That night, Talia lay on the narrow cot the guard captain had grudgingly offered her, staring at the low beams of the ceiling. After her last argument with Eldarion she had decided to split ways. She would deal with the fallout of her parents later. The scent of wet stone clung to her, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood on her skin. She hadn't bothered to wash it all away. Her body was too drained, her mind too restless. Sleep didn't come. Every time she closed her eyes, she didn't see the assassins, didn't relive the clash of steel or the crack of stone. She saw her. The Diviner, rain streaming down her face, moving like she'd been born in the rhythm of the fight. Her calm words, steady even when blades came from angles no eyes could track. The way she'd turned her blind gaze on Talia and spoken her truth without a tremor.
And that touch.
Talia lifted her hand into the air, staring at it in the dim lamplight. The memory of those fingertips against her gauntlet lingered like a brand. No demand, no control—just trust. It had unsettled her more than any wound.
"Ridiculous," she muttered, rolling onto her side.
The cot creaked in protest. "She's infuriating. Smug. Always one step ahead, like she can see straight through me."
And yet.
The heat in Talia's chest wasn't anger. Not entirely. Something about the Diviner's defiance, her refusal to be pitied, gnawed at her. Talia was a paladin, trained to fight, to protect, to stand taller than the world expected. She should have dismissed the woman's confession. But instead, she'd found herself—what? Admiring her?
No. That couldn't be it. She pressed her forehead into her pillow, gritting her teeth.
"Damn her."
The city hummed faintly outside, a heartbeat in the stones. Talia wondered if the Diviner was out there even now, listening to it. Breathing with it. Awake like she was, or at peace in ways Talia couldn't grasp. Sleep never came easy after battle, but tonight the unrest wasn't in her sword arm. It was in her chest.
The cause of Talia's turmoil had retreated to one of May'jahan's temples. These stone structures had always felt special to her. She wasn't certain if it was because she was a disciple of May'jahan or if it was the structure itself, but it felt like home. And home was something she needed now that her mind had begun to wonder about tonight.
The chamber she was seated in was dark, though darkness meant little to her. She had never seen the world in the way others claimed to: no walls of stone, no flickering torchlight, no rivers glinting beneath the sun. Instead, she felt the world through the quiet hum of lifeforce, the steady chorus of sparks flickering and flowing all around her.
And yet tonight, the harmony had faltered.
There had been a hollow on the rooftops, a place where no thread sang, no ember flickered. She had felt it coming up to Talia and her, pressing at the edges of her awareness like a wound in the weave. Whoever they were, they had hidden themselves perfectly, save for their silence. Too perfect. To deliberate. Even Talia, who literally could walk in the light, didn't see them coming.
The Silent Wardens. She had only heard the whispers. Assassins that erased their own lifeforce to become shadows — neither living nor dead, but something in between. Enhanced individuals that replaced limbs with mechanical constructs to dampen their footprints, warping and disfiguring their lifeforce.
But the question that burned in her mind was not what they were. It was who had sent them.
Her first thought was of the High Born lords of Tan'thalon. Their lifeforce always burned cold — calculating, hungry. To them, she was a threat, a blind girl with a power they could never own nor replicate. Would they risk a Warden to strip her of that power?
Or was it the cultists of Ba'ham, ever striving to prove their god's fire should belong to all? They would see her silenced, her light smothered, to prove May'jahan's gift was nothing more than tyranny.
But darker still was the possibility she dared not linger on: her own goddess' faithful. For though she did not know how unusual her lifeforce was, she knew it was stronger, much stronger, than most she touched. Did they see her as dangerous? An uncontrolled flame that might one day burn what it was meant to guard?
Her hands trembled as she pressed them together, feeling the lifeforce thrumming inside her veins like rivers. To her, it was simply what she had always known, a brightness greater than others, but not something to question. Still, she whispered into the emptiness of the chamber:
"Who sent you? And how many more will come?"
The silence gave no answer. But in that silence, she felt the wound again — faint, distant, but still watching. And she understood this was not the last night she would know the presence of a Warden. For their task had not been completed.
Talia had been summoned to the council again the next morning. Barely awake after a night of very little sleep. Being a noble she had been taught how to properly dress for occasions, even if she didn't feel like it. The lack of sleep hidden under make-up and her mind jolted awake by a cold shower. That worked wonders. Every time she entered the council chamber she was struck with a sense of wonder and awe. The chamber was vast, built of dark stone veined with Lazulli that pulsed faintly with arcane light. High above, banners of Xaerona's noble houses swayed in the artificial draft, their colors muted in the cavernous hall. The Councilors sat on raised thrones in a half-circle, their voices low and sharp as blades, the weight of their scrutiny heavy upon those summoned before them.
Talia stood at attention, shoulders squared in her polished armor, though her body still ached from the rooftop fight. She forced herself to meet the gaze of the elders—each one calculating, each one expecting poise and deference.
And then she felt it.
The subtle shift in the chamber's air, as though even the stone leaned to listen. She didn't need to turn her head to know the Diviner had entered.
When she finally allowed herself a glance, she caught sight of the woman walking forward with quiet certainty, every step unerring despite the blindness she wore as easily as breath. Her staff tapped once against the floor, a sound that carried through the silence. When she focussed on it, Talia saw that the Diviner made small movements with her head at the exact time her staff hit the floor, as though she was listening.
"Lady Surifarah. The Diviner." A Councilor's voice rang out. "You were both involved in the… incident last night."
Murmurs rippled through the assembly—words like assassins, deserters, destabilization. Talia inhaled deeply. This was no battlefield where steel decided fate. This was politics. And politics always threatened to strangle her. The Diviner, however, bowed her head with calm grace.
"Yes. And were it not for Lady Talia, I would not be standing before you."
Talia blinked, her breath catching. She had expected—what? A jab? A condescending remark? Instead, the Diviner had offered her credit. A lifeline. But it didn't soothe. If anything, it made her jaw tighten.
"I did what any paladin would have done. Nothing more."
A faint, knowing smile tugged at the Diviner's lips. "And nothing less."
Their eyes—well, Talia's eyes and the Diviner's sightless gaze—locked across the chamber. Talia could almost feel the unspoken duel between them: rivalry laced with something deeper, something neither of them dared to name here. The Councilors droned on, discussing threats and responses, but Talia's focus drifted. Every word the Diviner spoke was measured, poised, her voice like water smoothing over stone. And every time, it set Talia's teeth on edge—not because she disagreed, but because part of her agreed too much.
Finally, the eldest Councilor spoke: "You two have seen the enemy with your own eyes. You will work together—by our order. Tan'thalon cannot afford divided champions."
The verdict fell like a hammer. Talia's gut twisted. Standing side by side with the Diviner, tied to her by decree, was the last thing she wanted. And yet…
Her heart thudded traitorously.
The Diviner inclined her head, accepting the order with serenity.
"You are to venture into the desert and investigate any anomalies you find there. Find Ba'ham's cults and root them out".
That was the final decree. Then, as the chamber dismissed them, the Diviner turned her face subtly toward Talia. A whisper, meant only for her.
"Looks like you're stuck with me."
Talia clenched her fists at her side. "Don't get comfortable."
The Diviner's lopsided smile returned. "Too late."
The heavy doors boomed shut behind them, cutting off the droning voices of the Council. The corridor outside was cooler, lined with Lazulli sconces that glowed faintly like captured starlight. Guards flanked the hall, their gazes fixed straight ahead, pretending not to listen. Trained to not listen to things they shouldn't.
Talia walked stiffly, armor clinking with each step. The words of the decree still rang in her ears—You will work together. As though she needed reminding. The Diviner moved beside her, staff tapping softly, each step perfectly measured. Infuriatingly calm.
"You should wipe that scowl off your face," she murmured. "The Councilors might think you're pouting."
Talia's head snapped toward her. "I'm not pouting."
"Lies," the Diviner said smoothly, echoing her rooftop taunt.
Heat prickled across Talia's cheeks, half from anger, half from something she refused to name.
"Do you ever stop being insufferable?"
The Diviner tilted her head, that faint smile tugging at her lips.
"Not when it gets results."
They turned down a quieter passage, the sound of their boots and staff the only rhythm. For a moment, neither spoke. Finally, Talia broke the silence, her voice lower, sharper.
"Why did you tell them that? About me saving you. You didn't have to."
The Diviner's smile faded, replaced with a thoughtful stillness. She slowed her pace slightly, as though considering whether to answer. Then, softly.
"Because it was true. And because they needed to see you as more than just a noble paladin who defies orders."
Talia bristled. "I don't need your charity."
"Charity?" The Diviner turned her blind gaze toward her, unflinching. "No, Talia. Respect."
The word struck harder than any blade. For a heartbeat, Talia faltered. She hated the way her chest tightened, hated that she couldn't summon a sharp retort fast enough. The Diviner continued forward, serene as ever.
"Besides," she added lightly, "if we're to be bound together, the Council might as well believe we're a formidable pair."
Talia finally found her voice. "Bound together doesn't mean I trust you."
The Diviner only smiled again, this time softer. "That will come."
Talia clenched her fists, watching her stride ahead as though the hall itself bent to her presence. She wanted to shout, to argue, to prove her wrong.
Instead, the only words that escaped were a muttered: "Damn her."
Somewhere deep in the catacombs of the city, a figure waited. Armored but restless, it's face hidden behind a golden mask. It kept pacing in front of a candle lit altar. A Silent Warden staggered in, cloak torn and blood soaking the side of his ribs. He knelt, head bowed. The figure snapped toward him, speaking with an impatient male voice.
"You return alone, why?"
The Warden's voice rasped through his mask, steady, despite the wound to his side.
"The strike failed. The Diviner did not fall."
The golden figure remained still for a moment, only to raise his voice in a cold fury.
"Failed? Against one blind woman? Do you mock me, Warden?"
The Warden lifted his head, the lenses over his eyes reduced to but a dim glow.
"She was not alone. The girl—Talia—intervened. Together, they turned the blade. Even blind, the Diviner moved as though she foresaw every strike."
The figure froze at the mention of the name. His mouth twisting in a show of pride and jealousy clashing with disbelief. Then, through gritted teeth.
"Talia. Always Talia. She… she shielded that heretic against me? Against Tan'thalon's will?"
The Warden remained quiet, preferring facts.
"Not against Tan'thalon's will. Against death. She chose the Diviner over fear. And the Diviner—she spared us when she could have ended us. That is why I stand here still."
The figure slammed his hand against the altar, knocking some of the candles over. His voice was now a hiss with barely contained venom.
"Mercy? Mercy is not strength. She plays at sainthood while undermining the order, while stealing the hearts of the people. And Talia—"
He cut himself short, chest heaving.
"No. This cannot be allowed. The council already whispers of her. If they see her as a savior and me as a shadow…"
The Warden kept his measured composure, but had a hint of a warning in his tone.
"They already do. The people cheer her name in the lower rings. And now Talia stands at her side. Kill her again, and you may make her a martyr instead."
The figure whirled, eyes blazing. For a moment, he raised his gauntleted hand as if to strike the Warden, but lowered it with trembling restraint. Light glowing from his gauntlet, revealing his nature as a Paladin. He forced his voice into something smoother, concealing the seething fury beneath it.
"Then we will bleed her slowly. No martyrs. No saints. The council will see her for what she is — chaos, weakness, heresy. And when her mask shatters, when she falters before all Tan'thalon, then… only then… will I strike the final blow."
The Warden bowed his head, but as he left his posture was rigid, uneasy. As though he no longer fully believed the man he served.