Chapter 14 – Confession

Chapter 14 – Confession

Liria smiled benevolently at the kneeling people of Brighthold, and tried very hard not to let the expression slip.

She found their overwhelming gratitude incredibly burdensome, but their awe was so genuine, so earnest, that she could not find it in herself to disappoint them.

Seris had chosen to hide completely behind her, not daring to peek his head out. She could feel the warmth of him pressed against her back, small and tense and very still, like a cat that has decided the safest place in the world is exactly where it currently is. She allowed herself to feel healed by the child’s cuteness.

She had decided to do this half on a whim. The Ashen Wastes had been a dead land, and the people of Brighthold very dead. No matter what Liria did or how she failed, she couldn’t make them any deader.

It was supposed to be a stress-free experiment—a little showing-off to her overprotective siblings. A simple “thank you” in return would have been nice, then Liria could just graciously nod and say: “you’re welcome,” and be on her way. Clean and uncomplicated. Everybody’s happy.

Instead, she could feel their faith pouring into her, warm and relentless as sunlight, filling her to her edges and pressing past. A System Screen blinked in a corner of her vision, confirming the completion of her Mythic Quest, and under the Blessing of Light, her Existence Level shot up at a dizzying rate, finally slowing down somewhere around level 300. She could still feel more XP pouring in from their combined reverence and faith.

Hundreds of faces were turned up toward her, dusty and tear-streaked, still bearing the marks of the disaster they had escaped only moments ago: torn sleeves, singed hair, the hollowed look of people who had already said their goodbyes. They knelt in the fresh grass, on soil that had been barren wasteland minutes before, and the morning light fell across them all in long and golden shafts, as though the sun itself was participating in the ceremony.

The people of Brighthold were now her responsibility. Ignoring those who so sincerely believed in her would be wrong.

Liria contemplated how she should properly follow up. She noted the air rippling beside her as her siblings crossed space to be by her side, then paid it no more mind. She was a woman on a mission, and would not be distracted.

An irresponsible part of her dryly commented on how she had gotten her priorities mixed up. She immediately told it to shush.

“Liria,” her eldest brother said, voice grave and solemn. “What did you do?”

She shushed him too.

“Hush, Aethon. I’m thinking.” She kept her eyes on the crowd. “I’ve saved these people and purified the land, but they still have no food and shelter. I’ll need to fix this.”

There was an exasperated sigh, and then her second brother, Thalanor Yggdris, the Warden of the Living World, stepped up beside her. He unfastened the traveling pouch at his hip and flung it high into the sky with a single unhurried motion. Seeds cascaded out in an arc, countless and shimmering with latent life, caught by playful Wind Spirits who dispersed them in a gentle rain across every corner of what had been the Ashen Wastes.

Then her brother knelt and pressed his palms flat against the earth, and closed his eyes. His mana burned bright, a deep green warmth Liria could feel even from arm’s length, and the land resonated with him.

Before Liria’s eyes, life returned. Grass unfurled in sweeping waves from Thalanor’s hands outward, and trees reached for the sky. In moments, the barren plains transformed into endless fields of golden wheat and lush orchards heavy with fruit, the air filling with the green smell of growing things and, underneath it, the faint sweetness of apple blossom.

Right. There was that option. I have my siblings. I’m no longer the Last of the High Elves.

“It’s spring,” Liria found herself saying. “Is this really alright?”

Thalanor gave her a withering look, and Liria awkwardly coughed.

“Any chance you could help with the housing as well?” She cautiously ventured, and it was Ilyrien who stepped up this time.

She surveyed the landscape, clapped once, and began.

The ground shook. The walls of Brighthold rose around them with the authority of something that had always been there and was only now being remembered. Towers re-emerged from the skyline, arches reconnected overhead, flagstones settled into place beneath their feet with a sound like a held breath finally released.

Her spellwork was elegant, Liria conceded.

Extract the land’s memory of the cities and villages that once stood upon it. Merge it with the memories of their inhabitants. Shape the result into a conceptual framework, laid over the ground where they had stood. Then fill it with stone through wide-scale earth manipulation. A simple, efficient solution to a difficult problem. But…

Liria carefully studied the walls of Brighthold as they rose around her, the paved stone pathways and tiled roofs, the market square reassembling itself from earth and memory. The colors were wrong, she noted. The details lacking.

“Your spellwork is beautiful, Ily,” she gave her honest evaluation, “but your workmanship is too rough. You’ve left out all the fine carvings and frescoes. You really should learn from Kaerthis.”

“Hah?” said Ilyrien.

Across from them, Lucien Halvoryn’s look of slack-jawed amazement was beginning to morph into something closer to panic.

“No, no! Great Goddess, you’ve already done more than enough!” He cried out, almost tripping over himself in haste. “Please convene with your champions; we’ll take over from here. That’s the least we could do!”

All around him, his people nodded in unison.

Great Goddess? Vaelir cocked an eyebrow at her, his mental voice warm with amusement. Your champions?

Shut up. Liria groused.

“My name is Liria,” she tried to clear up the misunderstanding again, speaking to Lucien in her most patient and gentle voice, “and I am no goddess.”

“Understood!” Lucien saluted. He turned and shouted to the priests who were pushing their way to the front of the crowd. “You heard that? The Goddess of Life’s name is Liria! Add that to the scriptures!”

The priests of the Order of Life looked at one another. Then, with the unified solemnity of men performing an act of historic religious significance, they produced small books from their robes and began to write.

To Liria’s horror, no one objected.

Has the entire world gone insane?

Sister? She complained to Seralyth, the First Priestess and Source of Sacred Rites. Shouldn’t you do something about this? This is blasphemy.

Oh Liria. She had the distinct impression that her eldest sister was laughing at her, though she couldn’t prove it. Technically, he is not wrong. The Goddess had chosen not to share her name with anyone but us, but her name is Liria.

What. Liria said.

Is it really that surprising? Seralyth asked her. You were made in the Goddess’ image. Is it not only natural that she would bestow you with her name?

Oh. So the world has always been insane.

“Do not call me Goddess.” Liria tried one final time, and this time she let her exhaustion show, because dignity had clearly ceased to be a viable strategy. She held Lucien’ gaze: “I am not the Goddess of Life. I only look like her.”

There. That was unambiguous. There was simply nothing else to add. It was time to put this ridiculous misunderstanding to rest.

She waited.

Everyone nodded at her. Sympathetically.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Liria stared at the priests nearest to her. Their eyes were very bright. Their expressions were the expressions of people who were maintaining composure through sheer willpower, in the face of something that was clearly affecting them very deeply.

Are those priests… crying?

“Great Lady,” Lucien Halvoryn formally intoned, and his voice was steady and ringing, filled with pure and unshakable faith. He bowed his head, his right hand pressed over his heart. “Though you may have lost your divinity, you will always be our Goddess. Your children will follow you now and forevermore.”

He looked up at her with an impassioned gaze.

“Goddess of Life, may our faith play a small part in returning you to your rightful Divine Throne.”

Liria felt her cheeks burn, and immediately applied a thin layer of ice magic to her skin. The warmth subsided. She kept her expression serene through an act of will.

“I knew it!” She heard Seris triumphantly mutter from directly behind her. He was still hiding, but apparently not so thoroughly that he had missed that exchange.

This was impossible.

Her brother Aethon’s hand settled on her shoulder, firm and steady, and Liria felt a surge of genuine hope. Aethon was the eldest, the most senior, the one who commanded respect from every mortal in the known world by simply existing in a room. If anyone could redirect this situation toward reason, it was him.

“Prince Lucien,” Aethon said, and his voice carried the grave weight of long history. “Welcome back. It is good to see you again, my friend.” He inclined his head, a small nod that somehow conveyed both warmth and authority. “Forgive me, but I must escort my Goddess to her next momentous task. We will speak again soon.”

Lucien Halvoryn gravely bowed in return, his right hand still pressed over his heart. Liria looked at her eldest brother in stunned betrayal, and the world around her was swallowed by the light of a teleportation spell.

Starleaf Aerie rested high among the uppermost boughs of the World Tree, where the leaves shimmered like constellations in the night. Built from living wood shaped by ancient magic, its slender towers and sweeping platforms seemed to grow rather than stand, cradled in a canopy that glowed with soft, golden light.

By day, it was a place of quiet watchfulness and wind-carried song; by night, it became a sanctuary of starlight, where elven wardens kept vigil over the world below, guided by the heavens above.

Liria sat in a high-backed chair in the aerie’s solar, the morning sun a halo behind her. Before her, her siblings were kneeling. Her mind was short-circuiting.

“Goddess of Life,” Aethon spoke with solemn gravitas, “forgive your loyal servant for not immediately recognizing you.”

Liria opened her mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. No sound came out.

“I’ve always known, Great Lady,” Seralyth said sympathetically, “but I wanted to respect your desire for anonymity.” A pause. Then: “You should have been more discreet, my lady.”

What. No. Why? What’s happening? Who am I? Where am I?

“Tch,” Ilyrien clicked her tongue, “I can’t believe I needed a baby who’s not even forty to point out something so obvious to me. This is the greatest shame of my life.”

“Hn,” said Thalanor.

“I… I think it’s wonderful how humble you are, Goddess.” Kaerthis joined in, blushing prettily.