Whatever the reason, tonight, again, nothing happens as Sohalia kneels to pray.
The handmade painting rests beautifully upon the shrine, the starry night you so lovingly crafted catching the faint glow of moonlight. The air in the Citadel remains still and cold, the ornate shrine seeming to regard you with an indifference that feels heavier than silence. No scent of lavender or moonflower. No shimmer of starlight.
Whether Safrin is occupied, or whether she chooses not to answer, the outcome remains the same: only the sound of your own breath and the faint whistle of the icy wind fill the space, leaving you to wonder if the goddess ever truly heard you at all.
The handmade painting rests beautifully upon the shrine, the starry night you so lovingly crafted catching the faint glow of moonlight. The air in the Citadel remains still and cold, the ornate shrine seeming to regard you with an indifference that feels heavier than silence. No scent of lavender or moonflower. No shimmer of starlight.
Whether Safrin is occupied, or whether she chooses not to answer, the outcome remains the same: only the sound of your own breath and the faint whistle of the icy wind fill the space, leaving you to wonder if the goddess ever truly heard you at all.
