The missionary arrived at noon.
Saelthiryn heard him long before she saw him—boots striking stone with purposeful rhythm, a voice rehearsing conviction under its breath. He came down the pass as if the mountain owed him passage, robes tucked high enough to keep clean, staff capped with a symbol polished bright by use.
He stopped at the threshold of the cathedral and frowned.
Not at the size.
At the absence.
No icons. No candles. No banners stirred by the wind. Only unfinished stone and a stillness that refused to posture as holiness.
"This place is misused," he announced to the open nave.
Saelthiryn rose from where she had been sorting dried herbs near a pillar. She did not rush. Elves did not meet intrusion with haste; haste invited escalation.
"It isn't used," she said. "That's the point."
The man turned. He was human, middle-aged, eyes sharp with purpose rather than malice. He took in her ears, her bearing, the way she stood without apology.
"Then it is wasted," he said. "Sacred spaces demand dedication."
"This isn't sacred," Saelthiryn replied.
He smiled, thin and patient. "All places are sacred once claimed."
She regarded him quietly. "By whom?"
"By truth," he said, tapping the symbol on his staff. "By doctrine. By order. I am sent to bring clarity to places that have fallen into… ambiguity."
Saelthiryn felt the cathedral respond—not with hostility, not with resistance. The air simply waited.
"You're far from your roads," she said. "There's nothing here for you."
"That is why I am here," he replied. "Unclaimed ground invites corruption."
She tilted her head. "Or rest."
He stepped forward, crossing the threshold.
The space acknowledged him.
Not by yielding.
By asking nothing.
The missionary paused, an involuntary hitch in his stride. He masked it quickly. "You live here."
"For now."
"Under whose authority?"
"Mine," Saelthiryn said, then amended gently, "And that's only because I'm present."
He laughed once, sharp. "That is not how authority works."
She did not argue.
He continued, voice rising into practiced cadence. "This cathedral was begun in the old age, intended as a house for the True Light. Its abandonment is a wound. A wrong left uncorrected. I am here to finish what was left undone."
Saelthiryn's gaze flicked to the altar—dark-veined stone, unmarked, patient.
"It was never finished because no one agreed," she said. "Finishing it now won't change that."
"It will," he said firmly. "Because we agree."
He reached into his satchel and withdrew a small reliquary, silver gleaming. "Kneel," he said, voice softening. "Confess your refusal. Let the Light settle this place properly."
Saelthiryn felt the world lean—not in his favor, not in hers. The boon brushed the moment lightly, offering space rather than outcome.
She remained standing.
"I won't," she said.
The missionary's smile tightened. "Then you will be corrected."
He raised the reliquary and spoke a consecration rite, words shaped to impose alignment. The syllables struck the air like chimes—meant to resonate, to bind meaning to matter.
The cathedral listened.
And did nothing.
The sound did not echo. It did not fade.
It was absorbed.
The missionary faltered, surprise flickering across his face. He spoke again, louder, pressing authority into the words. The symbol on his staff flared briefly, casting light across the unfinished stone.
The light did not spread.
It stalled, as if encountering depth rather than surface.
"This place rejects you," Saelthiryn said, not unkindly.
He stared at the reliquary, then at the altar. "Impossible."
"You're trying to claim what doesn't answer claims."
He stepped closer to her, anger replacing patience. "You are an elf. You do not belong here. This land—this house—belongs to the Light."
Saelthiryn met his gaze. "It belongs to nothing."
He lifted his staff.
The cathedral shifted.
Not abruptly.
Decisively.
The air thickened—not heavy, not oppressive, but resistant. The space between the missionary and Saelthiryn elongated by degrees too small to measure, yet unmistakable. His raised arm felt suddenly distant, his certainty requiring effort to maintain.
Aporiel did not appear.
He did not need to.
"You can't do this," the missionary said, breath tight. "I am ordained."
"Ordination assumes a channel," Saelthiryn replied. "This place doesn't use them."
He tried to speak again. The words caught—not in his throat, but in intention. The doctrine required response, required recognition.
The cathedral offered none.
Panic flickered at the edges of his composure. "You're consorting with something," he accused. "A false god. A void."
Saelthiryn considered that. "Not a god."
"Then what?"
She did not answer.
She didn't have to.
The space answered by holding.
Not threatening.
Not punishing.
Simply refusing to move aside for his certainty.
The missionary lowered his staff slowly, breath uneven. "This place will be reported."
"Yes," Saelthiryn said. "It will."
"You think silence will protect you," he said bitterly.
"I don't need protection," she replied. "I need room."
He backed away, step by careful step, until he crossed the threshold again. The resistance vanished instantly. Air thinned. Sound returned to normal.
He stood outside, shaken, anger giving way to calculation.
"This isn't over," he said.
"No," Saelthiryn agreed. "It rarely is."
He turned and left the valley without another word, boots striking stone harder than before.
Saelthiryn exhaled slowly.
"You didn't stop him," she said to the quiet.
"I did not need to," Aporiel replied, his presence aligning briefly with the cathedral's stillness.
"He'll come back with others."
"Yes."
"With force."
"Force requires opposition," Aporiel said. "This place offers none."
She looked at the altar, the dark-veined stone steady and patient.
"And if they try to name it?" she asked.
Aporiel's attention settled fully then, not as threat, not as promise.
"Names slide here," he said. "They do not adhere."
Saelthiryn nodded.
She returned to her herbs, hands steady.
Outside the valley, doctrine would sharpen, missionaries multiply, and rules tighten further.
Here, the cathedral remained what it had become.
Not a challenge.
Not a sanctuary.
A place that simply did not answer demands.
And that, Saelthiryn knew, would trouble them far more than defiance ever could.