37. Naera
Naera
The water is cold, but not the kind that stings.
Not freezing, not cruel. Just cold in the way of things that are supposed to be pure. It laps against my bare skin as the attendants pour it over me from silver bowls, catching the run-off in smaller ones as if my body already carries something sacred.
It clings to me like a second skin, thick with ground herbs and powdered bone. I sit in it while the acolytes murmur their blessings, their hands moving through my hair with mechanical grace.
I let them.
I let them all.
Because that’s what I’m here to do, isn’t it?
Submit. Return. End.
Still, the Moon Room is too quiet. No chant. No song. Just breath, and water, and the slow scrape of silver against stone.
It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.
Not holy. Not radiant.
Wrong.
The dome above me is etched in glass—clear at the center, and shifting to stained moon phases near the edges. Tomorrow night, the full eclipse will pass directly overhead. They keep telling me that. Like it’s something I should be honored by .
But the longer I sit in this pool of moon water and silence, the more the stone beneath me starts to feel like a tomb.
I think of Selis.
Of her smirk. Her blade. Her eyes when they were soft and furious at once. I think of her voice, that final whisper, still caught under my ribs like a hook: “I should’ve walked away the night I met you.”
Tears surge up in a wave I can’t outswim. I bite them back. Swallow hard. I don’t get to cry. I made this choice.
At least she’s safe. At least the others are safe too. For now. Their fates are only delayed—but even a delay is better than a knife to the throat. And Selis…
She’ll hate me forever…
Good .
Hate is easier than grief, and she has had enough grief for a lifetime.
The attendants move around me with quiet efficiency. They dry the last of the water from my skin. One draws a fine comb through my damp hair. Another wraps me in a soft white dress.
The women finish.
When the last one slips out, the hush behind her deepens, until soft footsteps.
“Naera,” a small voice says.
Rialeth .
I don’t turn to look. Instead, I sit still on the bench as she steps inside like she belongs here.
Maybe she does. She’s the one who brought me back, after all. Maybe that’s enough to earn her special privileges.
She doesn’t speak at first, but I can feel her gaze between my shoulder blades .
“They’ve granted me the honor of painting the sigils with the sacred ash tomorrow,” she says, her voice almost tender.
I stare at the wall and say nothing.
“You’re very quiet,” she adds, like we’re still friends, like she still cares for me.
“I have nothing to say.”
She pauses. Only a breath.
“Are you not even the least bit pleased?” she asks. “To become Selene’s vessel? To bring renewal?”
I close my eyes.
All I can think about is Selis.
The way she looked at me like I was something she wanted to protect and ruin at the same time. The way I watched her walk away. And how I wanted to run after her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
My heart clenches so tight it almost folds in on itself.
“Thrilled,” I murmur.
“You shouldn’t be so ungrateful,” she says at last, the words clipped, brittle. Like a vase cracking beneath its own weight.
Her footsteps retreat, too soft, too calm. The door clicks shut behind her.
And only then do I breathe. Only then do the tears fall—quiet, steady, unspectacular. Not sobs. Not heaving grief. Just… surrender.
Better now than tomorrow. Better in the dark, alone, than on the altar.
That night, I lay on a bed of woven reeds, in a chamber lined with flowers that never die. Moon bloom and star shade, petals curled wide as if they’re waiting for me to join them.
Selene is close .
I close my eyes and see her. Her pale face, silver eyes, light like a blade.
But I also see her .
Selis. Smirking. Scowling. Bleeding.
Alive.
Selene, let her stay alive.
I don’t care if she hates me—just let her live.
The reed mat beneath me is stiff. The air hums faintly, like the stone itself is whispering prayers I can’t hear. I press my forehead to the blanket, the weight of everything folding down over me like another robe.
Sleep steals in quiet. I don’t fight it.
***
Selis stands beneath the moon, watching it go dark.
Not crying. Not cursing.
Just watching—still and solid.
Her silhouette is cut from shadow and starlight, her braid loose and wild in the wind, coat tattered at the hem. The silver gleam of her blade catches the dimming sky. Around her, the earth is scorched, blackened by a fire not quite gone.
She’s not looking at me. Maybe she can’t see me.
But I can see her.
The air smells like blood and crushed petals. Something ancient. Something wrong. The Garden is burning behind her—flames climbing trees like eager hands, smoke curling around stone as the temple is swallowed by night itself.
And Selis walks through it, slow and steady, like she’s been waiting her whole life to ruin this place .
She doesn’t flinch; she simply draws her blade.
Not for me.
For them.
For the priests. The temple.
Her mouth moves. I don’t hear words. Just the shape of them. Fury shaped like a vow.
Ash clings to her hair, catching the firelight—glowing like starlight. Like a crown made of ruin.
She’s beautiful like this.
Terrible like this.
And some quiet, breaking part of me knows—I’ll never see her again.
But another part—the part that refuses to die, even now… still hopes.
Still believes.
Still knows…
If there’s a goddess left in this world worth anything at all, she wears a smirk like that, and bleeds just to keep me breathing.