When the procession reached them, the atmosphere changed.
Voices lowered, laughter faded, and only the solemn music could be heard.
It was as if even the most vulgar remembered, for a moment, that faith was something that could crush them.
First came several rows of clerics from different orders: green, blue, purple robes, some with styles and patterns that were clearly foreign. Behind them, a battalion of paladins in ceremonial armor and sheathed swords filled the air with their firm, synchronized march.
Out of the corner of his eye, Aren noticed many emblems he could not recognize.
Little by little, as several ostentatious carriages advanced, people began to crowd together, trying to get closer.
"There come the other candidates!" one of the citizens shouted, pointing at the carriages.
"Finally, our principality has its own representative," another added with excitement.
"Other candidates?" Aren murmured.
"I heard about that," Aveline replied. "They say they come from other kingdoms, and each one represents a different church."
Before he could ask anything else, Aren felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as the first chants rose.
Then, silence fell completely.
Because she appeared.
She was not traveling in an ordinary carriage.
It was a ceremonial platform, elevated and open, supported by carved wooden columns bearing two different kinds of symbols.
It was not pulled by horses or visible beasts, but propelled by clerics and hidden mechanisms.
At the center, atop a high podium, stood her.
Aren turned his head for a few seconds and did not know what he noticed first.
It was… the glow.
Not of jewels.
Of something that felt too sacred to belong to a young woman.
The ceremonial attire was white with golden details, fine fabrics falling like water… and, in an unsettling way, shaping her figure and leaving too much of her exposed. It was not a garment one would expect from a priestess.
Aren saw the young woman lift a hand to cover her chest with an almost instinctive modesty, as if the movement escaped her despite the protocol.
The discomfort was there.
In her stiff neck, her slightly tense shoulders, and the way she avoided looking at the crowd for too long.
Aren frowned.
'Why are they dressing her like this…?'
Then he saw her hair.
Light. Like wheat under the sun.
And something inside him stopped.
"…"
He saw her eyes.
And the world, for a second, lost all sound.
Because those eyes…
He had seen them before.
In the courtyard of a mansion.
A little girl with shoes tied with rope.
The hooded woman who healed the child the day before.
Aren felt his heart slam against his ribs.
'No…'
She lifted her gaze, sweeping over the crowd, until their eyes met.
It was an instant.
But in that instant, time did something strange, as if it folded in on itself.
"Lylia…," he whispered, almost without realizing it.
The young woman's eyes widened slightly, and a faint blush spread across her cheeks.
Then she smiled.
Not the practiced, ceremonial smile she offered to the crowd. This one was small, restrained, and real.
A smile that said: I saw you.
Aren did not breathe.
That moment went unnoticed by almost everyone present.
Aveline glanced sideways. She saw the way Aren stood frozen, as if he were seeing a ghost.
And, without understanding why, she felt a sharp pang in her stomach.
She nudged him with her elbow.
It was not strong or aggressive.
"Focus," she murmured.
Aren blinked, as if waking up.
She looked at him from the side, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight.
"What are you staring at so intensely?" she whispered. "Were you that impressed?"
"I…," Aren murmured, his expression complicated.
"Cordon," she insisted, lips tightening as if she were annoyed but unwilling to admit it, even to herself.
Hal and Lysander, even from further back, had seen enough to fall apart internally.
The halfling clenched his fists.
"Damn lucky bastard! She saw you!" he whispered with a mix of indignation and horror. "The Saint saw you."
Lysander looked like he was about to cry.
Bromir, from his position, let out a silent laugh.
Sir Kaelreth stepped forward along the line, and the group tensed.
"Still!" he ordered.
The candidate's platform passed directly in front of them.
For a moment, Aren thought he saw her fingers trembling as she tried to hold the edge of her garment to cover herself a little more, while she continued blessing the crowd.
Shame.
Aren clenched his fists, feeling a mute anger rise.
Not at her.
At everyone.
At the fact that the same girl who once ran through his mansion now walked like an idol, trapped in something far too large.
He did not understand why a strange pain began to spread through his chest.
Aren took a step without realizing it, his hands instinctively moving toward his sword.
"Valenfort."
Kaelreth called his name like a blade.
Aren turned instinctively.
"Y-yes, sir?"
"If you move from your post," Kaelreth said in a low voice, "I'll have you cleaning latrines until next winter."
Aren clenched his teeth.
"Understood…"
When he looked back, Lylia was no longer there.
Only the echo of the chanting remained.
The smell of incense.
And a strange emptiness, as if something had been torn from his chest.
—
The day ended with orders, reports, and silence.
But Aren could not get that smile out of his head.
The smile that was meant for no one else.
'Lylia…,' he thought. 'You recognized me too… didn't you?'
However, for him, that was worse than if she had not.
Now one thing was clear.
The Lylia with whom he had made that promise…
Was no longer a child.
Time had passed for both of them, and now, from the paths they walked, they could see each other, yet still felt far too distant.
That night, as he walked back into the fortress, Aren felt Aveline at his side. She walked with her hands in her pockets, looking ahead.
She did not speak for a while.
And when she did, her voice sounded far too casual.
"So… do you know her?" she asked.
Aren slowed slightly.
"What?"
Aveline raised an eyebrow.
"I mean… the Candidate."
Aren swallowed.
"No," he lied, and his own word sounded hollow.
Aveline looked at him. Her eyes studied him like a sword measuring a weak point.
"Hm."
That was all she said.
Even so, Aren could tell it carried annoyance, curiosity, and an unease he could not describe.
Aren lowered his gaze.
He could not explain it.
Not to her.
Not to himself.
—
Elsewhere in the city, behind sacred walls, Lylia sat before a mirror.
She still wore parts of her ceremonial attire, though now it was covered by a more modest cloak.
Her face was still flushed.
Not from the cold, nor from lingering embarrassment.
From memory.
She had seen those eyes.
That posture.
That way of tightening his jaw when he was nervous.
'Aren…'
She did not say the name out loud, but thought it with a mix of relief and fear.
Because now he was part of the Order.
And she… was property of two churches.
Lylia clenched her hands over the fabric of her cloak.
"May the blessing of Alfi and Zori…," she murmured in a whisper, recalling the words from childhood.
And, for an instant, she allowed herself to smile.
Then the smile faded.
Because she understood the same thing Aren did, without saying it.
Meeting again had been easy.
Meeting again after this… would not be.