[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/ZPETHbP.png[/img] Collab between [@The Muse] and [@c3p-0h] [sub]Location: Seluna Temple[/sub] [i][h1]Part IV[/h1][/i] [hr][/center] Hand in hand, Flynn followed Amaya into the temple, letting her set the pace and guide their path forward. Conscious of each gaze that turned their way, his expression settled into a familiar mask of quiet certainty—an instinct honed after decades beneath the weight of watchful eyes. Back straight, shoulders squared, chin high, he carried himself like the Prince they expected to see. But his focus was divided. Even as his gaze slowly surveyed the dim chamber, cataloging each familiar and unfamiliar face, he was acutely aware of the storm he’d laced between his fingers. He attuned himself entirely to her—noting her every breath, every shift in grip, every ounce of restraint in her stride. Behind them, two Aurelian guards followed, while the remaining pair shut the heavy temple doors with a thud and took up position outside. The air inside was cold, scarcely warmer than the snow-covered streets they’d left behind. At the opposite end of the round chamber, snowflakes drifted silently through the hole in the roof, only to vanish into the moon pool or melt as soon as they reached the stone flooring. Beside the pool stood the High Priestess—the same blonde he’d seen yesterday, crumpled on the ground, kneeling beside the blood that spilled from Sir Abel. She looked stronger now, on her feet, the tremors gone from her limbs, and the sickly pallor faded from her skin. To their left, shadowed along the curve of the wall, two still bodies laid beneath dark cloth on a stone slab. Those who had lost their lives in yesterday's attack—a fate Amaya and Elara had narrowly escaped. Flynn’s chest tightened at the sight, and he forced his eyes forward again. As they walked further in, Flynn’s eyes moved over the quiet figures. First, a Lunarian royal guard and a man he didn't recognize. Along the wall, he noted one of their servants who bowed low at the base of a shrine, her forehead pressed against the floor, whispering some quiet prayer to herself. And then— A shimmer of pale white hair, caught in the light. Elara. Only a glimpse. But unmistakable as she slipped around a corner to the right. No look in their direction. No greeting. Just silence, and her disappearance into the shadows. Flynn’s gaze flicked to Amaya. She’d stopped walking. Her hand was suddenly limp in his, fingers loosening unconsciously. Her chin was high. Her back was straight. Her breath was so shallow and light that it barely seemed to move her chest. And something fractured in her eyes. Amaya could still see Elara’s phantom, the last wisps of her presence as she’d… She’d [i]fled.[/i] Elara had… [sub][i]Elara…[/i][/sub] Was Amaya that cruel? Was her presence so [i]hateful?[/i] [i][color=royalblue]I can’t be what you need me to be, Amaya. Not anymore.[/color][/i] It was her damning rejection all over again. Numbness wasn’t supposed to be painful. A doll couldn’t cry. A painting couldn’t bleed. If Amaya didn’t flinch then no one could say she was hurt. No one could see the ice creeping its way over her heart, claiming, hardening, piercing, [i]shattering –[/i] Heat so stark against her skin that it [i]burned[/i]. The breath she took in was small and silent, but she felt it crash through her chest like a tidal wave. She blinked, eyes – [i]they weren’t wet, they weren’t shattered and hurt[/i] – refocusing to see the shadowed corridor. It was empty. Amaya hadn’t realized that she’d begun to step towards it. And suspended in the narrow space between her body and Flynn’s, were their intertwined hands. Hers was still limp, too cold for the delicate muscles to work properly – and he’d wrapped his warmth more firmly around it, grip tightening as he kept her anchored. She looked up to find his eyes, and they stilled her. There was no ice to cut herself against, no heat to burn her away, just… patience. Sadness. A vastness and depth that would swallow Amaya up, if she let it. There was a question in his gaze, gentle and worried (he shouldn’t have known to ask, [i]he shouldn’t have seen[/i]) as his thumb glided over the back of her palm. Amaya thought she might drown in his — Eyes. There were eyes on her skin. Amaya could feel them pressing against her, pushing against walls that threatened to shatter from the inside out. She couldn’t look away from Flynn – but still, she could feel the tracks that foreign gazes traced across her body, her face, her [i]crown[/i] that she’d never wear. Her mask didn’t slip – it couldn’t. Not when the weight of strangers bore down on her, trapping every careful defense in place. Strangers… except two. Two who saw too much. Her fingers curled back around Flynn’s searing heat – it was what would’ve been expected by anyone who didn’t know her. …What would those two have expected? Like a practiced dancer, Amaya followed her choreography. With smooth, measured steps, and too shallow breath, she walked with Flynn towards the table along the shadowed wall – away from the corridor Elara had hidden herself in. Hidden [i]from her[/i]. The silence echoed with every step. She felt every gaze she didn’t meet. And through it all, Flynn’s presence at her side, in her hand, was immutable. Amaya kept her eyes focused on the table as they walked, her heart only growing more frantic beneath her calm exterior. Her mind pulled in a dozen different directions – Flynn, Elara, the [i]bodies[/i], the attack, the [i]temple –[/i] There were steps in the choreography that Amaya had missed. She hadn’t offered her deference at the temple’s entrance. She hadn’t properly greeted the Priestess – hadn’t even [i]looked[/i] at her, really. Amaya’s faith had always been something nebulous and quiet – it was hard to concern herself with Goddesses when her father had been the only higher power that mattered. But [i]temples[/i] were just another stage to be navigated. Sometimes, they were almost a relief – the roles were clear and impersonal, the rituals were rote, and while there was always the festering threat of the [i]moon pool[/i] dominating the space, the anxiety it caused was… tolerable. Amaya was almost never expected to partake, and the few times it’d been unavoidable, she’d had enough forewarning to prepare herself. But now, Amaya felt like a foreigner in a space that was expected to be [i]hers[/i]. Or worse – like she was exposing something personal that she hadn’t even realized was a part of her. Verdant and vibrant, Flynn shined like the sun beside her. The cold, the quiet, the dark, the familiar scents and colors that had defined her life – how disorienting to realize they were hers, if only because they were not [i]his.[/i] Amaya had always thought very little was hers. Her feet stopped moving. Flynn stopped beside her. They stood before the table. Atop it lay two forms, sickeningly misshapen beneath a midnight cloth. Two bodies. Two people. [i]Hers.[/i] [hr] [sub][b]Mentions:[/b] Kat [@SpicyMeatball], Ramona [@enmuni], Elara [@Qia], Desmond [@Theyra], Persephone [@PrinceAlexus][/sub]