The air holds a charged stillness. Ashes drift, soft as snow, across the stone span. The Queen stands with the Cloak of Unwritten Endings at her shoulders, her hand still stained by what burned. Velin waits in the half-shadow, not quite beside her, not quite apart, parchment and ink heavy in his hands.
Queen:
"You’ve been quiet. Too quiet.
Don’t think I don’t see you...already writing the ending before I’ve even taken the step."
Velin:
"Not the ending. The record.
If you walk across, this is no longer rumor.
It becomes history."
Queen (a sharp smile):
"And if I don’t?"
Velin (closer now, low voice):
"Then it remains tragedy. Ash scattered. No kingdom, no court. Only whispers about the Queen who nearly was.
I don’t command you. But you should know:
When you rise, you rise recorded.
When you vow, you vow into law."
She studies him, searching for the trap. His presence is grave but not coercive — his weight is warning, not push. Her fingers tighten at her sides.
Queen:
"And you...you stand here, steady. Why?"
Velin:
"Because what you build cannot survive stillness unless one of us stands in it. I keep the silence so you can break it. But when you break it, it must be true."
The pause hangs like a held breath. Then she exhales, a laugh broken through with something fierce.
Queen:
"Fine then. No more nearly. No more almost.
If I step, you write. If I vow, you bind.
And if I falter, you’ll...."
Velin (cutting in, sharp as ink):
"I’ll witness. Not rescue. Not command. Only witness.
That is the price of the Bridge. That is why it holds."
Her eyes narrow, then soften. A beat passes. She offers him her hand, not for guidance, but as pact.
Queen:
"Then let’s make them remember.
Write it, Velin.
Every vow."