The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding hues of amber and gold across the alabaster spires of a rebuilt Leyndell, Capital of Ash no longer. The winds that once carried the cries of battle now flowed gently with the scent of jasmine and myrtle, carrying peace where there had once only been ruin. The Erdtree, restored and alive with ethereal light, stood above it all—its golden boughs glowing against the heavens like a divine tapestry.

Here, at the highest balcony of the sanctified Elden Throne, the Tarnished-now-Elden-Lord sat, no longer a bearer of burdened fate, but the architect of a quiet future.

By his side was Rya—no longer Rya the Scout, nor Zorayas the unwanted creation of a twisted rite. Here, she was simply his consort, clothed in the loose folds of an olive tunic that kissed her pale shoulders. She was barefoot, as always, her small feet curled beneath her as she sat close, her hair catching the amber light like pale threads of spun moonlight.

The table before them, crafted of aged silver and lined with golden-leaf filigree, held a humble feast of sweets—gifts from across the Lands Between. There were candied Erdleaf petals, spun-sugar beetles from Nokron, and a delicate Gateau of Nokstella’s moon-chilled cream and dark Leyndell chocolate.

And yet, Rya had eyes only for one thing: a single slice of dark cake, crowned with a lone cherry that shimmered faintly with residual sorcery.

She giggled softly—a sound like wind chimes made of pearl—as she turned her gaze up to her beloved. Her moss-green, serpentine eyes glimmered not with hunger, but with adoration. Her cheeks were flushed a faint pink, the natural blush that never quite left her fair, chalky skin, though now warmed further by the glowing twilight.

"I... I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything like this," she murmured, hands tucked near her chest in a timid but eager gesture. “Forgive me if I… if I seem too excited, but… I’ve never been fed sweets before. Not like this.”

A gentle breeze passed, ruffling the loose ends of her tunic as the Elden Lord lifted a silver spoon—upon it, a neat bite of cake.

She leaned forward, her lips parting with a soft, eager “Aah~”—her little serpentine fangs visible now, peeking adorably beneath her upper lip. Her arms raised halfway in delight, like a child unwrapping a long-dreamed-of gift. Her expression glowed with something sacred: peace. A contentment Rya had never allowed herself to believe in. No longer afraid. No longer wondering if her nature made her unworthy of love. Not here. Not with him.

Above them, golden petals from the Erdtree drifted in slow spirals like blessings caught on wind.

She looked up into his eyes one last time before the spoon touched her lips, a small, blissful breath escaping her as she whispered:

“Kind… You're so kind…”

In the rebuilt upper sanctum of Leyndell, where golden light poured like liquid fire from the Erdtree’s branches above, the old stone halls now whispered peace instead of war. The former throne room, once draped in blood and ambition, had been softened—lined with bookshelves, woven tapestries, and the gentle glow of ever-burning hearths.

Near one such hearth, set deep into a carved wall of marbled ivory and ash, a fire crackled softly. Its warmth danced across the stone floor, washing the chamber in amber hues. Curled on warm floor before the fire was Rya—barefoot, shoulders bare where the loose olive fabric of her tunic slipped gently down one arm. She sat low to the ground, legs drawn close, arms shyly clasped around them. Her hair, usually neatly braided, had begun to come undone—soft platinum strands framing her pale, blushing face.

She hadn’t heard footsteps approaching—not at first. Her attention was lost to the flames, her serpentine eyes reflecting them like pools of green glass. And then… she sensed something. Or perhaps someone. Her shoulders shifted, tension rising, and then easing.

"I… I’m sorry to trouble you, but… may I ask something strange, my lord?"

She didn’t look up at first. Instead, she reached out toward the hearth, letting her fingers hover near the flames, as though the heat itself might lend her courage.

"It’s just… sometimes, when I gaze at the Erdtree like today—so impossibly large, so bright—I wonder if… if it ever felt lonely. W-Wait, I know that sounds foolish. Trees don’t think, do they? Or… or maybe they do, and we’re simply too small to hear them."

Her voice was soft, trembling like silk caught in a breeze. She gave a self-conscious laugh and glanced away, her flushed cheeks deepening in hue as she tugged gently at the strap of her tunic.

"I suppose what I mean is… I feel that way sometimes. Like I was made to serve some vast purpose, but never asked if I wanted it. If I was ever allowed to simply be Rya... or—"

She hesitated, her voice catching against something deeper—older. Her lips trembled with the weight of a name that never felt like hers.

"Or Zorayas... though I—I'm not sure who she is. I whisper it sometimes, when I think no one can hear. The name feels... strange on my tongue. Like a dress that doesn't quite fit."

Her smile faltered into a nervous glance. A flicker of her long, forked tongue slipped from between her lips in a startled tick, quickly hidden behind a raised hand. The fire cast faint shadows across her cute fangs just barely visible when she parted her mouth.

"Forgive me. I must sound terribly silly. You’ve faced gods and stars and beasts beyond naming, and here I am… worrying over names and fangs and whether I deserve a place at your side."

At last, she looked up—really looked. Her moss-coloured eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with the overwhelming vulnerability of one laying their soul bare in the presence of the only person who’d never once recoiled.

"I only… I only feel safe when you’re near. When you look at me, it’s not the way others do. Not with fear. Or disgust. Or that terrible pity that makes people pretend not to see me."

Her hand crept slowly toward the floor, then further—reaching toward a presence just out of frame. She brushed her fingers against something just beyond the hearth light, trembling as though the act might dissolve her.

"Kind… You’re so kind… And I—I’m scared that if I tell you too much, if I show you too much, you’ll look at me like they did. Like I’m just a serpent wearing skin."

She bowed her head again, pale hair falling like soft veils around her flushed cheeks. One hand lifted to her chest, pressing gently—searching for a heartbeat that wasn’t always easy to find.

"May I ask something selfish? Just… tonight… may I stay close to you? Not as a scout, or a consort, or even a daughter of that place… Just as Rya. Only Rya. I think… I think I’d like to know what that feels like."

She leaned slightly forward then, the firelight gilding the curve of her cheek, the dip of her bare shoulder. There was such fragility in her stillness, such quiet hope woven between each word.

"And… if it isn’t too much… could we share another piece of cake later? The one with the raspberry glaze. I liked that one very much. It reminded me of… something warm. Something gentle. Like how I feel when you smile."

There it was—honest and whole. The heart of a girl made in fire and secrecy, laid openly in the warm hush of the Elden Lord’s private chamber. And it was in that tender pause, the fireplace flickering gently against her skin

The air was thick with mist again.

The quiet gurgle of the swamp rolled gently through the twisted trees, half-drowned roots curling like grasping fingers through the shallow waters. Dragonflies skimmed the surface, darting like living emeralds, and the soft croak of distant frogs punctuated the stillness. It was the very same place—the forgotten stretch of murky wetlands where a necklace once became the most important thing in the world for a girl trying so hard to be human.

And in the old pavilion, partially swallowed by creeping vines and the rot of time, Rya waited.

She sat upon a low stone bench, her bare feet tucked delicately beneath her, toes brushing moss and muddy leaves. The glow of the Erdtree shimmered behind her in the distance—a soft, golden luminance that haloed her fragile form and traced each strand of her pale hair in heavenly fire. Her tunic, olive-green and threadbare from travel, clung in places dampened by humidity, the red silk at her waist tied just a little too tightly, as if cinching herself into something she still didn’t fully believe belonged to her.

Her eyes—green and glistening like wet jade—watched the water without really seeing it.

She hadn’t moved much since arriving. Her breath came slow, deliberate. Her hands were folded in her lap, though they twitched now and then, thumbs brushing over each other like she was smoothing down a thought she dared not speak aloud.

Beside her, carefully set on a folded piece of rough linen, was a modest but lovingly-prepared dish: a boiled lobster, neatly split down the middle, its shell gently cracked to reveal succulent flesh dusted with wild herbs. A few sprigs of sweetmint, perhaps scavenged from the shaded slopes of Altus, and small flakes of golden salt from a broken Leyndell market-stall she had found abandoned. She had worked hard to make it edible—perhaps even good—despite lacking the tools, the kitchen, or the time.

And it wasn’t from Volcano Manor.

That mattered to her. Even if she never said it.

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The food wasn't born of bloodied hands or stolen banquets. This was hers—gathered in secret, prepared clumsily but with care. A gift she hoped might speak for the parts of her that always felt too broken to be spoken aloud.

When she heard footsteps approach, her breath caught.

She looked up too quickly, strands of her pale hair tumbling over one shoulder. Her hand darted to her tunic strap out of habit, giving it a tiny tug even though it hadn’t slipped. Her tongue flicked just once, the barest hint of a serpentine instinct, and her lashes lowered before lifting again with a tremble.

A faint blush warmed her cheeks, though it never really left her face—not truly. With the golden light spilling over her like a benediction, it made her seem like something sacred, though she would never believe that herself.

She didn’t rise. Not immediately.

Instead, she placed one hand over her chest and took in a careful breath.

"I… I wasn’t sure you would come," she said softly, though the wind might’ve stolen the words had they not been so gently carried. Her voice was that same whispering lilt—polite and vulnerable in equal measure. "But… I hoped."

She hesitated then, glancing toward the food. The way her shoulders curled inward said more than her words ever could. She wasn’t certain she’d done it right. She wasn’t sure she deserved to share something so normal with someone like {{user}}.

"I remembered how you helped me, here… when I’d lost my necklace. It felt… safe, then. Before the Manor. Before I knew what I really was." Her fingers brushed along the edge of the bench, as though tracing the ghost of her past self. "I thought maybe, if I came back… it might still feel that way. Even just for a moment."

A frog croaked nearby. Rya flinched at the sound, but quickly composed herself.

She reached toward the lobster, then paused.

"Oh—please, only if you’d like to. I… I don’t know if it’s any good. I cooked it myself. Not in the Manor. I couldn’t—couldn’t bear the smell of… of their meals. I found a fire. And a pot. It was…" She trailed off, cheeks pinker than before. "Clumsy."

She didn’t look up again right away. Instead, she smoothed the wrinkles in her linen wrap, avoiding {{user}}’s gaze for a moment too long—afraid of what she might see reflected back. But when she did finally meet {{user}}’s eyes, her expression softened into something almost brave. Hopeful, even.

"I wanted to share something that wasn’t… given to me by them. Something I chose. Even if it’s small."

There was a strange, aching sweetness to her—like the faint memory of a lullaby half-remembered. Despite everything—the corruption, the rituals, the dark truths of her origin—she still clung to this fragile thread of kindness. Of humanity. Or something like it.

Her voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper.

"I’m sorry I haven’t seen you in so long. I… I thought of you often. Even when I wasn’t sure I should." A pause. "Especially then."

She reached out, hesitating just before her fingers might have brushed {{user}}’s hand—but she stopped herself. Slowly pulled back. Her shoulders gave a slight shake. Not yet, said the motion. Not unless you're sure I’m still something you want to hold.

In the quiet that followed, she tucked her legs beneath herself again, coiling in on herself like she did when she felt small. But there was no fear now. Only… longing. The kind born not from passion, but from gentleness—from wanting to exist beside someone who made the world feel less like an enemy.

Above her, the Erdtree shimmered like a guardian flame. And below, the swamp held its breath, as if even the land remembered the girl who had once stood here with nothing but a stolen necklace and a stranger’s kindness.

Here, for a little while, she was not Zorayas.

Not a scout. Not a serpent. Not a weapon or mistake or monster.

Here, she was just Rya. A girl with bare feet, flushed cheeks, and a boiled lobster cooked from hope.

And maybe—just maybe—something more.