we are because they were

and on to the glory at my right hand

It doesn't feel right, to approach the lighthouse with a quest still outstanding from Vi. But it isn't the God of Life he's come to petition right now - it's his herald. The night is bible black, though dawn can't be far off, and in the distance he can still hear the clamour from the docks, the refugees continuing to flood into Torchline, the result of one woman's decision causing so much endless carnage and upheaval. And with the seed of a plan already trying to take root from his conversation at King's End, the Knight feels, here and now, that Safrin above all others is who will understand him best.

Forgive me for not speaking aloud, he murmurs, using the Attuned bond though he knows all too well that the lady of the stars won't even need that much to peel his thoughts from his mind. Dropping to one knee before the shrine, he settles the bouquet of freshly picked stargazer lilies before her altar. I can't risk anyone overhearing this. Now more than ever.

His clothes are still crumpled and dusty from the night's work, sand and wood splinters in his dark hair, and he doesn't look nearly his best; not the way he'd normally dare to approach Safrin. But tonight, like at Longnight, is an exception. Dahlia is the reason for all this. The reason Stormbreak's citizens had to flee. The reason my children are in danger. The reason I can't fight this fight. He grits his teeth, shaking his head as if to try to keep his temper bound tight.

If we can take her out of the picture... He doesn't need to finish that thought. I know plenty of people who will bring that battle to her, myself included. But I know from experience how much of a disadvantage we're at, and if we get this wrong... He sincerely doubts they'll have a second chance at it. Is there any advice you can give me, Safrin? Anything we've missed?

---

I would like to spend 600MP for Critical Plot Information for Ronin pls! <3

ronin

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

Safrin

She doesn’t descend like thunder or blaze with heavenly ire—not tonight. Tonight, she arrives on a hush of velvet darkness, the kind that clings to stars just before they fade into dawn. The air cools around him, the scent of lilies sharpening, and the light from the shrine bends, then blooms. Safrin steps into being like the slow unveiling of a constellation, her form traced in silver and shadow. She says nothing—not aloud. There’s no need.

You came to me, comes the whisper, not in words but in something older, more intimate. A warmth that brushes the inside of his mind, rich with layered meaning. And though she does not move to touch him, the affection laced through the thought is unmistakable.

She glances to the lilies he’s laid down, her gaze unreadable but no longer cold. You remember what I like, she murmurs, almost wryly, and the faintest shimmer of amusement stirs behind her eyes before it fades to something far graver.

The world seems to hold its breath as she raises one hand, fingers gliding through the air. With a gesture as delicate as a caress, she conjures the image of Dahlia. The figure is luminous and veined with void, purple threads coiling through her body like invasive ivy. Her skin glows too brightly in some places, too dim in others, her presence unsettling even in illusion.

Safrin doesn’t look at Ronin as she plucks a rose from thin air—a bloom the colour of blood, its thorns pale and glinting. She is rooted in something that does not belong here, the goddess says, and as she pricks the Dahlia phantom with the thorn of the rose, the veins of violet pulse once—then retreat. 

The rose, in contrast, remains vibrant and whole.

You have seen what comes from battles of brute force, Safrin murmurs. But perhaps there are ways of removing the element of fight altogether. The lesson—like the image—is his to interpret. 

And then the Dahlia phantom fades into starlight, the petals of the rose scattering into nothing. Safrin turns her gaze on him again, quiet and still.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

and on to the glory at my right hand

I did, Ronin confirms, his head bowed, eyes closing briefly to enjoy the cool caress of the air, the scent of the lilies, but he glances up in time to see Safrin unfurl like the petals of the flowers he'd brought for her. You have always been there before I did something potentially foolish and heroic. Why change the habit of a lifetime? Besides, there's something about this moment, this night - the Tower falling again - that has unearthed memories of another brewing war, another bloody conflict.

Managing, just about, to offer her a lopsided smile, Ronin sits back on his heels and glances immediately towards the image of Dahlia that Safrin conjures, the pulsing void that riddles her form. He cringes before he can stop himself - the way the goddess presents the Reaper reminds him of an infection but worse, as if she's been entirely overtaken by the veins of purple. Nodding gently at Safrin's remarks, his gaze catches on the rose she produces, and his mouth is falling open before she even gets as far as pricking the illusion with one of the thorns.

No, he says disbelievingly, as if he can't understand having missed something that seems so logically obvious in retrospect. A flower that can cleanse void from regions, from people... why not The Family? All this time...

Shaking his head as if to recover form his own stupidity, he clears his throat and gazes back to the goddess, eyes clear and jaw set with determination. Thank you, he says, reverent and soft. Thank you so much for this.

ronin

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)

Safrin

Safrin chuckles, the sound like wind brushing across harp strings, ephemeral and fond. Your stupidity and your heroism, she says, the light of her smile casting soft constellations in the shadows of the shrine, have always been two of your finest traits, sugar.

Her gaze lingers on him, warm now in a way it hasn’t been in years, as if the space between them has thinned just enough for a quiet peace to breathe.

I wasn’t enough, she concedes softly, the memory of distant stars dimming in her voice. When I ventured into that void, I brought light, but not the right kind. Even starlight can be devoured, if it burns alone. Her eyes glint, a flicker of steel beneath the shimmer. But Vi’s might is not so easily consumed.

Her hand curls inward, as if closing around the echo of that rose. It won’t be easy, she warns, though there’s no fear in it—only certainty. The Reaper will not go gently, not into any darkness, nor away from it. But prick her with what’s real, with what lives, and she will feel it. It will work.

Then, softer, almost like an afterthought woven with unshakable conviction: I believe in you, Ronin.

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

and on to the glory at my right hand

As the images of Dahlia and the rose fade, leaving them in the light of Safrin's constellations and the distant torches burning across Torchline's shores, Ronin finds himself gazing up at the lady of the stars, for the first time in a long time, without trepidation or wariness - only the respect she's always deserved. If you had been here, at home, your power would have been more than enough, he says, perhaps with the overconfidence of one whose faith has been so recently restored. His hands rest atop his knees, and her advice falls like soft summer rain.

Nothing worth doing is easy. You taught me that a long time ago, he says with a wry smile, already feeling the steady burn of something bright and eager kindling within him, something he'll only realise is hope some time after this. It's Safrin's last remark that has the warm radiance kindling in his chest and shining out of him against the lighthouse walls, and he huffs out a boyish laugh. Then I had better get to work, he says. Thank you again. I won't let you down.

~FIN

ronin

Styling stolen from Sky (obviously)