The ceremony ended without ceremony.
Names were recorded. Officials dispersed. The crowd thinned, breaking apart into smaller
groups—some celebrating, some consoling, some silent. The Ashen Convocation slowly emptied,
as if the ground itself was tired of witnessing judgment.
I walked away without looking back.
No one stopped me.
No one called my name.
That, more than anything else, made it real.
Beyond the inner plaza, delegations were already departing.
I saw them only in passing.
Elven envoys in pale cloaks, their expressions unreadable.
Beastmen families gathered close, voices low and restrained.
Dwarven representatives spoke quietly among themselves, faces carved from stone.
Those born between bloodlines stood among them, never fully apart, never fully seen.
Their children walked with them—some chosen, some not.
The Ember had answered today.
Everywhere.
As I reached the outer steps of the Convocation, I felt it.
A pause.
I didn't turn immediately, but I knew someone was watching.
Princess Serena Viremont stood a short distance away, her staff resting lightly at her side. The wind
around her had settled, quiet as if waiting. Her expression was soft—not pitying, not distant.
Concern.
She took a half-step forward.
Stopped.
For a moment, it felt as though she wanted to say something. Not as a princess. Not as a Wielder. Just as someone who had seen.
Then she lowered her gaze and stepped back instead.
She chose not to come closer.
Some comforts were not meant to be given.
I turned away before the distance between us could close.
The streets of the capital were louder than the grounds had been. Vendors shouted. Children ran
ahead of their parents, pretending to summon flames that did not exist. Conversations overlapped,
excitement bleeding into every corner of the city.
"Did you hear?"
"Two fire wielders in one ceremony."
"They say ancient Edicts answered again."
The words passed through me without settling.
I walked beside my parents, half a step behind. My mother's presence was warm, close enough
that I could feel it without touching. My father walked ahead, his pace steady, his back straight.
No one spoke.
At a crossing near the inner districts, we paused as a procession of newly chosen Wielders passed
by. Humans, elves, even a horned beastman among them—some walking proudly, others looking
overwhelmed, clutching nothing and everything at once.
Among them, I saw Eren.
He stood surrounded by officials, lightning still faintly tracing his bow as scribes followed him
closely. People looked at him differently now—some with admiration, some with calculation.
He noticed me.
For a moment, his steps faltered. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
There was nothing he could say.
I gave him a small nod.
It was easier than pretending to smile.
We turned away before the city could decide what I was supposed to be now. The house was quiet when we returned.
My father removed his boots with practiced care. My mother lit a single lamp in the main room. The
familiar sounds felt distant, like they belonged to another day.
No one asked me how I felt.
No one told me it would be alright.
I went to my room and closed the door.
The silence pressed in slowly.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on my knees, staring at the floor.
I waited for something to happen.
Anger.
Grief.
Anything.
Nothing came.
Then my chest tightened.
My breathing broke unevenly, sharp and uncontrolled. My hands curled into my clothes, knuckles
whitening as if holding on could keep something from slipping away.
I tried to stay quiet.
I failed.
The first tear fell before I realized I was crying. Then another. Then my vision blurred completely,
the room dissolving into light and shadow.
I pressed a hand over my mouth, but the sound escaped anyway—broken, helpless.
I had trained for years.
I had believed.
I had stood before the Ember Witness and been found unnecessary.
I cried until my chest ached. Until my throat burned. Until thought collapsed into weight.
Outside my door, the house remained still. They did not come in.
They did not interrupt.
Somewhere beyond the wall, I knew my parents were awake. I knew they could hear me.
And still, they let me cry.
When exhaustion finally took me, one thought remained—quiet, undeniable.
The world was moving forward.
Across every race.
Every land.
And it was doing so—
without me.