Talios-Chapter 47: Radiance

Everything had begun to feel stuffy, so Ajab decided to leave. He had never expected the night and a casual walk would grace him with such a sight—Elmah speaking to someone, anyone, with such wholehearted attention.

He smacked his fist into his palm, eyes lighting with excitement. He liked this Znoh already. Smiling to himself, he thought, at last, I’m becoming a proud father. His glee shone brightly enough to be mistaken for a stone light. Oh, the joy of watching this child finally spread his wings.

"So you finally made your first friend," Ajab said as he approached Elmah.

Elmah turned to him with the wary look of a child being deceived into drinking bitter medicine masked as sweet syrup—a trick he knew far too well. What sort of accusation was His Highness attempting to pin on him? Even if he wanted a friend, who would willingly choose one like this man, who couldn’t grasp the simplest logic?

"I have done no such thing," he said flatly.

Ajab had intended to place his hands on Elmah’s shoulders as he spoke, but realizing he would need to crane his neck upward, he abandoned the idea and stepped back instead. He coughed lightly.

"Ahem... you’ve definitely made a friend." What was this one’s problem? What was so terrible about having a friend? Just take the victory. He knew, of course, that if Mother heard his thoughts, she’d spank him straight into the earth.

"I really have done no such thing," Elmah said firmly, then turned his gaze toward the retreating figure, now nearly swallowed by distance. "Did you notice he never said why he thought I was an Ecnes?"

Ajab lifted a brow, his lingering glee still evident. "Oh? Is that so? I was more curious about why he wears his robe in a way that keeps one hand out of view."

Elmah nodded. "You noticed it from his stance, didn’t you?"

"Urm..." Ajab lifted his brows. "Noticed what stance?"

Elmah stared at him. "His stance."

"I was referring to his robe," Ajab said. "It’s worn the same way he wore it into the Court earlier today."

"Earlier today?" Elmah’s eyes snapped upward. "Your Highness knew him already?"

"He was present in the Court today."

"Then why didn’t Your Highness say anything?" Elmah said, a sharp edge creeping into his tone—he felt as though a crucial detail had been withheld from him.

Ajab shot him a puzzled look. "Say what? When exactly was I given the chance, with you sparing no effort in having such a deep conversation with your new friend?"

Elmah’s face contorted. "What?"

...

At a distance, Znoh’s white robe danced in rhythm with his hair as the wind composed a gentle melody around him. He advanced toward the meadow’s entrance, near a lone tree that stood as a threshold between the final line of trees and the open expanse beyond.

Without breaking his stride, his eyes still set ahead, he spoke calmly. "I would assume you came to check on His Highness as well?"

"I was merely passing by." Her voice bore emotions of its own—living things nestled within the tones of a divine, swaying effortlessly with nature, and even with the night itself.

"Even the Great Eihpos couldn’t devise a better excuse than that?"

"I truly am just passing by," she replied. "Would it truly wound the Great Lucai to take things as they are?"

Znoh slowed to a stop—not in haste, nor in discomfort, but with the quiet inevitability of dew settling upon leaves, only this was dew born of the night. He turned just enough, his body aligned neither fully forward nor back, his gaze settling on the lady whose voice hinted at a transcendent origin—an observation that held no weight for him.

She stood beneath the tree’s shade, its branches spreading wide like a deliberate blanket—once trimmed to defend against the day’s burn, now repurposed in the night as a shield against the brimming glow of stone lights.

She bore a petal-designed hand fan, its wide span easily mistaken for a giant’s palm if it hovered over a colony of ants. Its immaculate white complemented the robe she wore, whose edges were adorned with sharp silver blade motifs. One hand clasped the fan, the other tucked beneath it, gently supporting the angle of her elbow.

Her hair was partially braided, granting the rest freedom to fall in quiet splendor to the seat of her waist. Even beneath the tree’s shade, it carried a gentle radiance—enough to still Znoh’s gaze for a single, measured breath.

"There’s hardly anywhere this place leads to," he said. "And yet—you were merely passing by?"

She smiled, her lips pulling subtly at the faint scar embroidered into the corner of her face. Her lashes fluttered with a slow blink, like a brush lifting from a sea of ink. "Would you believe me," she asked softly, "if I told you I merely wandered up here?"

"You did indeed," he said, already turning away, his steps deliberate and unhesitating.

"See you tomorrow."

"Of course," she replied, nodding gently, like a breath of fresh wind.

As his figure disappeared, she stepped fully into the light, stone lights breathing life into her colors. Her burnt bronze eyes hue glowed warmer than pale flame, her gaze anchored on something distant—far within the meadow.

After lingering for only a moment, she sighed and turned to leave by the same path Znoh had taken. Her steps left scarcely a trace, as though she barely touched the grass, her robes swaying in a gentle drape.

...

In a gently lit chamber, meticulously prepared, the bath itself steamed with scented waters. Morriba’s bare skin rested deep beneath the surface, vapor rising even from her pores. She had been escorted here following the purification rites and the burial ceremony, this chamber offered by the King’s courtesy. Yet despite remaining in the tub for a long while, she had not emerged—her mind submerged instead in thoughts too tangled to allow her the comfort of the bath.

Most prophecies descend upon a High Priestess during seclusion, when her bond with the Unseen Realm is at its peak and countless forces align. Prophecies beyond seclusion are rare, though not unheard of. Her gift was one of conveyance rather than creation—she could recreate the momentum of a prophecy, but only if it had already been spoken into existence. The pressure of prophecy came like a visiting presence, brief yet absolute, claiming the space it entered. She had never witnessed resistance to it—not until Jezreel. Morriba’s gift was uniquely her own—not even the former priestess possessed the Hear and Show.

Typically, every prophecy exacted a cost upon its bearer—the only exception being those conveyed through her own gift.

Seated within the tub, she pondered. Jezreel’s immunity could perhaps be explained—it had been her ability at work, not direct exposure to prophecy. But the King troubled her. Why had a direct prophecy left him untouched? And not only him—the young prince as well.

Then there was the prophecy itself. Her expression tightened—it felt as though events were beginning to unfold. Only then did she realize she had likely overheated in the bath.

...

In another steam-filled chamber, vast in both width and length, vapor rose from a lake-sized pool at its center. Two figures shared the space—one seated upon a cushioned wooden bench, the other scrubbing their back.

Scars traced the man’s back, some stretching toward his chest. Broad-chested, he sat at ease while a woman—her hair bound neatly for comfort, bathrobe drawn close—scrubbed him with practiced familiarity. He seemed to find comfort beneath her touch. Their conversation had clearly been ongoing.

"And what did he do exactly?" she asked, her voice tender and calming against his ears.

"I truly tried not to laugh," he admitted. "But you should have seen him, attempting to stand on his own. I managed to hold it together—at least enough not to laugh."

"And who does he take after?" she asked lightly.

He couldn’t turn to face her, though he wished he could. "If you ever uncover who he takes after," he said dryly, "do be sure to tell me."

She pinched his back in retaliation. "I have absolutely no words for you."

He smiled briefly, but as the moment lingered, the expression drained away, replaced by a look that was difficult to decipher.

"It seems something is coming," he said quietly, and with his words the atmosphere itself seemed to shift.

He continued, his voice steady. "I believe it may be greater than the last. And unlike before, I am not sure what we’re preparing against."

She did not pause her hands as she spoke gently. "Just like last time, we’ll be fine. You’ll do what you always do. And I am here as well. The whole of Izz stands with you."

Had Ajab crossed paths with the room, his face would have contorted in absolute disgust at the sight of them, and someone would no doubt excuse it as royal duty—how pleasant it must be to be King and Queen. And yet, despite it all, they still found time to joke about him.