Cera
_{They doused your soul in water but the flames raised higher}

The weather had begun to turn cold, frost creeping in slowly as if to spare the Helovians from further misery after all the loss and bloodshed they had suffered. Cera was not safe from the pangs in his deepest and oldest scars, the ones that twinged and ached like throbbing heartbeats as the temperatures slowly began to drop. It did nothing to persuade him to hand off this assignment to Ranjiri or any of the other acolytes, nor did it slow his eager pace across the quieting biomes on their journey to the World's Edge. They were a small group and they moved quickly enough, but Cera's excitement was liable to get the best of him at times. He had been crafting most of his life, the talent not deeming to abandon him even when he was named Diviner. It sang like a comforting song inside of his blood, but this was the first time he would ever fully work with another herd. Maren's church deserved all of it and more, but this was the first major project - aside from the half-finished wall - that Cera would ever orchestrate from beginning to end. And it was the first time he'd been allowed to coordinate the exchange with the other leads and crafters of the World's Edge. 

Cera had lived his life trying to do his best, to build the Throat into the powerhouse it deserved to be, even if he felt his actions were minuscule in comparison to what others had done. He was well into adulthood but still quite young, but at last he could finally use peacetimes to organize trade that would benefit his herd in more important, impacting ways. He could not help the way his hooves carried him faster through the trees as the Edge land grew closer, ignoring how Ilaria slapped him exasperatedly with the thick fur of her tail. We can finally be useful Ilaria, I can't help it, the Prince excused himself almost helplessly, heart hammering off-beat. He wanted to prove himself, to take charge. He wanted to show Gaucho that he was worthy of the responsibility, that he could be trusted for more than just forging impeccable crafts. While the Golden took great pride in his skill and the quality of his work, it wasn't the same as showing Gaucho that he was capable of things like diplomacy and inter-herd relations. 

It's not our place to prove that to him, Ilaria reminded him softly, though Cera knew she was doing so for his own sake. Ilaria often entertained notions of Cera ascending to a title worthy of what she considered him to be. Magnificent. Cera had always dispelled those daydreams, but in his heart of hearts he could not deny that sometimes he wanted more. But in a herd ruled by the militant and battle proficient, Cera had slowly begun to lose hope that he would ever be known as more than the amazing forger that turned the Throat into a paradise of machinery and crafted works. 

This was his starting point, and he would not let them down. The Throat or the Edge. 

As the borders became more apparent, Cera paused respectfully and tried to calm his beating heart. It did not show on the outside, if only because he was excited rather than fearful, but it would keep him from losing his head just in case. The Prince did not want to feel like a child here, with tripping tongue and eager, clumsy hooves. He had outgrown that. So he lifted his head proudly, wings tucking silver and elegant at his sides, and took strength in the presence of the entourage alongside him. 

With no handy magic like Megaera's, Cera settled for the traditional route, lifting his pale muzzle to the sky to whinny into the mists roiling upon the earth. Hopefully they would not be left waiting for long.