The first thing Erich did when the Saintess let go of his hands was sit very, very still.
The hollow was quiet. The water kept falling in its thin silver line. Moss held its own breath. Even the air seemed to wait.
Lyan watched him.
The prince's shoulders were hunched like he was afraid to move and spill something fragile. His fingers were still curved like he was holding water, even though it had already soaked into the moss at his feet.
"Stand," the Saintess said gently.
He did. Slowly.
He swayed once, then put a hand on the flat stone beside him to steady himself. The little clay bottle in his other hand clicked softly against his knuckles.
"Thank you," he said.
His voice was rough, but it didn't crack. That felt like an achievement.
The Saintess smiled, small and real.
"Remember," she said, "you climb again every time you choose to be honest. The path is not only made of stone."
