Later that night, Tan'thalon lay hushed beneath the stars, its magitech lanterns flickering faintly like constellations drawn low to earth. No one knew about the epic battle that had happened just outside the walls. The desert colossus had already been reclaimed by the sand. Talia had sought solitude on a rooftop terrace, trying to cope with everything that had happened until now. She hadn't even taken the time to strip her armor off. It's usual shine battered by the desert. She didn't have that much experience outside of her estate to begin with. The shock of witnessing first hand what kind of monstrosities lurked in the desert had hit her hard. To make matters worse for her already fragile mind, she wasn't alone.
The Diviner sat cross-legged near the edge, her staff resting at her side, one palm pressed flat to the stone beneath her. Her head was tilted, eyes closed, as though she were listening to something only she could hear. She always liked the rooftops. They were quiet, away from the loud noises of the city. Noises so loud they could overwhelm her.
Talia leaned against a column in the shadows, arms folded. She told herself she was watching for danger. That she was guarding the perimeter. But her gaze kept drifting back—drawn to the stillness, to the strange quiet power of the woman beside her. If she was honest with herself, she didn't even know how she got here. Had she come up here seeking solitude, or had she followed the Diviner.
Without opening her eyes, the Diviner's voice cut through the silence.
"You're staring again."
Talia stiffened, raising her mental shields. "I'm not."
The faintest curve touched the Diviner's lips. "Lies."
Heat rushed to Talia's cheeks, and she turned sharply toward the city lights, as if they were suddenly fascinating. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
"Some would say perceptive." The Diviner finally opened her eyes, not focusing on Talia, yet finding her all the same. "You burn too brightly to go unnoticed. Even in silence, you flare."
Talia's jaw tightened. "So what, now I'm just… noise and fire to you? Something to study?"
The Diviner's head tilted slightly, her expression unreadable in the half-light. "Something to watch. Carefully. Because wildfire is beautiful, even when it threatens to destroy."
Talia's breath caught, her retort faltering. She hated how her pulse quickened at those words, how the compliment and the warning tangled together.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Getting under my skin."
The Diviner's smile deepened, soft, amused, almost tender. "Good."
She closed her eyes once more, palm still resting on the stone. "Because that means you'll remember me, even when you try not to."
The rooftop fell quiet again, save for the distant hum of magitech engines below. Talia shifted uncomfortably, torn between storming off and drawing closer. Instead, she stayed, hating the stillness, hating the pull, and hating most of all how much she didn't want to leave. How did this woman keep managing to do this with her? Having her staring in awe one moment, and drawing the blood from under her nails the other. The silence stretched too long for Talia's liking. She pushed off the column and stalked closer, boots scraping against the rooftop tiles.
"You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?" she said, voice low and edged.
The Diviner didn't move. Her eyes stayed shut, her hand still pressed to the stone as though listening to the city's pulse.
"Not figured out. Just seen."
"Seen?" Talia barked a sharp laugh. "That's rich, coming from someone who can't even—"
She bit the words back too late. The Diviner's head tilted, blind eyes opening just enough to show pale irises that reflected the lantern light. Not angry. Not hurt. Just… steady.
"Say it."
Talia clenched her fists. "You don't even look at me when you fight. You don't look at anything. And somehow you always have the upper hand. It's infuriating."
The faintest flicker of amusement touched the Diviner's lips. "You mistake discipline for arrogance."
Talia scowled. "You mistake arrogance for wisdom."
That earned her a laugh, soft, low, the kind of sound that slipped under armor and cut deeper than steel.
"You burn so fast," the Diviner murmured, turning her face toward the night sky. "And yet you fear anyone who doesn't burn like you."
Talia opened her mouth to snap back, but the words tangled. Something in that calm voice unraveled her anger before it could take shape. The Diviner let the silence settle for a moment, then her tone shifted. Still quiet, but weighted, as though she were peeling something hidden from her chest.
"I was blind from birth," she said simply.
Talia blinked, thrown off balance. She searched the Diviner's face, but there was no hesitation, no shame.
"My parents saw only weakness," the Diviner continued, voice steady though her hand tightened slightly against the stone. "But they also saw bloodlines, inheritance, power. They pushed me to lead our estate, to speak like a ruler, to act like one. They wanted a perfect heir, not a daughter."
She paused, the faintest crack of bitterness bleeding through. The first time Talia even saw the faintest crack in her armor "The pressure was… constant. Every word measured. Every mistake punished. Eventually I realized I couldn't breathe in their world. So I left."
Talia's chest tightened. For once, she had no retort.
"You ran away," she said finally, though the words came softer than she intended.
The Diviner inclined her head, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "I chose freedom."
Talia stared at her, conflicted. She wanted to sneer, wanting to argue, but also… understanding. Far too well.
"You make it sound so simple."
"It wasn't," the Diviner said, turning her blind gaze toward her again. "It never is."
The rooftop fell quiet once more, but the air between them felt sharper now, charged with both rivalry and something deeper, something fragile. Talia looked away first, furious with herself for feeling that fragile thing stir. She paced a few steps away, boots grinding against the stone. She hated how her chest felt tight, how the Diviner's words refused to loosen their grip.
"You make it sound like you had no choice," she said finally, sharper than intended. "That running was the only answer."
The Diviner tilted her head. "And you sound as though you envy it."
Talia froze, heat rising to her face. "Envy? Please. I don't run. I never run"
"Don't you?" The Diviner's voice was calm, but the words cut. "From what burns you inside?"
Talia turned, glaring. "You think you know me because you can block a blade without looking? You don't."
For a moment, silence.
Then, softer than before, the Diviner said: "Then tell me. Who are you, Talia?"
The name, spoken like that—gentle, unarmored—slipped past her defenses. Talia looked away quickly, fists tightening at her sides. She never was very good at handling her emotions.
"I…"
Her throat felt dry. She wanted to dismiss it, to snap back with some clever defiance. But the words pushed through anyway.
"I was never given a choice either. My father drills me every day. Sword, shield, doctrine, duty. My mother watches every step, every word, waiting for me to… I don't know. Prove I'm worthy. Prove I can bear the name."
Her voice faltered, quieter now.
"I thought if I became a paladin, if I trained hard enough, if I kept fighting, maybe I'd stop feeling like I'm… less."
The Diviner didn't move, didn't speak. She simply listened, her blind gaze steady and unshaken. Talia clenched her jaw, angry at herself.
"And look at me. First night here and I nearly bleed out in an alley. Then outside the wall… I couldn't even move when I saw that… monster. Some paladin."
The Diviner finally stirred, the faintest smile touching her lips.
"And yet you're still standing."
"That's not enough."
"It is, when you refuse to fall."
The Diviner's tone softened, threading warmth into the cool night.
"Strength isn't perfection, Talia. It's persistence. And I see persistence burning in you brighter than any flame."
Talia swallowed hard, fighting the surge in her chest—anger, pride, longing, all tangled. She turned away quickly, arms crossed tight.
"You're impossible."
"Perhaps." The Diviner's voice carried the shadow of a smile. "But so are you."
The rooftop fell quiet again, but this time the silence felt different—less like a barrier, more like a fragile bridge stretched between them.
Talia dragged her hands through her damp hair and let out a sharp breath. "You talk like you've got all the answers. Like every word from your lips is wisdom carved in stone."
The Diviner's brow twitched. "And you talk like a soldier who mistakes stubbornness for strength."
That struck too close. Talia whipped around, anger lighting her voice.
"What would you know about strength? You left your family, your estate—ran away the first time it got too heavy! That isn't strength. That's cowardice."
The words echoed harsher than she'd meant. For an instant, the rooftop seemed to go still. The Diviner's blind eyes turned toward her, unreadable. She didn't lash back, didn't raise her voice. She just breathed once, slow and measured, as though swallowing the sting whole.
"I could strike you for that," she said quietly.
Not a threat. Just a fact. Talia's pulse jumped. She squared her shoulders, jaw tight.
"Then do it."
But the blow never came. Instead, the Diviner lifted her hand, turning her palm outward, and extended it slowly into the space between them. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of what the gesture meant.
"I trust you," she said simply.
The words landed heavier than any strike. Talia stared at the offered hand, fury and guilt warring in her chest. Her instinct screamed to refuse, to scoff, to walk away before she unraveled further. But the look on the Diviner's face—open, steady, impossibly calm—held her rooted. Her throat worked around words she couldn't form.
At last, she muttered, almost bitterly: "You're impossible."
The faintest smile curved the Diviner's lips. "So you've said."
The hand stayed extended. Waiting. Talia's fingers twitched at her side. Against every impulse, she reached out—hesitant, almost reluctant—and touched the Diviner's palm. Warmth. Steady. Unyielding. Not a handshake. Not a warrior's grip. Just… contact. Talia pulled away too quickly, heat rushing to her face.
"Don't think this means anything."
"Of course not," the Diviner said, voice calm, but the soft curve of her smile betrayed otherwise. The silence that followed was different again. Sharper. Warmer. Fragile. Like the first breath after a storm.
The rooftop's stillness shattered with a faint hiss, like steel being drawn from leather. Talia stiffened, her hand flying to her sword. She knew that sound all too well.
"We're not alone."
The Diviner didn't rise, didn't flinch. She tilted her head slightly, as if the stones themselves whispered to her.
"Three. No, four. Moving fast."
Figures vaulted over the parapet, shadows slipping through the rain-slick night. Knives glinted in their hands, faces masked. Hired blades, quick and silent. Talia stepped forward, lifting her shield, the familiar fire of battle sharpening her focus. Now that she was focussed, her shield lit up like the lanterns in the street. What she saw weren't ordinary people. Their limbs gleamed in the light her shield emitted. Talia had read about them. Silent wardens. Enhanced, like the ember seeker. Doubt crept in again, causing her shield to flicker.
"Stay behind me."
But the Diviner only stood, her blind eyes calm, one hand brushing the rooftop stones.
"I don't hide."
The assassins lunged. Steel rang as Talia met the first strike, her shield knocking one blade wide while her sword cut upward in a blur. The clash jolted through her bruised shoulder, but she ground her teeth and pressed harder. Behind her, the Diviner raised her other hand. The stones beneath their feet shuddered with a low hum, vibrating like a heartbeat. One of the attackers faltered mid-step, losing his balance as cracks spidered underfoot. Talia risked a glance, enough to see it again. The way the Diviner blocked a slash that came from her blind side, ducking just before the blade sliced air where her head had been. Not sight. Not chance. Something else.
"You—" Talia grunted, bashing her shield into another attacker. "You felt that, didn't you?"
"No time," the Diviner murmured, sweeping her hand outward. A ripple surged through the rooftop stone, buckling the ground beneath another assassin and sending him sprawling. The last one lunged at Talia from behind. She spun too late. But a pulse of force cracked the stones under his feet, knocking him off balance. Talia whirled and drove her sword hilt into his jaw, sending him crashing unconscious to the ground.
Silence fell.
The Diviner straightened, breathing steady despite the exertion. Her blind gaze turned toward Talia, a faint lopsided, smile touching her lips.
"Still standing."
Talia's chest heaved, her knuckles white on the hilt of her sword. She wanted to snap something back, to retake control of the moment. Instead, all she managed was a grudging nod.
"…You too."
Their eyes, hers sharp, the Diviner's blind but unflinching, met in the rain-slick dark. Something unspoken passed between them, not victory, not rivalry, but the fragile beginnings of recognition.
The last of the assassins lay crumpled, rain washing rivulets of blood across the stone. The night pressed in again, heavy and damp, as though the city itself held its breath.
Talia slid her sword back into its sheath, forcing her hand to unclench from the grip. Her arm trembled with the effort, not from fear, but from the drain of the fight and the sting of her half-healed bruises.
"You should've stayed back," she muttered, more harshly than she meant. "One wrong step, and they'd have gutted you."
The Diviner tilted her head, her hand still resting lightly against the rooftop stone, fingers splayed as if listening. "And yet, here I am."
Talia turned sharply. "Don't twist this. I don't need another mouth telling me I can't protect my own—"
"I didn't say you failed." The Diviner's voice was maddeningly calm, threaded with something softer. "I said I'm still here. Because of you."
Talia froze, thrown off-balance more than any blade had managed.
"You—" Her words faltered, heat prickling at her face. "You always talk like that. Like you see more than me. Like you've got me figured out."
The Diviner's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Do I?"
"You…" Talia swallowed hard. "You don't even have eyes."
The words landed heavier than she intended, and she cursed herself as soon as they left her tongue. But the Diviner didn't flinch. Instead, she slowly turned her face toward Talia, sightless gaze steady.
"No. I never have. I was born blind."
The admission cracked something in the rooftop silence. The pulse of rain softened, the city hum fading under the weight of her words. It almost seemed as if time itself had slowed.
"My parents thought if they pushed me hard enough, if they gave me their estate, their expectations… I would overcome it. That I could pretend to be like them." Her fingers pressed to the stone as though grounding herself. "But every expectation was a chain. I ran before I drowned beneath them."
Talia stared, the sharp retorts on her tongue dying away. She wanted to scoff, to call it weakness again, but the Diviner's voice held no shame, only quiet defiance. It twisted at her chest in a way she didn't want to name. For a moment, neither spoke. Just the sound of their breathing, rain dripping on stone, and the faint thrum of the city beneath their boots.
Finally, Talia muttered, "Running doesn't sound so cowardly anymore."
The Diviner's blind eyes turned toward her, unreadable yet piercing all the same. And then, in a gesture so simple yet so disarming, she reached out—not as a command, not even as an offer, but as an acknowledgment—resting her fingertips lightly against Talia's gauntleted hand.
Not holding. Not claiming. Just trusting.
Talia's breath caught. Her first instinct was to pull back, to reject the contact. But she didn't. Couldn't. The warmth lingered like fire beneath her skin.
Finally Talia broke the gentle silence, barely, her voice soft. Not sharp or accusing, just inquiring.
"You do know they were Silent Wardens?"
The answer was simple.
"Yes.. That's what worries me. First an ember seeker, and now wardens.. Something is up"