He was a god.
“There is purpose to all things, Ceris.” My name sounded powerful on His lips. Of course He knew my name. Had He not watched Endwever all this time? Had He not reached down to light the torch? Had I not felt His expectations the moment I whispered, I will be star mother? “There is a balance in the universe, which is ever shifting. It is never easy and always painful. Your kind glimpses only a sliver of it.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, or if there could be any response to such a claim. So I simply nodded.
The Sun looked out the window again, then stepped back, studying me fully. I felt self-conscious, as though He could see more of me than I could of Him. As though He could see past skin, blood, and bone to my very soul. To my surprise, His lips curved up in a soft smile.
“You are unexpected,” He said. “I know the burden the stars bring to mortals. Few volunteer, without persuasion.”
A pain like a slender skewer pierced my chest as memories of my home, Caen, and my forsaken future fluttered to life. But the wonder of my surroundings, of Him, staved off my mourning. “I might be mortal,” I tried, “but I am farseeing.”
The Sun nodded, seemingly content with this answer. “Have you lain with mortal men?”
Were my body my own, it would have burned with the question, but this crystalline form did not react. “Does it matter?” I asked, feeling every sultry daydream about Caen unravel in the back of my mind. “N-No. Not yet.”
He nodded, solemn, but the soberness did not hinder His light. “Ceris.”
I held my breath.
“If you wish to turn back, I will allow you to do so.” He looked away from me, at something that was there yet not there. Something on a plane beyond my perception. “It will not be a slight to your people.”
I swallowed, stiff with anxiety. My heart raced as though I stood at the peak of the highest mountain, my toes lined up with its edge, my body ready to jump.
Struggling for my voice, I said, “Do . . . I not please you?”
He shook His head, still not meeting my eyes. “I always give the volunteers a chance to change their mind. Only one, but I give it.”
I worried my lip and peered up at the glorious sky. “And if I don’t take the chance now, I won’t be able to later?”
“No. The law must be honored.”
I hugged myself and slowly drew my gaze from the stars.
“I will hurt you.” His voice was hushed, but the words startled me. “I do not wish to, but I will. Such is the manner of my existence.”
My heart pounded. Not quickly as it had before, but hard, like my chest was an unwanted wall in a cottage that needed to be torn down.
He was giving me a chance to leave. To go home. Surely I could ask for a crown of light or some other favor to show my people that I was not unwanted. To bring them honor without forsaking my life.
But honor wasn’t the true reason I’d come.
“I’ll stay.” My quietness slid under His own. “I’ve made my choice. I will stay.”
He had no reaction to my statement beyond a simple nod. His expression was bright and hard to read, but it seemed . . . sad? But why would a god such as the Sun be sad that a mortal woman had willingly answered His call?
“Come.” He stepped away from the window light, and it faded behind Him. As we moved forward, the not-walls shifted around us. “This is the most I can withhold my power, the simplest form I can take.”
He didn’t touch me, but walked with the air of a king, as He should. I followed Him two steps before croaking, “Now?” I turned and peered up at the stars overhead, then curled in on myself, abashed for having been so bold with a god.
Thankfully, the Sun was not put out. “Time may be eternal, but it should not be wasted.”
I swallowed against a dry throat. He was right. What reason was there to wait? The Sun would not court me—I was a mere mortal. I would be star mother, and I knew very little of what would become of me beyond that. But I knew there was no quaint cottage awaiting me, nor would there ever be a marriage wreath hung over my bed.
Feigning courage I didn’t feel, I straightened, clasped my hands behind my back, and bowed. “I am ready.”
His voice was not as encompassing when He said, “I wish to thank you for your service, and also ask your forgiveness.”
I didn’t entirely understand what He meant just then. The space changed—I sensed it, though I didn’t see it happen. Were I to describe it visually, our surroundings would sound exactly the same as where we’d just met. And yet it was different. The silence was more complete, like a circle, and senses I didn’t know I possessed came awake within me, noticing things beyond smells and sounds and sights. There was something deeply intimate about this place, and in my heart, I readied to complete my task. The Sun had waited days already. A star needed to be born.