Lucien stood still for a moment, letting the white robe rest comfortably over his newly awakened body. The soft fabric clung to his frame in a way that subtly revealed the broadness of his shoulders and the lean strength now sculpted into his form. The ambient glow from the open bud at his feet cast a gentle, ethereal sheen over him—like a divine garment suited for a hero from the old hymns.
Turning back, Lucien's mismatched eyes met Aurorwen's golden gaze. She had been watching him. Her lips were slightly parted, not in shock, but in a quiet, almost reverent awe. Her earlier composure as a dignified emissary of the Church seemed temporarily displaced by her visible surprise—perhaps even a bit of hesitation—as she examined the full extent of Lucien's transformation. He had not simply grown taller; he had matured in presence, in air, in something that made even someone as poised as her feel the shift of atmosphere.
