Phaedra conjures a small folded paper manta ray in her hands, just like the one she held back on the ship. She looks over it fondly, remembering something.
Cheth: That’s… That’s impossible. How… How?!
Phaedra: You can thank my dad.
In the water, the figures of some ghosts seem to be playacting what Phaedra describes. A man in royal garb handing a paper manta ray to a child and their mother.
Phaedra: After each battle, he would fold little paper manta rays for the children who had lost a parent. After he died, the task passed to me. I counted each and every one I folded, including my own. Such a tiny apology, but a meaningful one. He took great pride in it.
Cheth: Apology? King-Admirals don’t do apologies.
Cheth looms over her from behind, arms crossed and furious. He doesn’t like losing what he thought was an easy battle.
Cheth: Their blind devotion to my sister’s church erases all traces of guilt. Since when did Pharos Philemon dare to grow a conscience?
Phaedra looks back to him, confused, and still carefully holding the paper ray.
Phaedra: Since… always? Dad didn’t speak publicly about his charity work, but he did tons of it. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.
Cheth fumes and spreads his arms, red energy flowing into his eyes and spreading through the water around him in vivid strands.
Cheth: Of course I wouldn’t have known that! How could I have known that?
Phaedra blinks, picking up on what the supposedly all-knowing god has just admitted to. While Cheth turns away to stew, staring into emptier waters while Phaedra lights up with an idea.
Phaedra: Lord Cheth, I know exactly what question to ask you.
