Beltira stood before Bercetia just like that, in a form the latter had never seen before—some yellowed fragments surfaced in the Silver Empress's mind. Even by elven standards of longevity, they were memories from a distant age. In those faraway recollections, this human-born Druid Saintess had always worn priest robes, her smile as bright and gentle as sunlight on a spring afternoon. She had moved tirelessly among the wounded of the expeditionary army, and countless people had found new life because of her.
Her achievements had even been recognized by elven society—the orthodox origin of the Druid faith. Her sacred portrait hung in the Hall of Saints within the Elven Royal Court, alongside the Druid sages of countless millennia.
But those memories had ultimately yellowed with age. Bercetia blinked. Before her stood a figure made from a fusion of flesh and mutated plants, offering her a stiff smile. The vines tangled behind her writhed like blood vessels, and a sound like wood grinding against wood came from within her body. "Seven hundred years without seeing each other, and you won't even say hello? Bercetia—Your Majesty?"
The Silver Empress fully emerged from her memories. Her gaze settled on the other woman as she broke the silence with slight hesitation. "Beltira... Lady."
"The way you address me has become distant," Beltira said expressionlessly. "Seven hundred years ago, you called me Sister Beltira."
Gawain, standing nearby, could not help frowning. Recalling the past, he said, "I seem to remember you calling her Auntie back then."
A summer afternoon breeze swept over the top of the Thorin tree, and the rustling scrape of leaves drifted up from below. For the next two seconds, the atmosphere became rather strange.
"...Actually, I don't care that much about this," Beltira finally said, breaking the silence. Her gaze