike again—harder this time.
Eldarion, oblivious, pressed on.
"Your mother and father entrusted me with your safety. And this is how you repay them? Sneaking out, dressed like… like a gutter-thief, bleeding in the street? If word of this reached the court—"
Her head snapped up.
"If word of this reached the court, it would tell them I'm not a caged songbird."
Her voice cracked with anger, but she forced it steady.
"It would tell them I'm willing to risk myself for answers while you sit polishing your armor and titles."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes sliding toward the automaton as if the machine might intervene. Its runes glowed faintly, impassive… for now. It too seemed to look away, though it was most likely scanning the environment for signs of danger.
Eldarion's lips thinned.
"You think you understand the dangers of this city? You don't. You're reckless, Talia. Reckless and—"
His gaze flicked, unbidden, once more to her torn blouse. He caught himself, but too late.
Talia's hand clenched around the sigil at her belt. For a moment, the urge to summon her light, to make him look her in the eyes, burned hot and wild. But she swallowed it down. Violence now would prove him right—that she was nothing but impulsive.
Instead, she stepped closer, so close he had to meet her gaze. Rain streamed down her face, washing blood into rivulets along her arm.
"If I'm reckless, Eldarion, it's because someone must be. While you waste your breath lecturing, the desert devours another town. Keep your titles. Keep your paladin's pride. But don't think for a moment you can chain me."
For once, Eldarion had no retort. His jaw worked, but no words came. The silence stretched, broken only by the hiss of the artificial rain on stone.
Finally, he turned away, signaling to the guards.
"We're done here. Get her back to the manor."
Talia's lip curled. She wanted to spit back, to scream—but she held her tongue. Let him think he'd won. The fire in her chest told her otherwise.
She wasn't done. Not by a long stretch.
The walk back to the manor blurred into flashes of lantern light and wet cobblestones. The guards flanked her like shadows, Eldarion striding ahead with the stiffness of a man who wanted to be seen in command. The automaton's runes pulsed steadily behind them, its heavy steps shaking droplets from the rooftops with every impact.
By the time they reached the manor's private atrium, Talia's limbs felt heavy, her shoulder throbbing in time with her heartbeat. She let the servants fuss over her wounds, their hands cool and efficient, though she bristled at the way Eldarion hovered, arms crossed, as though she were a child being scolded.
When the physicians had finished and withdrawn, he gave a sharp gesture. The Lazulli node in the center of the chamber flared to life, threads of light weaving into the familiar figures of her parents. Holographic though they were, their presence filled the room.
Her father's projection stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back. His voice was grave, the echo of distance sharpening every word.
"Talia. We were told you were attacked. Explain yourself."
Her throat tightened. The old instinct to shrink under his gaze stirred, but the sting of the alley was still fresh, hot in her blood.
"I went to see for myself what you keep trying to hide from me. The desert doesn't wait, Father. Neither will I."
His jaw flexed, eyes narrowing.
"And this recklessness nearly cost you your life. Were it not for Eldarion—"
"Were it not for me," Talia cut in, her voice rising, adding the Diviner in thought "I would already be dead. I fought back. I bled for it. Don't you dare tell me that proves I should be locked away."
The silence that followed felt thick enough to choke. Eldarion shifted uncomfortably, as if caught between defending her and defending himself.
Then her mother's projection stirred. Faedhirsha's hand lifted, her gaze softer, though her eyes gleamed with the same quiet steel Talia had always known.
"She speaks true, husband. The girl bleeds, yes—but she bleeds and still stands. That is no small thing."
Her father's projection flickered faintly, the Lazulli node humming with the strain of distance. He exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp as a blade being sheathed.
"If you insist on walking this path, then you will do so under guard. That is final."
"With me," Eldarion interjected, stepping forward as though his place were self-evident.
Talia's teeth clenched, words boiling up in her throat. But before she could speak, her mother's eyes found hers. The slightest shake of her head — not disapproval, but warning. Choose your battles.
Talia swallowed the retort, her nails digging crescents into her palms. She bowed stiffly, the gesture more defiance than respect.
"Very well. But understand this—I will not stop. Not until I find answers."
Her father inclined his head, regal as ever. Her mother's projection lingered a moment longer, the ghost of a smile curving her lips before the Lazulli light guttered out, leaving the atrium dim once more.
The silence that followed felt louder than any scolding.
The Lazulli light guttered out with a faint hiss, leaving only the dim glow of wall sconces and the muted patter of rain outside the atrium windows. The room felt cavernous without her parents' presence, as though the echoes of their voices still lingered in the air.
Talia exhaled slowly. Her chest still ached from the fight in the alleys, and every movement pulled at her wounded arm, but she forced herself to stand tall. She would not let Eldarion see her weakness.
Of course, he broke the silence first.
"You see now why I was right," he said, tone maddeningly patient, like a tutor addressing a wayward student. "Your father's concern is justified. You could have been killed. This isn't the life for you."
Talia's head snapped toward him. The simmering fire from the projection reignited in an instant.
"Not the life for me? And what life is that, Eldarion? Smiling at court dinners? Nodding politely while others decide the fate of our world?"
He frowned, clearly unsettled by her defiance but unwilling to concede ground.
"We are nobles. Our duty is to guide, to command, not to sully ourselves in the mud with commoners and cutthroats. You think this is strength?" He gestured toward her bandaged arm. "This is recklessness."
Her laugh came sharp, bitter.
"You mistake fear for wisdom. Strength is not commanding from safety—it's facing danger when no one else will."
For a moment, his eyes softened, but it passed as quickly as it came. He turned away, stripping his gloves with a practiced motion.
"Your idealism will get you killed. And when it does, do you know who will be blamed? Not you. Me. Your father entrusted you to my care. Remember that."
Talia clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him he was nothing but a leash her parents had strapped around her neck. Instead, she forced her voice low, steady.
"Then I suggest you keep up, Eldarion. Because I'm not slowing down."
His jaw worked, but he didn't answer. With a curt nod, he strode from the atrium, the guards trailing behind him. The automaton lingered a moment, its Lazulli core pulsing faintly, before it too withdrew, heavy steps fading into silence.
Alone at last, Talia sagged onto the nearest bench. The ache in her body caught up with her now that the fire of defiance had cooled. She pressed her palms to her eyes, forcing back the sting.
She thought of the alley—the knife glinting in the rain, the laughter, the blood running down her arm. She thought of her father's cold decree, her mother's fleeting smile, Eldarion's patronizing tone. And beneath it all, she thought of the desert, swallowing towns faster than anyone could explain.
Her body trembled, though whether from exhaustion or rage, she couldn't tell. But one truth cut through the haze:
She couldn't stop. Not now. Not when the sands kept moving.
Talia lifted her head, the fire still alive in her chest. Whatever it took, she would find the answers.
But as the silence pressed in, her thoughts wandered back to the fight in the alley. To her.
The Diviner.
The woman who had moved like a storm given form—lightning at her fingertips, the earth itself bending to her will. Elemental magic. Raw, untamed, breathtaking.
She had read about elementalists before, of how rare they were. She had always wanted to see one in action but never dreamt it would ever happen.
Talia flexed her hand, still trembling faintly from the memory. She was a paladin, forged in discipline and oath, her power drawn from years of training, ritual, and the steady guidance of Kaelor. But standing in that alley, drenched and bleeding, she had felt something else—an echo of the Diviner's power stirring deep within her, as if some long-silent part of her had awakened.
Why her? Why now?
She remembered the Diviner's eyes: steady, unyielding, yet carrying the same fire that burned in Talia's own chest. Not pitying, not lecturing—just fierce, protective, alive. The fight she held against a mob.
The memory unspooled in fragments—the gleam of Lazulli lanterns in the rain, the hiss of steel, the flash of elemental force cutting through the dark. She remembered how the Diviner's hand had moved in an arc, catching a chain strike mid-swing without even looking at it. Another blade had come from behind, and the woman had turned just enough, as though she'd felt the attack before it came.
At the time, Talia had been too dazed to notice. Too distracted by Eldarion. Now, in the silence of the atrium, the realization struck her like a hammer blow.
She wasn't looking at them at all. She couldn't have been.
The Diviner was blind.
And yet… she fought as though her sight was sharper than anyone else's. Each movement was deliberate, every strike precise. The air itself seemed to whisper to her, guiding her hands.
Talia clenched her fist. She was a paladin—trained, tempered, sworn to discipline and the steady will of Kaelor. Her strength came from years of drilling form into instinct, of hammering hesitation into obedience. And yet this blind woman had outshone her in the span of a single, rain-soaked fight.
Her jaw tightened. A part of her admired it—envied it even. But another part rebelled.
"I won't be overshadowed," she murmured into the still air.
She touched the bruise on her shoulder, her lips curling into something between a grimace and a smile.
"You saved me, Diviner. But next time… I'll prove I can stand as your equal. Maybe even more."
Thunder rolled across Tan'thalon, low and defiant, as if echoing her vow. The rain rattled against the atrium windows in sharp bursts, like the clash of steel on steel.
The desert was moving. The world was shifting. And somewhere in its heart, the blind Diviner was waiting.