Serapha Silverstar had not stood on the Rose Temple in a hundred years. The columns still remembered her — the pink roses she had once coaxed to bloom around the marble now spiraled wild, petals littering the steps where the two golden guardians kept their silent watch. Her hair, silvered to pale blue by the winds between worlds, caught the sun as she stepped forward, her great white wings unfurling and catching the light until the whole terrace glowed. She had come to sing only once more before ascending. And when she sang, the mountains listened. Her voice rose — low and aching at first, then powerful enough to make the statues seem to breathe — of silence endured and light reclaimed. I rise above the silence, finding my light. With the final note, she threw her arms to the sky, wings spread to their full, impossible span, the gold at her throat burning like a small sun. In that moment she was not leaving, but becoming — free, luminous, and finally, entirely herself.