CHAPTER 408: I AM ASKING YOU TO BE PATIENT

Lilith’s laugh was one note, but it was real, the kind of laugh that carried sharpness without cruelty, like a blade tapped against glass just to hear it ring.

"You are asking me to be well behaved," she said, and there was amusement in her voice, though the glint in her crimson eyes made it clear she wasn’t promising anything.

The Matron smiled, small and unbothered, as though she had heard that line a hundred times already.

"I am asking you to be patient," she replied evenly, her tone soft but leaving no room for doubt. "You can misbehave after."

Elowen turned her head slightly toward the Ancestress, her silver-green eyes calm even in the half-light of the suspended arena.

"And you?" she asked simply, because she knew the older woman would never waste words on anything unnecessary.

The Ancestress didn’t hesitate. Her answer was as simple and as heavy as the earth itself. "Listen."

So they did. The four of them stood in that mended space, a world that had been torn by power only moments before, and instead of filling it with more words, they let the silence do the work.

The seal that had once screamed with strain now hummed softly, its tone lowered, steady, like it had finally found a rhythm it liked.

The broken mirrors that had bitten at the air no longer scraped against existence; instead, they hovered harmlessly, catching faint glimmers of light and reflecting them without malice.

The roots that had surged like spears and twisted like serpents lay still, patient, heavy but not reaching, content to wait until they were called again.

The rivers bent and curved in smooth arcs above them, glowing threads suspended in the dark, and though they seemed restless by nature, even they chose to pause.

Waiting could be work too.

The Matron breathed in slowly, as if tasting the quiet, and at last she gave a small nod to herself, satisfied with what the space had become.

"We are done here," she said, her words settling over the arena like a closing book. "For tonight."

The Ancestress lifted her hand then, not quickly, not with force, but with the grace of someone who had done this countless times.

A fold opened in the air, a door that wasn’t truly a door but a seam in the fabric of the void, the kind of crease you only saw if you knew exactly where to look.

Through it drifted a wind that had no business blowing in such a place, yet somehow it carried the smell of morning—fresh, light, impossibly gentle in a space born of roots, mirrors, and storms.

"Walk with us to the edge," the Ancestress said. "Then go home and drink your tea while it is still hot."

So they did. All four of them walked across the arena toward the soft threshold where the fold waited.

Their steps left no marks on the roots or the stone, because the arena didn’t need marks to remember. It already knew.

When they reached the line, the elders paused. The Matron lifted two fingers to her lips and blew into the air, but no sound came, only a nothingness that shimmered faintly.

That nothing hung there, and though it could not be touched, it became a promise, the kind that cannot be held in hands but can still be kept in the heart.

The Ancestress pressed her palm against the living root beneath Elowen’s feet and against the shimmer of Lilith’s fading veil.

She said nothing. And that silence was better than a blessing, because it was something that could not be broken.

"Remember," the Ancestress said, her voice carrying the gravity of someone who had seen too many battles. "Not every fight needs a stage."

"And not every stage needs a fight," the Matron added, smiling again, softer this time.

Lilith and Elowen both gave small smiles in return. No warmth was wasted, no sharpness left behind—just a quiet understanding that was more solid than any oath spoken aloud.

The elders stepped through the fold and were gone, vanishing with the ease of a line ending in perfect rhythm.

The arena held the shape they left it in for one last breath before it too let go. Slowly, carefully, it set each piece back where it belonged, like a room tidied after a storm.

The mirrors drifted apart, turning into harmless shine. The roots pulled back into the floor and folded themselves into rest.

The rivers unwound, their glowing currents bending into soft arcs before drifting back into place.

Even the seal seemed to sigh, settling into the hum it liked best, the one that sounded more like peace than struggle.

Lilith exhaled, her voice half-amused and half resigned. "They will hover," she said quietly, almost fondly.

"They will," Elowen agreed. "And we will let them pretend we do not see."

Nothing else needed to be said. The quiet had been earned, and neither of them chose to spoil it.

The door home opened without being asked, and torchlight from the Nocturne courtyard leaned in through the seam like it had been waiting there all along, listening.

The table they had left behind still waited as well, its cups and stains and papers sitting untouched, the kind of stillness that belonged to rooms that knew exactly who belonged in them.

But they didn’t step through right away. They lingered, because the battlefield’s mended quiet had one more thing to say, and both of them were wise enough to hear it.

It spoke the way old places speak—by not breaking. By holding. By staying whole, even when it had every reason to shatter.

"Enough," the Ancestress had told them earlier. And now the room itself seemed to echo the word in its own way.

Lilith glanced again at the settled space, her crimson eyes narrowing faintly. "We will finish that measure," she said, as though the arena itself was listening.

"After the gate," Elowen replied calmly.

"After the gate," Lilith echoed, the words carrying an unspoken weight.

Then, finally, they went home together.

The courtyard accepted them back without fuss. The torches burned the same way they had when they left, as if nothing at all had happened, and that was exactly how good wards behaved when they were proud of themselves.