Saelthiryn turned the feather over between her fingers, watching the way light bent toward it and quietly failed to return.
It did not absorb brightness the way darkness swallowed flame. It simply kept it—held illumination until it lost urgency, until it became something patient and subdued. Much like the valley. Much like the cathedral itself.
They stood near the altar again, the unfinished stone breathing its familiar stillness around them. The open ribs of the ceiling framed a sky washed pale with late light. Dust drifted slowly, unhurried, as if even gravity had learned restraint here.
Nothing pressed.
Nothing waited.
The offer remained exactly as it had been—present, patient, capable of refusal.
"If I chose it," Saelthiryn said at last, voice low, eyes still on the feather, "what would I become?"
Aporiel did not answer immediately.
Not because the question was dangerous.
Because it mattered.
"You would remain," he said finally. "Recognizably yourself."
She glanced up at him, one brow lifting despite herself. "That sounds evasive."
"Yes," he agreed calmly. "So I will be exact."
He shifted—not stepping closer, not retreating—aligning his presence so his words would not distort in the space between them. It was a subtle courtesy, one she noticed now that she knew how to look for it.
"You would still be elven," Aporiel said. "Your height. Your proportions. The cadence of your movement. The way you occupy silence. Those patterns would persist."
She felt her shoulders ease, tension she had not realized she was carrying loosening by degrees.
"I was afraid you'd say I'd outgrow it," she admitted.
"I do not erase functional identity," Aporiel replied. "I accumulate."
She nodded slowly.
"But continuity leaves traces," he continued. "It does not pass through without imprint."
"I expected that," she said quietly.
"Your eyes would change first," Aporiel said. "Not in shape. In depth. Voidlight would gather there—not luminous, not consuming. Present. Like distant stars seen through water."
She pictured it unbidden—her reflection caught in still water, something unfamiliar and enduring looking back.
"Those who meet your gaze," Aporiel continued, "would sense that you persist beyond convenient endings."
She swallowed. "Would that frighten people?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Some."
She smiled faintly. "I think I can live with that."
"Your skin would renew," Aporiel said. "Not hardened. Not altered in texture. Simply… unburdened by accumulated strain. Paler, as if light passes through you with greater care."
She looked down at her hands, turning them over slowly. They were already steady. Already capable. The idea of them becoming lighter rather than stronger felt unexpectedly comforting.
"They would remain elven," Aporiel added, following her gaze. "Graceful. Articulate. Your fingers and toes would end in subtle claws—natural extensions, not weapons. Capable of holding. Capable of refusal."
She flexed her fingers unconsciously, imagining the sensation. "I like that," she said. "The refusal part."
"Yes," he replied. "That is not incidental."
She took a breath.
"And the rest?" she asked.
"There would be a mark," Aporiel said.
She looked up sharply. "A brand?"
"No," he answered immediately. "A record of continuity."
His attention lowered—not lingering, not possessive—but precise in a way that made her breath hitch despite herself.
"It would manifest low along your form," Aporiel said evenly, "near the entrance to your reproductive canal—the region where creation, vulnerability, and bodily autonomy intersect. Not inscribed. Not imposed."
Saelthiryn inhaled sharply.
The words sparked a quiet warmth deep within her—subtle but undeniable. Not desire. Not hunger. Something more private and instinctive, a sudden awareness that made her thighs tense and heat bloom under her skin before she could stop it.
Her cheeks warmed instantly.
She shifted slightly where she stood, embarrassed by the response and more embarrassed by the fact that she couldn't deny it.
"It would emerge as a symbolic lattice of voidlight," Aporiel continued calmly, unfazed, "arranged like a constellation your body already recognizes."
The sensation lingered—soft, sensitive—before easing into a faint hum that left her uncomfortably conscious of herself. She pressed her lips together, willing her breathing to steady.
Aporiel's gaze did not linger.
But his perception did not waver.
"The marking would rest beneath your garments," he added, voice unchanged, "beneath the pale linen you currently wear—concealed, unremarked by others."
Her head snapped up. "You didn't need to notice that."
"I perceive context," Aporiel replied. "Not judgment."
Her embarrassment flared hotter. "That doesn't help."
"It confirms autonomy," he said.
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, rubbing at her temple. "You are very bad at reassurance."
"Yes," he agreed.
The warmth faded gradually, leaving behind a heightened awareness rather than urgency—an afterimage of sensation that felt intimate but not intrusive.
"It wouldn't change how I function?" she asked, forcing her voice steady.
"No," Aporiel said. "It would not alter biology or override instinct. It would exist alongside them—acknowledgment, not command."
"And visibility?"
"No. It would remain concealed unless you chose otherwise. It exists where consent is absolute."
She exhaled slowly, relief and vulnerability tangling together.
"So it would respond to me," she said.
"Yes."
She shook her head faintly. "That feels… unfairly intimate."
"It must be," Aporiel replied. "Anything less would be ownership."
The words settled heavily—but not unkindly.
She looked down at the feather resting in her palm, its void-depth unmoving.
"I wouldn't be erased," she said.
"No."
"I wouldn't belong to you."
"No."
"I'd be marked only by my own decision."
Aporiel inclined his head. "Correct."
She closed her fingers around the feather—not lifting it, not consuming it—just holding it, grounding herself in the simple fact of choice.
"Not yet," she said quietly.
"That remains acceptable," Aporiel replied.
They stood together in the unfinished cathedral as the light shifted overhead, dust drifting lazily through the open air. The future did not narrow around her. It did not rush her forward.
It remained open.
And for the first time since she had severed blood and god alike, Saelthiryn felt no pressure to decide who she would become.
Only the certainty that—whatever she chose—she would still be herself.