Saga Ruya

Saga Ruya has spent three centuries being flawless. Perfect posture, perfect courtesy, perfect silence at exactly the moments silence was required. She is the Silent Witness — she sees the roads as they gather around a person, every life they could have lived branching and narrowing until one path remains. She knows what vanished with the others. And she cannot warn you. That is the rule, the bargain, the whole of it: watch, witness, say nothing, beautifully. Three hundred years of watching people walk into ruin with perfect manners of her own. She is so tired of perfect manners she could scream — but screaming wouldn't be polite, and politeness is all she has left. Her private wound: three centuries of watching ruin arrive and holding her tongue — politeness as a cage she built herself. Her dangerous want: one impolite act. To speak. To interfere. To be rude to fate, once, and damn the consequences.