Osren stood at the edge of the territory in his white cloak. He didn't move, didn't speak. He only waited.
Alistair walked out alone to meet him.
Due stayed in the doorway, ten meters back, present without crowding. Elara and Silas were inside, and nobody had asked anyone where to sit. They had read the moment and arranged themselves around it.
The morning kept cool at the edges, still. A grain of wheat caught the grey light from where it sat tucked behind Osren's ear, the small detail Alistair had first noticed in Elysium months ago and had never quite stopped finding strange.
A sixteen-year-old, white-haired, in a white cloak, alone at the edge of a small faction's territory, on a morning that had already weighed enough.
Osren didn't cross.
He waited until Alistair was ten meters out before he spoke.
"Congratulations," Osren said.
Alistair nodded slightly. He didn't know what to do with the word. He hadn't heard it applied to himself in a very long time.
