The Heartwood dreams of the future

apologies for the wait!

periane’s breath stirred softly in the chill, her fingers curling gently over hemera’s as they joined, a warm tether between flesh and faith.
then we go, she murmured, her voice like candlelight—steady, unwavering. not with fear, but with grace. for it is not us who speak to them, but Him, through us.
her gaze drifted skyward—seeking not the stars, but the space between them. the veil where prayer becomes promise. if rhadamanthus doubts, let him doubt. for even thomas placed his hands in the wounds of the risen lord. she turned back to her companion then, a gentle certainty in her eyes. the faithful are not born whole. they are shaped—by trial, by mercy.
at the name of erebos, the priestess’s brow faintly knit. we are all fractured, she said quietly. but broken things do not scare our God. he who molded man from dust will not tremble at shadow.
then she stepped closer, pale robe brushing against hemera’s in quiet unity. we will not bring fire. only light. let them see, and choose. her hand lingered, pressing once more to hemera’s heart. if they are men of war, we bring peace. if they are men of silence, we bring song.