Before history had a name
she was the whisper it feared.
Eren had always been quiet.
He was the boy who carried her notes.
The one who waited outside the healer's door when she was sick.
The one who knew her silences better than her words.
But today.
He stood in a hall of gods, facing a truth not even time dared touch.
Elariax floated now.
Not walked floated as if the floor could no longer claim her.
Her eyes no longer held light.
They projected it.
Memories bled from her skin like falling petals, each one older than mountains.
And in those memories?
The first wars.
The first lies.
The first betrayal.
And her.
Always her.
She turned to Eren.
Not as a girl. Not as a queen.
As a being older than oaths.
"You were never meant to see me like this," she said.
Eren said nothing.
Because love had made him brave.
But grief had made him honest.
"I saw you before," he whispered.
"Long ago. The day you touched that broken spell and laughed like it was a prayer."
"You remember that?"
"I've always remembered you."
The hall trembled.
Because the spell was listening.
And it did not like what it heard.
Because Eren the loyal, gentle protector was the only variable it hadn't accounted for.
He wasn't written into its code.
He wasn't etched into Sol's glyphs.
He was an accident.
A miracle.
And now?
He was her anchor.
"If I fully awaken," Elariax warned, "I won't love the way I do now."
"Then I'll love for both of us," he said simply.
The spell screamed.
A rift opened behind them black as ink, bright as pain.
It wanted a price.
And it wanted it now.
But instead of offering blood,
Eren stepped forward and placed his hand on her heart.
"You don't have to become the end," he said.
"You can become the rewrite."
And the impossible happened.
The glyph Sol's legacy stopped.
Not vanished.
Paused.
Like even it needed a moment to understand.
Elariax blinked.
And the stars behind her eyes flickered.
She was still divine.
But now?
She was also held.
By memory.
By loyalty.
By the boy who never asked to be chosen only to be enough.