The wind held its breath as the envoy waited.
Ael stepped forward slowly, his body tense but his voice steady. "Speak plainly. You didn't cross half the world for polite diplomacy."
The Mirror Blade—face composed, eyes distant—bowed again. "Then I will not insult your time, King Ael."
She turned to the boy.
"You have awakened emotions thought long-extinct. You are no longer a vessel of silence, but something new. Unstable. Unwritten. The Serpent Queen sees this… and offers you peace."
The boy tilted his head. "What kind of peace?"
The woman's smile was small and unreadable.
"Guided. Shaped. Honed. You will live in comfort. Be taught by the finest mind-weavers. Your pain will be recorded, your joy regulated. No more chaos. No more burdens. Only balance."
Vel scoffed. "So you want to own him."
The envoy didn't flinch. "We want to stabilize him. Before others seek to use him."
Ael raised an eyebrow. "And what do you call this offer, then?"
The envoy met his gaze. "Mercy."
—
Nirra stepped forward, arms folded. "What happens if he refuses?"
The woman didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked at the boy.
"The world is watching you," she said. "They will not wait long to define you. Gods are born, or they are made. And those that are made are always… claimed."
She gestured eastward, where the Mirror Blades stood in perfect formation.
"If you walk with us, you will never have to fight alone again. You will never have to fear your emotions turning into storms."
The boy looked down at his hands, quiet.
Vel whispered to Ael, "She's good. Not just a soldier—trained diplomat."
Ael's expression didn't shift. "Too good."
—
After a long moment, the boy spoke.
"If I went with you… could I still cry?"
The woman blinked. "You could weep when permitted. Emotions would be managed, recorded, reflected upon. Regulated."
The boy frowned. "Would they be real, then?"
Silence.
Ael took a step closer, voice low and firm. "This boy isn't a relic to be cataloged."
The woman's posture stiffened. "You would risk his unraveling?"
"No," Ael said. "I'd risk his growth. There's a difference."
The envoy turned back to the boy.
"This is not a threat," she said. "We will not raise blades here. But we will return."
She extended a crystal token—shaped like a serpent biting its own tail.
"If your answer changes, offer this to the water. And we will come."
The boy didn't take it at first.
Then, slowly, he reached out—and held the token.
But he didn't say yes.
—
That night, the fire was quiet.
The Mirror Blades had vanished as swiftly as they arrived, swallowed by the Expanse without leaving footprints behind.
Vel stared into the flames. "How long until the next envoy comes?"
"Not long," Nirra said. "That was the polite one. The next may wear a blade instead of a smile."
The boy sat nearby, rolling the token between his fingers. Its surface pulsed faintly with magic—not seductive, not hostile. Just there. A door waiting to be opened.
Ael sat beside him. "You don't have to decide now."
"I know," the boy said softly. "But it's hard. They spoke like they knew what I was. Like they already had a place for me."
"They want a symbol," Ael said. "You're not that. You're someone."
"But… what if I don't know who?"
Ael smiled gently. "Then you keep walking. Until you do."
—
At the edge of camp, Nirra looked up at the stars, brows furrowed.
"There's something else," she muttered.
Vel joined her. "What is it?"
"The moment the token touched him, the Weeping Expanse… reacted. Did you feel it?"
Vel nodded. "Yeah. Like the ground… flinched."
Nirra narrowed her eyes. "This place doesn't like control. It exists for emotions to run wild, to learn. That token? It carries structure. Too much of it."
"And if it forces him into a mold?" Vel asked.
Nirra glanced back at the boy.
"It won't be just him that breaks. The Expanse itself might fight back."
—
Far from their camp, in a cavern beneath moonlit stone, the Serpent Queen stirred from meditation. Her throne was carved from ancient bones, her crown forged of coiled pearl and obsidian.
She opened her eyes.
A pool before her shimmered with the boy's face.
He looked unsure.
Fractured.
Vulnerable.
She smiled.
"Good," she whispered. "Even gods must doubt, before they bend."