The door opened.
Erza stood in the doorway, her dress still stained with blood, her hair still streaked with red, her eyes still glowing with the remnants of the storm.
But her face was different.
Softer.
Warmer.
The cold mask that she had worn for centuries, that had protected her from enemies and allies alike, had cracked.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Sister Mary stood in the hallway, Elena cradled in her arms, the child's silver hair spilling over her shoulder, her small face peaceful in sleep.
She had been carrying her for what felt like hours, her body trembling with exhaustion, her legs barely able to hold her. But she had made it. She had brought the princess home.
She bowed. Her voice was formal, respectful, the voice of someone who knew her place in the presence of something greater.
"Your Highness," she said. "May you live for a thousand years. Please forgive me for having disturbed your peace."
Erza smiled.
