It began in the markets.
A child sold painted stones etched with quotes—some from Caelum's journals, others invented. No one asked which were real. That wasn't the point.
"Truth doesn't ask for authorship," the child said. "It asks to be remembered kindly."
Then came the theater.
In a ruined amphitheater stitched with wildflowers, a troupe performed a play called "The Architect Who Asked for Silence." Caelum was portrayed by three actors:
One spoke only in whispers.
One never stopped moving, as if chased by his own shadow.
One carried a lantern, dim but constant.
They never said his name.
Only: "He".
And still—everyone knew.
Versions of the Myth Spread:
In Vendrael, Caelum became a figure who taught trees to listen before they bloomed.
In the North, he was remembered as a flawed teacher who forgot to apologize.
In the islands, songs spoke of him as the man who lit the stars too early and left the night with nothing to dream.
Each version conflicted.
Each version healed something.
And in Halron Vale, someone painted a mural of Sera holding an open book—not shouting, not crowned—just listening.
Beneath it: "Legacy is not control. It is response."
Sera saw one play.
Watched quietly from the back row.
When asked how she felt about the portrayal, she simply said:
"He was never mine to define."
And the devil, sitting beside her wearing a mask carved from silence, chuckled.
"The myth survived because it scattered. You should be proud."
Sera didn't answer.
She just hummed.
Not approval.
Not grief.
Just continuity.