---

Had they added more stairs going from the springs up to the temple? Tia thought they might’ve. The climb had never seemed longer, never more demanding, than it did right now with her aching body, the burning weight of their stares on her back. It was a slow process, one hand gripping the railing, the other – the one that couldn’t even manage to make a fist, with how sore it was – hiking up the heavy fabric of her sleeping robe. The wind tugged at her hair, blonde strands tangling in front of her face. Tia tried to stay as composed as possible.

Until she made it into the temple.

The door was heavy as it slammed shut behind her. Tia flinched – she was still getting used to the personality of the building, all the ways it needed care and consideration. Its voice echoed through the short hall, down into the main chamber and back again like a returning answer. Sighing, Tia leaned back against the door. Her head met the wood as she squeezed her eyes shut. For a moment – a moment... she could allow herself that, right? – Tia let her humiliation and self pity surge through her.

She’d just wanted to make sure he wasn’t dying.

Tia forced herself to take in a long, slow breath. Tried to relax her muscles one by one. Imagined that this hurt, angry and petty and twisting as it coiled around her, loosened and slipped away.

It would’ve worked better if she could wash in the springs without feeling the weight of those eyes again.

She brought the heels of her hands up to rub at her eyes. Then she straightened up again, pulling away from the door. The humidity of the springs had come with her, into the temple. It made her hair frizz and her clothes feel too heavy. Tia pulled at her scarf to loosen it, and it seemed to stick to her skin. On one last, childish impulse, she rubbed up and down on her arms, like she could scrub away the stain of the man’s stare.

Without anyone to witness her, Tia moved stiff and careful down the short hallway back towards the main chamber. The heat of Aelios’ flame grew warmer – it wasn’t as comforting as it should’ve been. It only made the moisture still clinging to her skin more intolerable. Tia pulled at her scarf again, eyes downcast and unfocused as she slowly made her way to the nearest pew on the outskirts of the room.

Tia winced as she braced her good hand on its wooden back to lower herself into the seat. A splash of red caught her attention – the bottom hem of her robe, too long for her, had dragged along the damp stone of the springs. It was saturated with water, dirt, and blood. Another mess to clean up.

Another sigh. Another closing of her eyes.

She was being petty. What had they really done? Bandied words not even meant for her. She hadn’t mattered, so why should it affect her? The woman had been kind at times, and the man had… well, he wasn’t bleeding out, at least. That was something to be thankful for. But…

Opening her eyes, Tia gingerly pulled at her robe to reach into her inner pocket. Her hand emerged with the shining, too-perfect gemstone she’d pulled from the cave. She remembered the voice that had haunted it, full of wrath and thunder like a vengeful god. The vision.

Her visions.

Tia could brush away every cruel word the man had thrown at her, given enough time. But… his words about Aelios echoed in her mind. That she’d dedicated herself to something that… wasn’t there.

The dismissal hurt on its own. But if Aelios was gone… then where did Tia’s visions come from? A familiar fear rose up – that she was being misguided by something dark and malicious. It only awakened more worries, that same swirl of nerves and confusion and contradiction that had consumed Tia the entire time she’d been in Dawnhaven.

She stared down at the gem cradled in her hand, firelight flickering along the cut edges.

From over the edge of an open prayer book, no more than five feet away, hazel eyes watched her intently.

She didn’t seem to notice him, but he’d been aware of her presence from the moment she’d slammed the temple doors. Every movement she made was slow, like the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders and even the act of existing took effort.

So, he’d stayed silent.

His gaze traced the troublesome look in her expression, the damp stains along the hem of her robe, the way her fingers curled around the gemstone he and Ivor had nearly died for. His brow furrowed slightly, and he let the book dip lower, just enough to get a clearer look. Still, he said nothing. She could have her moment.

As he waited, curious to see how long it would take her to realize she wasn’t alone, his hand drifted down, fingers closing around the last half of his cookie. Lifting it to his mouth, he bit down as slowly and quietly as possi—

cruuuuuuuuuunnchh

The sound shattered the stillness of the temple.

His jaw stilled. Slowly, his gaze slid back to her.

Tia’s back was straight, her eyes wide as she stared at him. She blinked.

The guard from yesterday was sprawled across the pew like he’d always been there. Tia’s gaze darted around the room, to the doors, to the other empty benches, like she’d be able to tell where he’d come from and when he’d gotten here.

Her lips parted to say something. They closed. Tia looked back at him, blinking again as she fully took him in – cookie in one hand, prayer book in the other, and… Ranni’s gecko?

Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe the man outside was right and Aelios was gone and now the evil gem god-demon-man-thing was completing his hold over her giving her confusingly non-scary (but confusing) non-visions.

“...Hi,” she squeaked.

Zeph swallowed his bite, a slow grin creeping in as he took in her wide-eyed stare.

“Hey.”

Leisurely, he set the prayer book down along his outstretched leg, his gaze flicking over her again. His smile softened into something a little less teasing. “You doin’ alright, firefly?”

Something fluttered in Tia’s chest at the name – the gentle look in his eye. She looked down at her lap if only to break his gaze. As discreetly as she could, her fingers curled around the gem, her hand turning to cover it. She tried not to wince as she adjusted her seat on the pew. The wet hem of her robe was heavy where it brushed against her ankles. When she found the nerve to look back up at him, she gave a shrug and tried to smile.

It was embarrassing, but he’d already seen the awkward way she moved. What good would lying do?

Smile drifting away, Tia nodded towards him and tapped at her shoulder with her free hand, a question in her eye. Briefly, she saw him sprawled on the cave floor, skin too pale as his own blood painted him crimson. It had been a long day yesterday – Tia hadn’t checked up on his healing as she should’ve.

Zeph glanced at his shoulder, then back at her, shrugging casually. “I’ve had worse,” he said with a smirk. It was true—he had. “But you’re quite the medic. Thank you.” He resisted the urge to reach up and touch the spot where the injury had been, his fingers still remembering the odd smoothness of his healed skin. “Can’t tell anything happened at all.”

Letting his attention drift to the gemstone she was trying—and failing—to conceal, he nodded toward it. “So, is that thing everything you’d hoped for?” He raised an eyebrow, curious. Her fingers curled tighter around the gem, eyes wide with poorly hidden panic. “Did you lose it there or something? How’d you even get out to that cave? Why didn’t you ask that Champion of yours to come?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he was asking too much. Too fast.

Zeph wasn’t blind—he saw the way she hesitated before speaking, measuring each word before releasing them. He heard the faint rasp in her voice, the subtle strain against each syllable. His gaze dropped briefly to the scarf loose around her neck, catching a glimpse of pink scarring peaking just above the fabrics edge.

Meeting her gaze again, he studied the weariness behind those big beautiful doe-eyes. Her lips parted, like she was waiting to find the words.

“Never mind,” he said, shifting his tone—lighter, a touch easier and less insistent. “You don’t have to answer.”

A moment of quiet stretched between them, just long enough for Zeph’s gaze to wander around the empty temple.

Tia sat on the other end of the pew, trying not to glance at him. She swallowed, feeling the way the muscles in her throat didn’t quite move as they should’ve, didn’t layer over each other in the way they were meant to fit. She hadn’t missed the way he’d… he’d switched somehow, his curiosity muffled under something dismissive. It was almost like he’d deflated himself.

Something tightened in her chest as she thought of how easily he let go of his questions with a light voice and curving lips.

He was so quick to smile, this one.

In the quiet, another memory came to her — of him laughing at her as he’d dismissed her request to enter the pool in that frigid cave. How he’d dove in after Ivor without hesitation, when the clear water had turned bloody.

Zeph tilted his head, a new—easier—question surfacing.

“Is your Keeper around?” From what he could tell, they were alone. No angry, watchful presence lingering nearby.

When he looked back at her, his amusement returned in full force, tugging at the corners of his lips. “She didn’t seem too pleased last night,” he mused, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m surprised she let you out of her sight.”

Tia flicked her eyes back up to him, and let herself be pulled along by the lightness in his words — even as her heart twisted uncomfortably as she thought of how Dyna had treated him last night, and the difficult conversations she’d yet to have with her sisters.

But they were out for the day. And Tia liked the spark in the guard’s eye, the light tease in his voice. She didn’t want him to douse himself again.

She looked up at him for a long moment, watching the way the firelight danced in his eyes like laughter. Hesitating, she bit her lip. Tia slipped the gemstone back into her pocket and reached out to tap the side of his shoe closest to the pew’s back. She looked back up at him. He arched a brow, curiosity flickering in his gaze, silently asking—And what, exactly, do you think you’re doing?—a challenge hidden in the way he held still, waiting to see if she’d follow through. She tapped again more insistently, before that became a shooing motion.

When his feet were finally on the ground and he was sitting more acceptably on the bench, Tia made a beckoning motion, calling him closer to her. He obliged her without protest this time, shifting to close the distance. She scooted closer in turn. The half of Tia’s mind that she was not currently giving control said that what she had planned was not normal behavior and he was going to think she was bizarre.

But then, Tia convinced strangers to go on secret spelunking missions with her, and had dreams that may or may not have been the result of an angry powerful being who hated her — or it was just her anxiety. She supposed she was bizarre.

Sitting together, they were less than a foot away from each other on the bench (and Ranni’s gecko was very carefully retrieved and placed on Tia’s other side). She looked up at him — and realized she may have miscalculated. Her plan — and her nerves — had failed to account for how very tall he was when he was this close. And how his little smattering of freckles —

Looking away from his eyes, Tia reached out to softly pull at his sleeve. She’d already gotten this far. Maybe she could just… ignore how warm her skin felt. Slowly, hesitantly, Tia guided his arm out until she held his hand out in front of them, his palm angled towards them. She swiped the side of her hand across it, cleaning away stray cookie crumbs. Tia glanced up at him, an eyebrow raised slightly, her smile almost more amused than shy. He shrugged, a flicker of mirth in his expression.

Then she began tracing careful letters into his palm.

Zeph watched in silence as Tia’s fingers moved across his skin, intrigued by the way she chose to communicate. The closeness of her, the gentle way she held his hand in hers, the soft press of her fingertips—it all felt… oddly intimate.

He wasn’t sure what captivated him more—the feel of her, or the sudden bursts of bravery that she seemed to possess.

M Y S I S T E R

It wasn’t much, but at least Tia could give him this — he could ask some questions without feeling like he had to deflate himself again.

She looked up at him, offering another smile, checking to see if he understood. He met her eyes, offering a small, lazy smile in return.

As she continued, his gaze didn’t leave her face.

D Y N A

When her eyes returned to his, he glanced briefly at his palm, trying to recall the feeling of the patterns she had traced, rather than the way she looked under firelight instead of crystal light.

“Well, you two look nothing alike,” he said flatly, feigning a look of disbelief, though the humor in his tone was unmistakable. He knew she likely meant sisters by faith, not by blood. The church did love to call themselves a family, all toxicity included.

Still, he was rewarded with a growing smile and a suffering look.

“Did you tell her where you were last night?”

Tia faltered. Her hands drifted down, lowering away from his. Her eyes were distant for a moment. They flicked to the fire burning in the heart of the temple. She shook her head. Then she refocused on his hand and lifted a finger again.

C A N T Y E T

Tia almost pulled away — but her indecision settled. With her other hand she pulled out the gemstone again, pink and glittering in her hand. Looking down at it, Tia bit her lip. She looked back up at him. She felt… guilty that she’d tried to hide it from him. It was especially silly, since he already knew she had it. He’d been there, when Ivor had pulled it from the water. He’d nearly died for it. He deserved what truth she could give.

N E E D I N F O

Zeph furrowed his brow, his gaze drifting to the gemstone in her hand. His mind replayed the sound of it clattering against the cavern floor, the image of her scrambling away from it in a panic still fresh in his mind. The more he learned, the less anything made sense.

He had so many questions.

But every time he broached the subject, he saw the hesitation. He didn’t want to press her. It wasn’t his place to demand answers out of a Priestess. He had no right to pry into something that wasn’t his to know.

“You don’t have to tell me about it, but….” his gaze softened, his tone turning more gentle and respectful than it had been. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.” He paused, locking his eyes with hers for emphasis—to make sure she understood.

Tia’s breath caught in her throat as he held her gaze.

“I do owe you a debt, afterall.” he said, offering her a small, sincere smile, as if the notion might be a joke. But even as he did, his chest felt tight, weighed down by a debt he wasn’t sure he could ever repay.

Tia couldn’t look away from him, watching the shifting glow of firelight over his skin. She tried to catalogue the different ways he smiled, and what they all might mean. Something bloomed in her chest, soft and warm and guilty as he gentled himself for her again — like he wasn’t owed answers. Like she hadn’t been the reason he’d almost died in the first place.

She shook her head.

“You don’t,” she whispered.

Zeph tilted his head, the playful glint in his eyes returning—searching for a way to bring a smile back to her face. He leaned in slightly, his voice low. “Oh, but I do.” he insisted, though there was no force behind it, only the warmth of his growing fondness of her.

Tia couldn’t help herself — she let out a bemused puff of air, as the corners of her lips quirked up. His mood seeped into her. His closeness casting a shadow over his face, that flicker in his eyes, made Tia feel like they were sharing a secret. For once that didn’t seem quite so scary.

“Besides,” he added with a chuckle, straightening up and leaning against the pew, “I had fun. Way better than guard duty.” His grin widened. “Promise you’ll let me tag along for whatever mischief you get into next time?”

Her eyebrow twitched up, smile only growing. Maybe there was a spark of mischief in her, too. Then Tia blinked. An idea popped up that she was too nervous to examine — a way for him to help, as he’d offered. Her fingers curled tighter around the gem in her hand.

He paused, a thought of his own suddenly striking. His smile faltered, remembering why he had come here in the first place.

“Actually, that reminds me… Do you happen to know anyone with the last name Hawthorne?”

Tia blinked again, refocusing on him. It took her a moment to process his words — the name. Her eyebrows drew together as she looked down and searched her memories.

Hawthorne… It sounded… vaguely familiar? Tia hardly knew anyone in Dawnhaven, and as far as she was aware, she hadn’t met a Hawthorne here. From before maybe? In the capital? But it was the biggest city on the continent and Tia had cared for countless people.

Eventually, she looked back up at him and shook her head, an apology in her eyes. Meanwhile that stray idea stewed in the back of her mind.

Zeph sighed. He wasn’t all that surprised, but still, he had hoped.

“That’s alright,” he shrugged, brushing off his disappointment easily enough. “Maybe your Kee—” He caught himself, glancing at her before correcting, “Your sister will know, then.”

His gaze flicked toward the temple entrance, thoughtful. “You know where she went?” He asked, though he was already considering how the conversation might go. If the Champion even let him speak to her, would she just take the opportunity to interrogate him about where Tia had been?

Her eyes snapped back to him — she’d drifted away, distracted by her own thoughts. Tia gave him an alarmed look at his words. She did not think a meeting with Dyna would go well for him.

“I’ll keep our little secret, don’t worry,” he added with a smirk, though the thought lingered. Perhaps asking random Aurelian guards would be the wiser choice.

Despite herself, Tia let out another huff that might’ve been a laugh. Her smile came easier each time. Finally she shook her head and shrugged, gesturing vaguely towards the door. She’d woken up alone — she had no idea where either of the twins had disappeared to.

Her expression drifted again, those distracting thoughts pulling at her. Her eyes flicked around the room — to the door, the fire, the gemstone… Tia could feel her nerves building under her skin, that anxious promise of trouble making it hard to sit still. She glanced at him. Her mouth opened — only to close again as she fidgeted in her seat, looking away.

Zeph arched a brow, watching her carefully. He let the silence settle between them, waiting, giving her the space to say—or write—whatever was obviously on her mind. But she didn’t.

And the questions building inside him only grew heavier.

After a moment, he shifted, reaching for her hand. His fingers brushed against hers, hesitant at first, his gaze flicking to hers, seeking permission. When she didn't pull away, he gently took her hand in his own, turning it palm-up. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft against the roughness of his own, a contrast that sent an unbidden thought skimming through his mind—one he quickly forced himself to set aside.

Slowly, he traced the curve of a question mark into her palm. His gaze stayed locked on her face as he watched for a flicker of understanding, of trust—of anything that might tell him what was going on behind her eyes.

Tia forgot how to breathe. She could feel his touch echoing through her hand, down her arm, along her spine. There was that fluttering again in her chest, more frantic as it fed on her nervous energy.

Stars, she realized distantly. His freckles looked like stars.

She bit her lip, his gaze settling there for a heartbeat. Tia looked back down at their hands between them, her smaller one surrounded by his. She let herself hesitate — but only for a moment. Then she turned her palm over to draw another word into him, somewhere between a request and an offering.

M I S C H I E F ?

A slow, devilish smirk spread across his lips as the word formed beneath her fingertips, igniting something reckless in his chest. An ember catching flame.

Dark eyes met hazel.

For the moment, things didn't feel so dreadful anymore.

Because somehow, in this wretched town, she was here—a spark in the shadows, something bright and powerful. His mistress of temptation personified, wrapped in silken robes and staring back at him with eyes like smoldering emberwood, dark and endless, catching the firelight in glimmers of gold. He could've kissed her.

How strange it was, to find a partner in crime in a High Priestess of Aelios.

And yet, he nodded, silent still.

Cheeks warm, too aware of the places his skin still touched hers, Tia couldn’t help but smile back. Then she hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. Lifting her free hand — the one still holding the gem — she held her index finger and thumb close together. Small mischief. He was so excited, Tia didn’t want to now disappoint him. She emphasized the motion again. Hopefully he’d temper his expectations. Then she held up her index finger, a request to wait for a moment.

Another beat of Tia tracing the feel of his warm hands on her, his closeness, his smile —

Then she pulled away, standing — wincing — as her hand slipped away from his. His gaze followed her, a flicker of concern crossing his expression as she hurried out of the main chamber and back towards her room.

It looked even worse than she remembered.

Papers scattered about like a storm had blown through, progressively messier handwriting, and a bare spot in the middle of the floor where Tia had finally passed out. Embarrassment filled her. At least no one else was here to see this chaos.

Picking her way through the cold, darkened room, Tia made her way to the middle and knelt down on sore legs to sift through the pages. She found it — the final, complete recollection of the vision she’d received from the gemstone. There was even her best (though still bad) attempt at drawing what she remembered of the runes in the margins. The page was easy enough to pick out when her eyes had finally adjusted enough to the darkness — it was the only version she’d given a title to.

Upon Touching the Gemstone From the Crystal Cave

Yesterday’s date was written in the top corner. It had been one of the last things she’d written last night, her hand so stiff from writing that the letters were positively sloppy on the page. Maybe it would be enough to hide her handwriting. What was she going to do otherwise, ask him to rewrite it? She shook her head. This would have to do.

Carefully folding the letter into thirds, Tia pushed herself back up and found the winding path to the door that kept her from stepping directly over any papers.

When she emerged back into the warmth and light of Aelios’ flame, the guard was still waiting for her on that bench. Her heart skipped a beat.

Tia stopped in front of him, meeting his eyes. Her nerves swam — but she’d come this far. She thrust both the gem and paper out towards him. Zeph sat up straighter, his gaze flicking between the two items curiously.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She watched him, oddly worried that this request was too… petty for him. Like she should’ve been more ambitious with her rule breaking. But the gravity of the situation weighed on her, oppressive and ominous. This needed to be done, and Tia didn’t know who else to ask when involvement would put them at risk. The guard was already involved. He’d offered to help. Plus he seemed much more experienced with troublemaking than she was.

And… childishly, Tia wanted that feeling again, of sharing a secret. She could still feel his finger on her palm as his other hand cradled her — his silent, voiceless message as she watched the warm glow in his eyes turn bright and crackling.

“Sage Eris Hightower.” Her voice was soft — all the better to keep it from echoing in the halls of the temple. But the name was clear enough. “Anonymously.”

Zeph’s brows lifted. “Hightower?” he echoed, recognizing the name. His fingers brushed against hers as he took the gemstone and paper, weighing them thoughtfully in his hands. Running his thumb along the cut edges of the gemstone, he considered her request.

It wasn’t exactly the thrill he’d been hoping for—no perilous cavern dives or life-threatening experiences—but it was still mischief. Small mischief—a secret mission. And that, he could get behind.

Slipping the gemstone into his left pocket—the one that didn’t already hold the small bell chime he’d swiped from the entrance table—he glanced back up at her with a smirk.

“Consider it done.”

She released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

After a beat, he tapped the folded paper, tilting his head. “Can I read, or…?”

She paused, looking down at the folded paper. When she looked back up to his face, Tia remembered how he’d softened, dampening his own curiosity for her. She heard his voice gentling, only to brighten as he redirected himself to safer topics.

She saw him bloody on the cave floor.

It wasn’t like a Lunarian would put much stock in a Sun Priestess’ maybe-visions anyway, she reasoned. And… Tia was choosing to trust him with this task. She wanted to trust someone, anyone at all, with at least a fraction of what she’d been carrying since before she’d arrived in Dawnhaven. She couldn’t stand the thought of him taking a peek anyway and then lying to her about it if she denied him. She didn’t want a reason to doubt him.

Tia lamented that he was going to see how awful her handwriting had become.

Still, she nodded.

Zeph unfolded the paper with care, angling it towards the firelight as his gaze swept over the words. Slowly, as he read, his brows drew together.

Sprawling darkness. Obsidian spires. A towering figure, golden eyes blazing with unbridled wrath. The image she described was vivid, as if he could feel the weight of it himself—the fury that cracked through her like a physical blow.

Tia’s hands tightened at her sides as he read, curling around the fabric of her robe with a grip that sent pain arcing through her overworked muscles.

A slow breath escaped him, the gemstone feeling heavier in his pocket, as if it had suddenly gained substance. He lifted his gaze to Tia, his expression shifting—uncertain, wary.

His mind flashed back to the cavern, to the way she had nearly backed into the frozen water, eyes wide with fear.

“You saw this?” His voice was edged with disbelief, but he hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her—he did. He had no reason not to. But it sounded like something from a nightmare. Except… Tia hadn’t been asleep.

She didn’t respond. Tia was frozen under the weight of his gaze, pinned down by the new sharp edge. Her heart thundered in her ears like the voice from the vision. The reality settled into her finally — she’d told someone. Not everything, but Tia could see the questions building in him, his quick mind working her out like a puzzle.

Neatly, he folded the paper again, slipping it into the safety of his coat pocket. His gaze remained fixed on her, countless unspoken questions flickering behind his eyes. “Why don’t you want the Sage to know it’s from you?”

A thousand words she couldn’t say tumbled in her chest. She thought of the Arch Priest’s careful warnings. The Prince’s stern face as his eyes hardened with distrust and he demanded answers.

Her lips parted. She closed them again.

Tia uncurled a hand and brought it up to tap against the small emblem of the Church of Aelios embroidered on her robe. His eyes followed the movement, settling there for a few heartbeats.

“My words,” she managed in a soft, unsteady voice. It strained against her throat, tightened by her nerves. She tried to swallow. Tried to relax. Took another breath. “Have weight.”

Understanding clicked into place. Slowly, his gaze lifted back to hers, a small smile curving on his lips.

She fascinated him.

Beautiful, brave, and entirely unexpected. A mystery he hadn’t meant to start solving, but now he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to understand.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” he murmured, his tone light, teasing—but not dismissive. Her words did have weight. She was someone people listened to. Someone people followed.

And for some unknowable reason, here she was—trusting him.

“Your secrets are safe with me, Priestess.”

“Tia.” It slipped out without thought. She was too warm, too lightheaded with relief at his words, the return of his smile.

She wasn’t alone with her secrets anymore.

Her smile was small but real as she looked at him. Everything seemed lighter, suddenly. She gave a bow of her head before meeting his gaze again.

“Thank you.”

As she straightened, Zeph pushed himself off the bench in one fluid motion, rising to his full height. In an instant, the space vanished between them. Standing, he towered over her, close enough that the temple’s eternal flame wasn’t the only warmth he felt.

“Anytime, Tia.” he said quietly, a sly smirk forming on his lips.

Tia blinked, suddenly face to chest with him. Her eyes, wide and round, darted up to his.

She didn’t want to know what color her cheeks were. He was close enough that she had to crane her neck to look at him, his smile sharp and his eyes dancing in the firelight — her name on his tongue. Her secrets in his pocket.

Oh no.

Her brain didn’t work anymore. She blamed his proximity. Or her panic. Or the heat she felt that dangerously was not panic. She should step away, she knew. Give him space. She didn’t think she knew how to move.

“Mhm.” It was a high, strangled noise. Tia was fairly certain she’d never been a bigger idiot.

Zeph settled in place, as if he belonged there. His gaze drifted over her face, tracing the delicate curve of her cheek, the way the firelight played along her skin. Slowly, unhurried, his eyes lingered on her lips for a few breaths—just long enough for the thought to register.

Meeting her eyes again, he let the silence stretch, savoring the tension—and the surprising way in which she didn’t move away from him. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, teasing. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Maybe Aelios had actually blessed her, Tia considered, by taking away her voice — if only to keep her from answering his question.

She couldn’t look away from him as his gaze burned tracks into her skin. Hazel was too indistinct a word, she decided. His eyes danced in shades of the earth and forests, pine needles and honey gold, and a green so pale it was almost silver, like new growth on a desert plant. The fire splashed sunrise orange across it all.

Caught by his distracting eyes and starry freckles and smirking lips, Tia forgot how to breathe. Every nerve in her body felt taught and electric, crackling like the fire she tended to so dutifully. Her mouth was dry. She tried to swallow.

Tia taught herself how to move again and gave a small shake of her head. Then an abrupt step back.

Panic shot through her as her heel caught on the dragging fabric of her robe — but she managed to catch herself before she could do more than stumble.

It was like the world suddenly snapped back into reality, expanding beyond the tiny bubble that held them. Sight and sound existed for more than just his face and voice. Warmth existed beyond what radiated off his body, close enough to feel without touch.

Currently, all the warmth in the world was concentrated under Tia’s skin. She blinked rapidly as she looked back up at him — now from a safer distance. He still felt very close.

There it is.

The uncertainty, the wariness he had glimpsed in her yesterday. Zeph had caught it then, and he caught it now, pleased to see he could pull the same reaction from her so effortlessly. From a High Priestess of Aelios, no less.

That was satisfying.

His smirk deepened, smug and self-assured. She had flustered easily before, but now? Now he was certain—delighted—that it wasn’t just the natural unease at standing too close to a stranger. She had been quite comfortable mere moments ago, unbothered by the proximity she had initiated. But now, as he examined the heat creeping into her cheeks, he knew.

There was something else causing her to step away, something warmer. Familiar to him, but something she clearly didn’t know what to do with.

And he thought, for a moment, how interesting it might be to discover all her unspoken desires.

Did she even allow herself to have them? Did the church permit it? Did she? Or had she spent so long under the weight of that emblem that she’d convinced herself she was above such things? Above wanting?

A shame, if that were the case. Because Zeph knew desire. He knew the pull of it, the freedom in it, the way it could unravel even the most disciplined of minds.

He could show her how to indulge, if she so desired.

Letting the silence stretch again, he watched as she blinked—using the moment to steady himself, too.

“Well,” He finally said, his voice light, casual. “See you around then, Tia.”

He turned, shoving his hands into his pockets as he strolled toward the entrance, the faint jingle of the charm barely audible beneath his footsteps. Near the door, he paused, plucking a fresh prayer book from the stack—why not?—and, with the same unbothered confidence, snagged one more cookie.

The door slid shut with finality, the sound echoing through the temple.

Tia collapsed into the nearest bench. Her heart was too quick, and she was breathless, and she was never wearing this robe again.

His face was too warm. Tia brought her hands up to feel her cheeks, eyes widening as she remembered the way his gaze had trailed over her, his soft voice as he’d said her name.

The fire popped loudly and she jumped like a scolded child.

Reaching to the end of the pew, Tia grabbed Ranni’s stuffed gecko and sighed as she hugged it tightly to her chest. But beneath the flustered nerves and overwhelming unease — there was that warmth again. The sense of accomplishment that she was doing something with all of her secrets, and that someone (a someone who conjured fondness and amusement and panic) was going to help her with them. A soft smile found its way to her lips.

Tia still didn’t know his name.

Lord and Lady Coswain

Temple of Lunaris

Pretty Preistess

“Try not to kill the idiots, il see what trouble i can avoid Adon.” Persephone said as she got up heading over to the desk pulling a clock over her shoulders and heading over to the desk noting a busy looking woman with lime green Eyes. She was one of the staff, maybe she knew if she could borrow the kitchen some time.

Soon she found herself dragged into a errand but it was pretty harmless and have her chance to learn more about the town. The thing about being on duty or errands people tended forget about you and talk more freely, she could use that casual ignorance as she tightened her cloak about her neck, the thick furs Over her uniform layers would keep her warm in the harsh chill. “Sure, il barter you for time in the kitchens.”

“Deal, Lady Persephone. Lunaris Temple, Priestess Katherine.” Vala said with an agreement, short but direct, she got the impression the woman was not one for bullshit and they made a quick agreement between them with minimal fuss. Vala liked that, she knew what wanted and what she would pay.. no hurt feelings.

“I know, deal.” She said as she checked her cloak and everything as a habbit.

Her cloak was handy as it kept it warm and hid the older woman's blade under her cloak, a short Sword like many Lunarian women seemed to favour but hers was a heavy bladed messer pattern castle forged in the CapItal for her. She did not find armoured men her main threat and this favoured brutal cutting power and edge weight to level odds.

There might not be a threat, there probably was so she was glad to carry armed even minus armour she could do enough damage to escape.

She took a basket insulated with a blanket and a note and left spotting a giant of a man talking to a woman who .. gave her feelings that she was of similar nature… she missed nothing and seemed to be close to the giant and the innkeeper. The woman with wings.. Well she took advice to heart about getting the job she wanted.

That woman was on her list of people to Watch. She was dangerous or could be. The giant and in keeper… He was lower on list but the keeper, she seemed to gather Information in a way she would have hired in a blink as a local informant.

…

She left the Inn with a cold wave that hit her skin and woke the sense…any lingering sleep left the lady as she headed out the Temple, her basket swung from shoulder and she rested a hand protected by furs but close to what mattered. She did not live to be a grandmother being careless.

She was even suspected she saw boot prints, oddly familiar then realised it might be Daphne, she was safe, and probably Got snagged in some duty, or so. She had been up at the Temple after all and they had no official duties yet so just took what they needed to do. plus It was clear she was… Invested.. In a certain Katherine's wellbeing… she did not have to play coy with them, they really did not care if she went after she or he.

The walk through snowy streets was calming and Persephone made good time, swinging by stable to check on her mount and made a choice, she needed a ride to exercise so she mounted up, and quickly tacked and started out on the well known feisty Lunarian heavy, deep black coat and wide feet sank into the snow shod with iron cracking ice. She pulled the reins tight to keep it from keeping off. She was in charge, not her horse.

The trot she took was more roundabout mounted as she began to canter faster till she reached the Temple of Selua and tied her horse up while she delivered and made a quick prayer to Goddess. “I'll be back, steady, I won't be long.” She stroked the muscular neck of the horse and pushed the door open into the peaceful candle lit room.

The Temple was busier than before and she stepped in quietly pushing the door closed and seeing an white haired woman, another who she had not met yet. The trader from the Inn she heard about was there too and the small area had already got offerings. Persephone had little to give but she had food for the Holy woman and that would do.

She nodded politely to all present.

It was nice to know the Temple was cared for, and she noticed the white hair and dark haired women made an almost set but two opposite sides of a coin. Both smartly and warmly dressed for the conditions. maybe they worked for the Royal household or Nobles?

“Priestess Katherine? Lady Persephone.” She asked into the Temple softly and politely as she rested a basket of some of Syas creations… porridge pastery, porridge in a bowl and some left overs including sweets, cheeses and meats all wrapped in a blanket to keep them safe from winter's bite.

“The Eye asked me to bring this, breakfast, hot food, and I'm told.. The person who requested it was quite insistent you get cared for well and get a good meal.” She Said seeing how many dots she could join. If Daphne chose this woman for her affections, she could do far far worse.

“Also thankyou for Your care and protection during the alarm.” She said thankfully and made the sign of Selene and waited patiently.

Mentions
@Theyra
@enmuni@SpicyMeatball
@Qia

"Good morning, priestess," were the words that Desmond could muster after Silver had made her presence and, by extension his known and before the priestess left to prepare the temple. "You really had to do that? What do I say before we entered the temple?" Desmond annoyed at his feather friend.

Silver simply stared at him and hooted twice.

Desmond's face seemed tired, and he simply sighed. "Well, at least the priestess here is more welcoming than the one back home."

Silver hooted again and started looking around the temple.

Desmond, in turn, did the same. While he was here more for exploration. He did make sure he did not bother the other two people here. One was a woman with snowy white hair and was particularly beautiful. More so, in this light, Desmond stared for a time, almost in place, before he snapped out of it and looked away before she could notice. But something about her seemed familiar, but right now, he could not place his finger on it.

Then, the other person in the temple, another woman, this one with onyx black hair and bright blue eyes. He knows he has not seen this woman before, and he was curious about her. Desmond did not try to force the issue. But he felt a curiosity about her eyes that, for now, he chose not to focus on.

Still, for now, he was content with simply looking around the temple before he tried to talk with the priestess. So, he explored and walked around. Trying not to disturb the priestess or anyone else in the temple, for that matter. For some moments, Desmond admired how the temple looked on the inside, and he knows his mother would be happy about the state of the temple as well. He had a smile on his face and was in a good mood.

Then he heard the door to the temple open and, to his surprise, another visitor to the temple. Is the temple always this busy in the mornings, he thought as he watched the woman bring some food to the priestess. Apparently, it was a request by someone. Well, at least he knows the priestess here is being well cared for, it seems, though he was curious who this person was that cared for the priestess is, but now does not seem like the time to get an answer.

So Desmond decided to wait around and check out more of the temple and not bother anyone. While keeping an eye out if more people show up and make this temple even more crowded.

Interact - @SpicyMeatball
Mentioned - @Qia, @enmuni, @PrinceAlexus

Aurora Halliwell

Eye of The Beholder
At the Inn

Aurora was awoken by the gentle nudges of Salem, her beloved cat, who was tapping and nuzzling her cheek with a soft purr. Slowly, she turned her face to meet his gaze and smiled ”Good morning, Salem! I bet you’re hungry,” she said, scratching his favourite spot, just behind his ears while he purred.

She sat up in the bed and stretched her arms over her head to shake off the remnants of sleep, she then pulled off the cosy blanket that had her warm through the night and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. As her feet hit the cold ground she quickly slipped her feet into her slippers, she then reached for her hair brush.

Seated at the edge of her bed, she started to brush through her hair, the rhythmic strokes allowed her mind to wander. She found herself replaying the events from last night. The laughter and lively chatter, the smiles of strangers that had become friends. She felt a warm glow in her heart as she recalled her conversation with Céline, a new friend she had made. Their conversation had been filled with their shared passion for medicine. It was a night that had woven new threads into the tapestry of her life, and Aurora was eager to see where those threads might lead her.

When she had finished brushing her hair, she separated it into two sections, braided each one, and tied the ends of each braid with a purple ribbon. She then decided to quickly get washed and dressed. Once she had finished, she took out a bowl of food that one of the Inn staff had given her and placed it on the side table. Salem hopped up and started to eat, she then scratched Salem behind the ears once again. “I will be back soon,” she said to him. With that, she turned, opened the door and headed downstairs to have some breakfast, she was eager to see who she would meet.

Vellion let out a deflated sigh, gaze trailing the path of the fleeing priestess but with none of his earlier mocking torment, instead holding a silent contemplation. Perhaps he almost felt guilt or remorse. If he did, it was unclear. Nyla resisted arching a brow as she caught the flicker of emotion passing through his dark eyes. The steel within her softened against him, if only for a moment.

Quickly dismissing whatever thoughts had intruded on his mind, he turned his attention back to Nyla and finally responded. "That I am, Ass is fine. Asshole also works, or anything of that nature really.” He says with disinterest as he turns his back on the woman and steps over to where his clothes lay, throwing the towel over his head as he starts rubbing his hair dry.

"So what are you really doing here?” His muffled voice escaped the towels movements. "You seemed pretty interested in that priestess, despite barely knowing her.” He had stopped toweling himself down and fixed a suspicious insinuating eye on her. A faint accusatory smirk sitting ready in the corner of his lips.

"Did I, interrupt something?”

Nyla returned his smirk and let out a soft, airy laugh. “Why? You are jealous?” She teased, her desert accent slipping into her words.

She peeled her gaze away from his, glancing down at the basket of cookies in her hands, trying to suppress the shame that had crept in. Briefly, she looked up the stone steps to confirm the Priestess had truly gone—escaped—then returned her gaze to him.

“You wish to be with her, or…?” She tilted her head, black hair cascading over her shoulder as a sweet smile played on her lips. “I think, maybe, you should try a softer approach with that one, Ass.” She paused, letting her eyes roam over him, taking her time in doing so. “Aurelian Priestesses are not so easily impressed.”

Done with his hair, he ran the towel quickly over his shoulders looking back at the woman who’s name he didn't know.
"Jealous? Me? No. Intrigued? Maybe.” He gave a faint shrug, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"A man can wish for many things, can he not?” He teased, musing to himself, flashing another playful devilish grin her way. Through that smile, an almost precursor to what was to come, he continued.

"She might’ve been impressed if she’d stuck around long enough to fall for my irresistible charm."

He paused, just for a beat—then, with no warning at all, flung his damp towel toward her. She flinched at the sudden movement, gripping the basket tighter and taking an automatic, fearful step backwards.
Silent, swift, and unnervingly precise, Vellion devoured the space between them with a preternatural grace. As the towel fell fluttering away, he was there, mere breaths away, eyes waiting, locked on hers. They searched her, relentlessly, invasively, for truths she hadn’t spoken, for secrets still hidden behind her tongue.

And then, finally he spoke, slow and low, every word wrapped in a velvet rhythm, more spell than sentence.

"How about you?”

Nyla held his gaze, unable to look away, even as her heart beat faster. Her nerves alight once more.

"You're not an Aurelian Priestess. So.. Are you impressed?”

For a moment, it took Nyla longer than she’d ever admit for her to feel fully grounded within her own body again.

It had been so long since someone had so intensely flirted with her—danced with her. Many had tried, but she could hardly recall the last time any had left her feeling unbalanced.

She blinked, quickly trying to return to herself and push the feeling aside. Her posture relaxed as the easy smile she had perfected returned to her lips.

“I’m much harder to impress.” she said smoothly, but with a playful, mocking undertone. She gave him a look of exaggerated disappointment, as though he could never hope to meet her exceptionally high standards. She held his gaze, but inside, she could feel the rapid pulse in her chest.

For just a second, she felt something—a small, unfamiliar flicker of nervousness—and quickly glanced away from him, her eyes drifting back to the stone steps, seeking some distraction to divert his attention.

“What is it you do here in town, anyway?” she asked, trying to regain her footing. Her gaze moved behind him to the sword propped up against the stone, recalling the scent of decay that had clung to the air earlier.

“You… hunt?” she asked, realizing now that she could no longer detect that scent.

"I… hunt.” He confirmed, voice echoing in her ear. Her eyes and attention might have darted about but his remained fixed. Fixed on her, held with a calm confident intensity. He was more than fixed, he was fixated. Lips softly parting with an apparent hunger. He looked ready and wanting to kiss her, or perhaps with that hunger in his eyes, it was to bite her.

Neither eventuates.

He breathed, a slow drawn out breath, its sound hanging on the silence between them, then with a sudden chuckle the moment was broken, bursting like a bubble, disappearing like a drop of rain into the stream of moments before it.

Nyla watched him carefully again, noting how effortlessly he had dodged her questions—twice now. No name. An unconvincing confirmation of his occupation, buried in innuendo. Her instincts whispered not to trust him. And yet, she stayed.

"And how about you? Do you hunt?” He asked mockingly as he headed back to pick up his clothes, deliberately positioning himself nearer his blade than perhaps necessary.

"What is it you do? Besides creep around the hotsprings carrying cookies?”
He noticed the basket for the first time.

“This is just my favorite pastime," she joked, a soft lilt of genuine amusement in her voice.

Now that he had put some distance between them, she felt steadier, more in control when her eyes met his again.

“I… entertain,” she added after a beat, the words tasting strange on her tongue. She used to, anyway. Something twisted in her heart at the thought—bitter and sad. She had no true place here, or anywhere. Not yet. But maybe, if she could get through speaking to Flynn, she would find her place again.

Brushing past the thought, she tilted her head, letting that playful glint return to her eyes. "Are you entertained?" she asked, plucking a cookie from the basket and holding it out in offering to him.

As Vellion begins redressing himself, starting with his pants, he glances up at Nyla and the offered treat in her outstretched hand.

"No.” He replied flatly. That single simple word deliberately left vague, and yet somehow so filled with the heavy undertone of a challenge. A dare.

"Not yet anyway.” His eye's bore a challenge but he said nothing else, a teasing glint in his demeanour as he tightened his belt and spoke with silence.

With a shrug, she slowly withdrew the offering, taking a small, deliberate bite instead. Chewing, she let the silence linger between them, holding his gaze thoughtfully.

“You’re not so easy to impress either, then.” She said after a moment, unabashedly observing the way he took his time to dress. “Good.”

Despite her nerves, there was something undeniably sharp and defiant in her blue eyes. He could challenge her all he wanted—she wasn’t going to ask “how high” when he told her to jump.

He gave a slight noncommittal shrug in reply to her keen observation. Not at all surprised she didn't fall for the bait. Meanwhile continuing to take his time getting dressed in front of her. His wet shirt clinging to his muscles which he tense while pulling it on. As if almost aware of what movements and positions highlighted his best features.

"So just what sort of entertainment do you offer?” He questions as he pauses getting dressed to give her reply his proper focus. Showing some signs of curious interest. Even if it was the type of interest a farmer might show to cattle he was thinking of purchasing.

“That depends,” she mused softly, her gaze tracing the tension in his arms before flicking back up to meet his gaze. “What sort of entertainment do you desire?”

Vellion found this woman increasingly difficult to rattle, and was running out of buttons to push. In that moment, he conclusively decided to give up on hiding the smile from his lips that she had created. Fully dressed now he let out a soft chuckle as he shook his head and retrieved his sword from the ground, finding he needed a moment's thought to find a reply.

In doing so, he was acceptingly giving her a point, if this were some game of skill and scoring.

He bit his lip, looking at the snow covered ground around his feet, deciding. Sword in hand he eventually looked back up, committal determination burning in his eyes as he playfully pointed the sheathed blade at the stranger before him. Time for boldness.

"Hmmm.

Clearly a fake thought as he steps closer.

"The sort that takes place before a warm fire. ”

Nyla raised a brow as he took another step, snow crunching beneath his bare feet.

"On or beside a comfy bed.”
Another step. His breath visible in the cold air.

"Puts a drink on my lips.”

A final step that sees the wooden sheath softly press against her sternum. She held her breath, stubbornly refusing to back away. This wasn’t the first time a man had pressed a weapon to her skin, but it had been the first time in a long time.

"And reverses,”

He lowers his voice, slowly sliding the weapon down along her stomach, gliding between the folds of her cloak.

"Our recent situation.”

A deft flick of his wrist tugged the garment open. Nyla tensed, but remained in place, the cold air rushing in against her chest. Though her tunic still covered her, the sudden absence of her cloak’s warmth was sharp, immediate. She was glad, for once, that she had dressed appropriately for the cold.

"It’s only fair after all..”

Slowly, as if moving too quickly might invite him closer, Nyla reached out and pressed her palm against the sheath. In an unhurried, deliberate motion, she guided it downward and away from her body.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, but her expression remained impeccably composed—disinterest worn like armor. Desperately, she tried to hold onto that feeling of dismissive control, like a thread that was slowly slipping through her fingertips.

“Fair?” She mused, lifting her gaze back to his. “You didn’t strike me for someone who plays fair.”

His amused grin widens at her witty retort.

She let the silence stretch between them, considering his words—if only to allow herself a moment to breathe. His eyes burned into her, but she refused to flinch beneath it.

“Start with the drink,” she finally said, a faint curve teasing at her lips. “Let’s see where that gets you.”

Withdrawing her palm from the sheathe, she stepped around him with fluid grace—like she had never been caught off guard at all. Like she never could be.

Moving past him, she strode toward the path that led away from the hotspring and back into town, choosing the route that curved around the temple rather than through it. With her back to him, every nerve in her body buzzed in warning, but she continued.

’A drink….’ If only it were that easy. When her back turned to him, all expression faded from his face, melting away in the absence of her gaze. ’Oh how he wanted a drink’
It seemed the fox from earlier had only served as an appetiser, now with a refreshed taste, he craved the main meal. He watched her walk, he could sense the warmth of her body, hear the beat of her heart, smell the mix of aroma’s on her skin. A ravenous craving had been growin in the pit of his soul.

He needed to feed.

Extending his senses beyond her, he look up the path and listen to the forest around them. Besides the rippling water he heard and saw no signs of company. They were all alone. The weight of his blade feeling right in his hand.

Brushing off the weight of choices, he clipped his sword to his belt and made a step to follow. Mask springing back in place, just in time.

A few paces away, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes met his—a silent question held there. A challenge.

’A challenge indeed. Vellion thought, although what prize he was seeking, he wasn't yet quite sure.

"Are you buying? it's a new age after all.”

Nyla simply scoffed in response.

---

As they drew nearer the center of town and the tavern, Vellion’s pace seemed to slow before he finally came to a complete stop.

"This is hardly the appropriate attire for our first date.” He teased, pinching the shoulder of his wet shirt. Nyla arched an inquisitive brow, though she remained quiet and examined his shirt. How he wasn't shivering against cloth that was likely turning into a sheet of ice, she didn't know.

"Let me just go and get into something a little finer, I insist. Unless of course you wish to come help me get changed, instead of just watching this time.”

Despite herself, Nyla couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips.

"Go ahead, start without me, I'll find you soon.” He effortlessly lied.

She couldn’t help but find it amusing that he suddenly cared about his attire—especially considering how little shame he’d had earlier, standing stark naked in front of two strangers. Still, she played along, tilting her head in mock consideration.

“You own finery?” she teased, though she was genuinely surprised. At every turn, he seemed to surprise her.

“Fine,” she said with a small, exaggerated sigh. “But don’t take too long. Patience isn’t my strong suit.” She flashed him a playful smile before turning away. Without looking back, she strode toward the tavern, though she remained keenly aware of every step he took—or didn’t take—behind her.

Stepping away felt like a relief. His presence had a way of dominating whatever space he was in, as if it were trying to devour her. Dangerous—and tantalizing. Now, at least, she could gather herself, reel in that thread of poise and control that had started to unravel.

The plan to go to the tavern was only so that she would not be alone with this force of a man. Though she could not deny, he was interesting—if nothing else.

As she strode away, she focused on the basket in her hands, and her thoughts drifted back to the Priestess. A shiver of worry ran down her spine, and the unsettling thought that this stranger might turn back to the temple. She didn’t trust him—didn’t even know his name.

Her steps slowed slightly, her instincts kicking into overdrive now that she had put some distance between them. Decisively, she made up her mind that she would tell a guard to reinforce the watch around the temple, just to be cautious—just in case. She wasn’t sure what exactly troubled her, but something about this entire encounter hadn’t sat right.

Still, despite her nerves and all the walls she had carefully built around herself, she found herself almost hoping he would show up to the tavern. This stranger had been the most intriguing she’d encountered in far too long, and the way he’d unsettled her, thrown her off balance, felt…. oddly refreshing.

It was as if something within her, long dormant, had stirred awake again. The feeling was dangerous, she knew, but it was also thrilling.

She felt alive again.

Ayel Raunefeldt

Raunefeldt Residence

The audacity. How dared they tell him to return to his residence. No one but a royal and himself could tell him what to do. The ever so gracious, levelheaded and always considerate nobleman had surely given those rude good-for-nothing a good reprimand. It made his fall into sleep go so much easier, it had filled him with enough self-importance that he felt compelled to fall asleep.

When Ayel finally was waking up, he felt however disappointed, he had not been having any rich and intriguing dreams about himself, neither did he receive any guiding visions of Aelios. He felt momentarily at a loss, til he focused his eyes on the ceiling above and the large mirror he had neatly placed there. There was something special in being greeted by the person you loved in the morning.

After a having taken a few moments to take off his face mask, the Marquess took some deep stares at himself. While the world had gone dark, he was confident that his face would be the substitute sun until things would return to normal.

Those damn brutes were surely to blame, and their barbaric worship of the ice witch.

But while he knew that he was rich, he simply couldn't afford the time to think about those half-humans, no he had work to do.

The man walked over to his mirrors, all twelve of them neatly arranged in a circle, so that no matter where he would look he could always get the full view.

"Mmm... perfect." He mused softly and then fetched a small bowl of water to wash himself, which he did. Soon after he began to apply all his various oils and skin lotions. He could not stand it if he would get a wrinkle before Lord Stormlight. And when. If. He would get one. It would be a sign of aged charm. Like a man who gets some grey hair or beard.

Not that he would want a beard. It would cover up too much of his perfect jawline. It wasn't worth the effort. Ayel took of his net-headpiece which had been kept on during the night to protect his locks of hair.

"You are such a ravishing, strapping and handsome  man, Lord Raunefeldt. Oh yes you are... hmm... mmmhmm." He chuckled and reached for his box of wonders, opening the finely carved miniature chest which stood in the middle of the twelve mirrors.

He picked up some lipstick and applied a dark purple colour to his lips, making a smacking sound and giving himself a raised eyebrow. His reflections truly did him more justice than anyone else. The ever humble and humility adorned noble then opened his jewelry box, chosing between all his rings. Even if he had left his large collection at home, still picking between fourty was tough work.

After much consideration and deliberation he was finally done, picking a ring for each finger. Then he walked over to put on his attire, the corset was put tight. Not because he considered himself fat, but it was a fashion statement and a show that he was aware of his looks and wasn't some overendulging 'new rich' person.

He then proceeded to comb his hair, meticolously making sure that his locks would lie perfectly on his head. It was an important thing, his head held the greatest mind of Aurelia for generations, such were to be taken care of.

He did his finishing touches on his attire, choosing a pink longcoat with fur collar and peacock feathers. He then carefully picked up his family broché depicting his mother in profile.

"Oh mother dearest, if only you could see me right now. Not every mother can say they've birthed something this good. Mm. Yes."  The always considerate nobleman smirked and picked up his walking cane. He would use one today, his sword having already been strapped by his belt.

He knocked on the doot with his cane.

"Doors." He said aloud.

There were silence.

He coughed softly.

"Doors!" He said in a louder tone, his ever so finetuned patience growing thin.

"Open the fucking door!" He yelled out in rage before he came to the realization that he had no maids or butler.

Faldrin. That useless idiot. What was taking him so long? He didn't have time to wait two months.

The nobleman opened the door himself. It was thankfully his own door and not some germ infested commoner handle he had touched. But he still felt a lump in his stomach, that what if the handle had not been cleaned enough. He took out his napkin and cleaned his hand.

Breakfast. He had to eat. Oh what a bother. How had he missed the fact he needed a cook? Then again. They were servant folks. They were so easily forgotten. He had to try solve his hunger himself. He went to fetch himself some wine, cheese, smoked pork and tomatoes.

While he was enjoying his successfully crafted breakfast he realized he should go visit the Aelios shrine again, to make an offering and get himself and the prince properly blessed. That woman which Aelios had acted through might be able to relay his concerns to Aelios herself.

The noble wiped his mouth and then put some of the leftover tomatoes into a small basket. These would be a good offering.

His sister was seemingly already out. A good morning indeed. He went over to one of the windows, undid the hatches and looked at the blue skies, the white fluffy clouds and the view of his favorite room in Aurelia. That painting was perfect to use as a substitute for the damnable darkness and state of peasant plague that afflicted Dawnhaven.

"Mmm... to the shrine then." He said softly, picking up a big black hat with a feather, putting it on his head before locking the door and heading out.

Claret Crown

A big yawn was heard, followed by six limbs stretching.

"Ahh shite! T'was some good nap. Now where the feck are me?" Claret looked around, trying to recall the happenings of the last day. Had he drank up all his rum? The thought of being out of it filled him with a sense of dread. Being fully sober was dangerous.

The man wiggled his toes, and when he did he noticed two midgets by the end of the bed. Smaller than children they were, and dressed in crude outfits. They were even slightly ugly.

"Pard'n the intrus'hun... oi wait a shmackin' moment. Ye ain't midgets ye are feckin'..." He blinked to the two puppeteer dolls he had used as socks for the night. Oh that was right, he had broken into a room at the inn at night. They had locked him out. The nerve of some people, the former pirate captain had taken matters into his own hands.

"Oh..." He said in a short moment of revelation, that his post drunk clarity had bestowed upon him.

"At least me did nae burn it down this time 'round... tha's progress in me shippin' log. Time ta get meself some gosship an' intre...deuce meself ta 'dem highnessinesses..." The swaggered his was out of the bed and tossed his temporary puppet socks to the side.

"Feck some real freaky landlubber shaggin' dolls, shite... the fecker is gettin' more shag than me still. Cannae 'ave tha'. Time ta get meself some buried chest an' booty."

The former pirate grinned and got himself dressed. Which just meant putting on his boots, as all his other clothes he had kept on.

He had to get his way out of here before he would end up in trouble. More trouble. He went up to the door. It was locked.

"Ahh come on! Why ye gotta do me dirty like tha'. Okay it's the capt'n Crown tackke time." He rubbed his four hands together and then ran to force the door open. A loud banging sound.

"Oopsie...ne'er was one for knockin' things down... knocking up howev- oh shite gotta go. " He picked the door back up and discreetly. Or attempted to discreetly jam it into the doorway again. "Like new. Carry on ye dashbuckler." He scurried away on swift steps before someone would notice what he did. He had not stolen enough coins to afford to pay for a new one. Or the window he broke to get in.

Claret made himself down to what appeared to be the largest room.

"Gud mornin' everbuddeh! Who wants a hug? Me throat is a tad bit sore after last nights whatever-stuffus wha's goin' on... but enough o' that and more 'bout whose willin' to buy themselves a friend? Not just any friend mind ye, but the formerly dreaded pirate o' pirate captains, Captain Crown. Aye? At yer service ladies and gentleladdies! Whose up to be me...lessee 'ere... fiftyseventh first mate?" Claret gave a cheeky grin to the entire room, his four hands place on his waist as he took in the view. Now this place was more like it. If he could get drunk enough in here and sway enough it would feel like he was on the Crown Jewel again.

Sya turned her head quickly as a guest she did not recognize came down from top floor, the Inn was locked down overnight…the doors were locked and yet shenwould recognise a 6 armed ... .Pirate? He looked like he came out of the stories of the far seas and deep waters.

“Thankyou, enjoy your meals, They smell good anyway. Vi already ate.” Sya said lightly as she waved friendlily to the father and daughter, she seemed hesitant but ate the breakfast she created. Sya did not mention their little confrontation before, just a little of stress between the two of them at the time. She decided to not explain she did not eat but what she ate... was well a little diffrent.

Why did everyone, and everything get in the way of her trying to introduce new ideas? She wanted to ask about new food, show her new baked goods and her ideas of savory pastries. But would life let her? life made things harder than they had to be.

Her tail flicked sharpy with annoyance as she realised someone could have risked all her guests… He could have done anything. “VOU, virate.” Sya said in her harsh accent with a whip crack of change from her affordable self as she put down her tray. Her tail swung round to directly point at him and she jabbed it like a blade.

“Sorry, freind eggs, I must deal with 4 armed egg and maybe fry him. Friend Kira, freind Ivor. Please stay, enjoy. Your part of my box and welcome here.” Sya said far more calmly and with a genuine apology. She wanted to stay and talk to them, get to know Kiara and talk to Ivor. Maybe ask Nesna something but she had other problems.

“Nsna, I might av a Job for vou, later though, we can talk over some tea freind egg, we go to vy apartment, and talk .” Sya said as she waved the guards Sya would take care of this and she slithered forward slowly lining her tail behind her despite being 5 foot nothing tall of a Lamia owned the place and her environment, narrow and protecting her tail. "Lord Stormlight, please eat."

“I was trying to hand out breakfast, are you a guest…” Sya asked as she slithered closer, and did not let him intimidate her. “How can ze Eye help. I am Sya and this is my Eye of ze Beholdler” Sya asked with a polite, but a challenge nonetheless.

“vat brings you to my Inn Captain Crown so var from the seas.” Sya asked and she gestured with hands and tail expressively as bright cobalt Scales simmered and danced in the light of the comual fire and candles. She felt the metal arm ring she wore and it felt slowly more natural again to wear one. Her lands custom, she would carry on.

“Please enjoy, while I sort zis Out.” Sya said to the room as she rectified the confusion around this Captain.

...

Mentions
@Echotech71@enmuni@The Muse@SkeankySnack@Qia@Dezuel

Standing inside the Commander’s Quarters with Amaya at his side, Flynn couldn’t help but feel a bit off-kilter. He had fully expected to face this day alone. At least, that had been his assumption the night before, when the weight of everything had felt heavier, when he hadn’t been sure if Amaya would want to involve herself in this—in him. But she was here. Silent and guarded, but present. And he found that he was glad for it.

Despite his own relief, the room held a heavy air of unspoken tension, a battlefield of words waiting to be waged. Likely, the war had begun long before Flynn and Amaya had arrived.

At the center of the room, a large table dominated the space, a map of southern Lunaris sprawled across its surface, its creases worn, fresh ink marking supply lines and patrol routes. Amaya’s pale eyes studied it, cataloguing all the ways it was unrecognizable — blighted villages, new paths drawn, information she’d always been kept from. She didn’t let her gaze linger. Not when Commander Volkov stood before her, the shadow he cast resembling her father. It set her nerves on edge, a dangerous prickling along her skin. A quiet, familiar warning to give nothing away, even as her energy started twisting painfully in her chest.

The two Commanders stood at opposite ends—Volkov with his arms crossed, sharp eyes settling on Amaya for a long, assessing moment before shifting to judge Flynn with equal scrutiny. At the other end, Barrett stood at rigid attention, his eyes only on the Prince, though Flynn caught the particularly fiery glare he shot Volkov’s way when the Lunarian Commander neglected to bow his head or salute upon the royal couple’s arrival.

Flynn stifled a heavy sigh, schooling his features into careful neutrality as he strode to the table. He gave Barrett a small nod in acknowledgment before shifting his attention to Volkov, who met his gaze unflinchingly—not quite insubordinate, but close enough to be noted.

Flynn didn’t look away. His expression remained calm, waiting. The seconds stretched. No one spoke. Only the crackle of the fireplace filled the silence.

Barrett took a step forward, his chest rising as he prepared to remind Volkov exactly who stood before him, but Flynn lifted a hand, stopping him before a single word could escape.

"It is fine, Commander Barrett.” Flynn said, his voice carrying a cool, effortless veneer of politeness. “It seems Commander Volkov believes that respect is a privilege to be earned rather than a duty of his station." Amaya’s eyes cut to Flynn and how he carried himself. It was so unlike how she knew him, but disorienting in its familiarity. How he stood, back straight and stance unyielding as he faced the two Commanders — how his was the first voice in the room, how his tone commanded and censured beneath the mask of propriety.

He let the words settle, pausing as he searched within himself for the kind of authority his father had wielded so effortlessly—the kind of power that stripped men like Volkov of their defiance and forced them onto their knees with a single glance.

The thought twisted something in his chest.

He was not his father. He did not need fear to command respect. Authority did not have to be a hammer held over the heads of others.

Swiftly, he reeled himself back in, acutely aware of maintaining his composed, measured expression.

“I suppose I cannot fault him for that.”

Volkov’s jaw tightened, but he did not falter. Instead, the older man tilted his chin upward, unimpressed, arms still crossed as he replied in a gravelly voice, "If His Grace and Her Highness are finished posturing, perhaps we can get on with it? I do have a town to take care of." Eyes like ice fell back on Volkov as Amaya heard the difference in address.

Flynn tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Is that what you call it?" His tone carried no humor, the politeness slipping away before he could catch it.

“My wife’s life was at risk. Two—dead.” Flynn’s index finger struck the table sharply, each word a weight. Beside him Amaya’s breath caught in her throat. Her gaze unfocused. Frost crept its way over her heart, through her blood — she hadn’t known there was another death. “And the attacker is still on the loose.” His green eyes narrowed, searching Volkov’s weathered face. “All under your watch.”

Volkov’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t look away.

“You constructed a town on the edge of a warzone, Your Grace.” he said, steel blue eyes narrowed on the Prince. “We don’t have the manpower to—”

“Failure of command.” Flynn interrupted, his voice sharp. "Not lack of manpower.”

Volkov’s lips pressed into a thin line, and heavy silence descended upon the room again.

Amaya was no longer paying attention. With a placid face and unseeing eyes, she retreated into her chaotic flurry of thoughts. Who had died? The other soldier? A civilian? Had they suffered? Screamed like Sir Abel had? Did their blood coat the snow, a violent spray of ruby against white? Had there been witnesses? More innocents with memories as stained and gruesome as hers were? As Elara’s –

Why hadn’t Flynn told her?

“The losses are… regrettable, Your Highness.” Commander Barrett’s voice broke the quiet, his tone calm and measured, light brown eyes flicking from Volkov to Flynn. “But we are handling the situ—”

“Poorly.” Flynn countered, turning his searing gaze onto the Aurelian Commander. Barrett averted his eyes, nodding once and falling silent—taking the hint.

“How yesterday was handled was a disgrace,” Flynn said, attempting to steady the fire in his tone and replace it with the composure he’d been trained to maintain. He’d sat through countless councils beside his father, weighed in on debates, and navigated the sharp edges of politics with practiced care. He’d danced through noble galas, shared drinks with dignitaries, learned to choose every word like a weapon and read the truth buried beneath theirs.

But nothing could have prepared him for this.

He was still learning to navigate it—with emotional involvement and real, tangible lives at stake now. “A complete breakdown in the chain of command. Patrols neglected, protection compromised…”

He paused, shifting his gaze back to Volkov. “King Jericho may not have sent many of your men, but King Auric sent an army of Aurelians here.” Flynn’s gaze sharpened, searching for any sense of yielding in Volkov’s eyes—any sign of acknowledgement to the truth of it.

The sound of her father’s name snapped Amaya back into herself. Blinking rapidly, she tried to reorient – the conversation, the men, Flynn. But beneath her skin something stirred – her magic, finally beginning to wake after its deceptive slumber. Her hands curled into fists in the folds of her skirt. As subtly as she could, Amaya forced a slow breath in and out.

“Put them to use.”

Flynn turned back to Barrett, “Procedures need to be streamlined. No more miscommunication. We can’t afford it.” Barrett met his gaze, a flicker of thoughts stirring behind his eyes.

“Or do you intend to tell me that you two cannot function as a single unit?”

Barrett opened his mouth to respond, but Volkov’s gruff voice thundered over him, cutting him off.

"Perhaps, Her Highness might request the assistance of more soldiers from the King." Amaya’s eyes snapped to the old Commander – a man who had been on the periphery of her life for years.

He leaned forward, planting his hands firmly on the table as he spoke, his tone unwavering, as though his suggestion were the only logical solution. "We need more Lunarians who know the land. Who know what it's like to fight blight-born in this cursed weather. At the very least, that much would be useful."

His words hung heavy in the air, his gaze settling on Amaya, though his expression was unreadable. She stared back, unflinching even as her heart pounded. She wore masks as well as he did – she wore them better. There was no hint of respect in his voice, only practicality—and perhaps a subtle jab at the lack of readiness he perceived in the current forces. Yet, beneath the surface of his words, a subtle tension simmered. Volkov understood all too well that Amaya’s influence over her father was minimal at best. The chances of her persuading him were next to none.

Flynn's eyes narrowed, the weight of the Lunarian’s words sinking in. He knew exactly what Volkov was getting at, and the insinuation pricked at him like a thorn. Anger sparked within Flynn’s chest, a fiery frustration building with every passing second.

His jaw clenched, but he bit his tongue, willing himself to stay composed. Instead of letting the tension spill over, he forced his gaze away from Volkov and turned his attention to Amaya, his expression softening, though the anger still churned beneath the surface.

The weight of every eye in the room pressed against her skin, both distraction and warning. Her icy magic only grew more restless – or maybe that was just her building nerves, growing more frenzied the tighter she made her grip. Flynn’s attention blazed like a wildfire next to her, but she didn’t look at him – she couldn’t. Instead all her attention was on Volkov and his stare. His familiar slate eyes, greying hair, weathered face… his soldier’s bearing. Amaya watched him and her father watched back, just as he’d watched her through the eyes of every councilmember and guard and servant in the palace. His shadow was vast and imposing on the wall behind him — but it was only a shadow.

And it had always been easier to shield herself when she’d found a proper threat. Her nerves sharpened into a familiar, impulsive anger.

“If His Majesty has not been receptive to your requests for more soldiers,” she finally said, “then I will of course consider writing on your behalf.”

Across the table, Volkov’s eyes narrowed into a cold, slitted glare.

Amaya’s face remained calm, despite the blade’s edge focus of her eyes meeting his. She’d taught herself this song, with its wicked edges and coy softness. It had been her only defense in the palace other than quiet, practiced stillness. If the old man wanted to trade veiled words with her, fine.

Amaya’s voice was no louder than it needed to be to cross the distance between them. It was as careful and gentle as her mother’s had been – but without her warmth. Volkov, frigid and stony as he was, wouldn’t tolerate it, as anyway.

He wouldn’t find it useful.

“Though, forgive me Lieutenant Volkov, perhaps I misunderstand the chain of command.” There was no edge to her voice, no blistering cold, even as she misaddressed him. No, that was all carefully folded beneath the surface, where ice continued to build. Amaya tried to calm it, even as she kept her same measured tone. “Did you not reach your station because of your wealth of experience and knowledge? Is it not within your capacity to train soldiers to face unfamiliar threats and survive our kingdom’s landscape?”

Then, just to piss him off, Amaya gave him a soft smile.

“I regret my ignorance on this matter, but I trust you as the arbiter of your own limitations.”

Flynn watched her in silent awe. Everything about her was measured. Each word chosen with surgical precision, her tone controlled down to the last syllable. Not reckless. Not volatile. Just... exact. The kind of control that had been honed over time, not born overnight.

And that smile—goddess, that smile—soft as snowfall, sharp as glass. A quiet, elegant slap across the Commander’s face.

This wasn’t improvisation, he realized. This was instinct.

She wasn’t just holding her ground—she was navigating the tension like she’d done it a hundred times before, as if she knew exactly where to cut and how deep.

She’d fought this war of words long before she’d ever set foot in Dawnhaven. And she was damn good at it.

Though his expression didn’t change, something in him shifted. The fire of his own anger dimmed, replaced by a pride that burned deeper.

Because she didn’t need him to shield her. She wasn’t looking for rescue.

She’d already turned the blades back on them with nothing more than her voice and expression—turning the battlefield to ice beneath their feet.

“Well, Your Highness,” Volkov drawled, pulling Flynn’s focus. There was a flicker of amusement in the Commander’s eyes, the barest hint of a smile half-hidden beneath his beard, as though he’d been expecting a pointed rebuttal. As though he were used to enduring volleys of all kinds. “Even with all my years of experience, His Majesty can be unshakable once he has made a decision. As I am sure you are well aware. I had simply assumed—considering the fate of the world lies in your…capable hands…that perhaps you might hold influence over him. That we may…“streamline” ourselves, as the Aurelian Prince put it.”

Amaya faltered, something flashing through her eyes. She’d been frantically cursing herself and her sharp tongue — they were meant to be encouraging cooperation, not antagonizing the Commanders — as her magic flickered at the borders of her control. But the Commander’s tone – his expression – cut through her thoughts. Instead of anger at her disrespect or a thoughtless dismissal, stern, grizzled, disdainful Volkov met her words with… something perilously close to entertainment.

His gaze flicked briefly to Flynn before returning to Amaya. “For if the Crown cannot move as one, how can the sword beneath it?” He straightened, his posture growing even more rigid. “But, of course, your consideration is…most appreciated, Your Highness.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he let the weight of his words settle in the air—an unspoken jab at the many divides they stood to cross. Aurelians and Lunarians. Blight-born and humans. King Jericho and his daughter. Flynn and Amaya.

Despite the restraint in Volkov’s voice—beneath his patronizing tones—Flynn saw the truth of it. To Volkov, these divides were not meant to be crossed. Bridges that could never be built.

Amaya kept her eyes on the Lunarian Commander, trying to reevaluate. She’d felt off-kilter and ill-equipped for the entire short duration of this meeting, but somehow Volkov’s behavior was the most disorienting experience yet. The condescension was expected… but engaging with her was not. It was nearly enough to disarm her.

“However I may assist,” she said slowly, eyes still watching Volkov as if he might strike. “As you say, we should strive for better unity at all levels.” Amaya held his gaze for another beat then forced herself to look away – to let her eyes drift around the room, taking in the Aurelian banners and insignias scattered about.

Sea green and summer gold.

“Should we start with combining your quarters?” Her expression was innocent when she returned her attention to Volkov – but the sharpness in her gaze had dulled somewhat. In its place was something more searching and evaluating, as she tried to understand exactly what sort of opponent she was facing. “It would certainly make it easier for our forces to ‘move as one’ if they had the example of their Commanders to follow.” Her eyebrow raised slightly. “And just think of the efficiency.”

Volkov’s gaze hardened on Amaya, frost etched into stone. Her eyes sharpened again, latching onto his shift. There was the satisfaction of something clicking into place – she’d found a crack in his composure. His jaw set, muscles tensing, but he said nothing at first. Beside him, Commander Barrett shifted–equally uncomfortable with the notion.

“I do not think it wise.” Volkov said at last, his voice flat. “My men need a place they can speak freely.”

A lie–anyone in the room who knew his command style would recognize it. Volkov ran his ranks like a blade; sharp, unyielding, and without tolerance for dissent. “Free speech” had no place under his roof–only obedience.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Flynn said, his diplomatic tone slipping back into place. The authority in his tone rang through Amaya like a cathedral bell, loud and discordant as it crashed through the careful song she’d begun. “Amaya is right. We need to present a unified front. It should begin here.” Amaya froze. Suddenly, her veiled words were made entirely too solid.

Commander Barrett, ever the more careful one, cleared his throat. “Your Highness, I understand the intent, but combining our quarters might cause confusion. Our soldiers have only just begun settling in. There’s hierarchy, protocols, chain of com–”

Flynn’s gaze snapped onto the brown-haired commander, his expression turning to steel.

“Create a new chain of command. Perhaps–one that doesn’t get people killed.”

People had been killed – Amaya saw Sir Abel ripped apart, her attacker made feral by the impact of her careless words. Bloody images flashed in her mind, of an unknown soul murdered a dozen different ways. She was still, her expression neutral, as a storm started building under her skin.

Barrett’s expression tightened, holding Flynn’s gaze, but he said nothing.

“If either of you intend to keep your positions, things need to change. Immediately.”

Silence followed—tense and stifling. Until finally, Volkov exhaled, the sound more frustration than a concession.

“Surely, there are better ways to foster unity,” he said, his eyes flicking to Barrett—an unspoken alliance sparking between them. Neither eager to loosen their individual grip on power.

“The soldiers need training, Your Highness,” Barrett spoke up, his jaw tight, but his voice held firm. “His Majesty may have sent us numbers, yes—but not veterans. These soldiers are green. Most have never fought blight-born. They don’t know the terrain, nor each other. Volkov’s right about that much.”

His gaze drifted between the three of them—Volkov, then Amaya, and finally Flynn. “They need structure. Discipline.”

Flynn’s brow furrowed. “Forgive me, Commander,” he said slowly, gesturing vaguely to the fort around them, “but is that not the purpose of all this? What, exactly, have you been doing with all your time?”

Barrett’s gaze narrowed slightly, patience fraying. “Trying to keep order,” he replied, “They don’t want to work together, much less trust one another. Half of them won’t even speak to the other half. You can’t undo blood-deep hatred overnight.”

From across the table, Volkov’s voice slithered in, smug and unbothered. “If you have a plan, Your Grace,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “then by all means—enlighten us.” Somehow, somehow, Amaya still had the presence of mind to hear Volkov’s continued refusal to address Flynn properly.

Flynn didn’t blink as he shifted focus to the Lunarian Commander.

“You will combine your quarters,” he said, voice firm, flat. “Make them cooperate. Build morale between them. Set an example. That is your charge. Your station.”

No softness. No empathy for their strife. Just command.

Amaya heard the finality in his voice, saw how it rippled through the room and committed them all to their new reality – one that she had started them on, with borrowed authority that she had no experience wielding. It was too real, too solid, too immediate — a far cry from the careful, incremental persuasion she’d always relied on.

The dissatisfied faces of the two Commanders were sharp and ominous, a prelude to consequences Amaya could already feel pressing down on her.

Barrett drew in a long, frustrated breath, dragging a hand over his neatly trimmed beard as if it might keep the words biting at his tongue from spilling out. Across from him, Volkov let out a scoff—quiet, but sharp enough to be heard.

Flynn’s gaze swept over them, his own jaw tensing. His thoughts spun—not because he wanted to solve this for them, but because he had to. Clearly, if he didn’t step in, then no one would. The Commanders had made it clear enough that they had no intention of combining their strengths any time soon. And the burden of leadership meant finding solutions, even for those who refused to think beyond their own pride.

“Gather your best,” he said. “The most capable, the most respected. Start running regular drills to train the rest. Together. As one unit.”

He let the words settle before adding, “Surely, between your combined forces, there are some qualified to lead—if not yourselves.”

Both commanders exchanged a brief, silent glance, weighing their words. Seemingly choosing their battles. Despite themselves, they had found common ground.

“I expect progress within the week,” Flynn said, his voice firm. “That will be all.”

Barrett’s gaze steadied on Flynn again. After a moment of hesitation, he dipped into a low, respectful bow. “Very well, Your Highnesses.”

Volkov remained still, his expression unreadable. He didn’t move from his place, his eyes shifting instead to Amaya, silently studying her. It was all she could do to hold his gaze, expression neutral. Her heart pounded in her ears as ice lashed against her tightening grip. King Jericho watched her from Volkov’s shadow.

Without another word, Flynn turned toward Amaya. He reached for her hand, fingers gently intertwining with hers, the chill that had settled along her skin seeping into his. His grip tightened slightly, offering her his warmth as they left the room—side by side, appearing unified to anyone who saw them.

Eris smiled faintly as Charlotte accepted the offer of tea—something to keep her hands busy and her mind grounded. She rose, shedding the blanket from her shoulders and letting it crumple onto the couch. Her bare feet padded softly across the walkway that separated the modest sitting room from the even smaller kitchen.

At Charlotte’s comment about the space reminding her of home, Eris glanced around. The stone tower felt nothing like home to her. It was small, cold, and too quiet, the solitude broken only by the Sages that shuffled in and out on the ground floor. But she stayed silent, rummaging through her tea cabinet, listening as Charlotte spoke.

Once she’d chosen a blend, Eris returned to the counter, drawing a metal kettle into her hands. As her fingers wrapped around the cold steel, she lifted her gaze toward the fireplace where Charlotte now sat. The recruit’s eyes were distant, voice softened. She spoke of her brother, of missed streets and laughter, of magic held over tavern tables. There was pride in her tone—but grief too.

Eris felt the ache of it settle deep in her chest.

The strong, capable guard who had shielded her without hesitation now folded in on herself, struggling under the crushing weight of loss and uncertainty.

Drawing in a slow breath, Eris summoned what little magic remained in her reservoir. Doing things the hard way—the slow way—had never suited her. Magic had always been her tool of choice, her crutch and her comfort. And so, she winced as water rose from nothing, filling the kettle from the bottom up.

Her gaze stayed fixed on Charlotte, focused on a single point in the armor she wore, as if anchoring her focus there might dull the pain that seared up her forearm. Slowly, the kettle began to warm under her hands. She hovered just above the metal, channeling what energy she could, letting the warmth build into a boil.

When Charlotte’s voice cracked under the weight of her sorrow, Eris’ focus snapped back up to Charlotte’s face.

The firelight danced across her features, her voice trembling as she spoke. The rawness in her tone, the weight of grief and exhaustion pressing down on her, was something Eris could empathize with all too well.

As Charlotte offered to help, Eris shook her head gently. Her eyes flicked to the kettle—now boiling. “It’s almost done,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. A throbbing sensation pulsing faintly through her arms.

Quietly, Eris mulled over Charlotte’s words as she poured them each a cup, the fire crackle filling the room. Missing home and family was natural. Grief was natural. But that had never made it any easier, she knew.

Returning to the hearth with the mugs, she gracefully sank down onto the floor beside Charlotte. Placing the two mugs on the wooden floor in front of her, Eris adjusted her nightgown as she settled into a side-sitting position, her right hand resting on the ground for balance.

“I didn’t know Sir Abel,” she began softly, her eyes staring thoughtfully into the flames. “But if what you did last night is any reflection of what he taught you… then I think he’d be proud.”

She didn’t know Charlotte, nor the mistakes she had made, but if last night was any indication of her trajectory, then Eris figured she was doing just fine. Standing up to a superior was never easy, but she believed Charlotte had made the right choice. To her, it had been invaluable.

Eris stared down at the steam curling from the mugs, searching for words that might offer any sense of comfort. “Leaving home is always hard. No matter the reason.” she exhaled, trying to ignore the empty feeling of homesickness that tugged at her own heart. “But, I think… we can make a new home anywhere. Here, if we must.” she mused, uncertain if she was saying it for Charlotte or for herself.

“And we all make mistakes. That’s part of the journey. If you’re not making them… you’re not learning anything.” Her voice softened. “To be great, you have to be willing to make mistakes… and learn from them.” she added, speaking from experience.

After a pause, she flicked her fingers, and one of the mugs slid gently across the wooden floor before settling in front of Charlotte. A small smile curved on her lips as her eyes met the guards, mimicking the party trick Charlotte had mentioned her brother practicing.

Taking in the sadness lingering in Charlotte’s eyes, she hesitated, then gently reached out, her fingertips brushing Charlotte’s arm—barely a touch, just enough to say “I’m here.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she offered a soft, sympathetic smile, tinged with familiar sadness. “Thank you for staying with me last night. Really.”

---

_{Interactions: Charlotte @SpicyMeatball}

So this is the weather the Lunarians have to deal with. A thought that Kale had as he made his way to the Aelios Temple. Dressed in clothing, befitting a cold climate along with his armor and weapons. While still a bit cold and his feet crunching in the snow. Hood over his head as he tried to walk to the temple. His first day as a guard for Dawnhaven is the same day the snow falls heavily around town. This will take time to get used to, he thought. Kale knew it would be cold, and he was not one to complain. He just wished he had been told how bad it could be, and at least his first guard duty detail is inside of the temple and not outside.

Still, as the snow continued to fall heavily and not letting up. Kale hoped he was on the right track. His superior has given him directions, and he thinks he is on the right track. Kale wished he had some time to explore the town before joining up with the guard. That was on him, and not thinking ahead. But in time, he will know this town from the inside out, he is a guard, after all.

Either way, once Kale spotted the Aelios Temple, he made his way there. Glad he found it and how it still looked like an Aelios Temple despite its snow-worn look. A friendly sight being this far from his old home and in this new town.

So Kale entered and made sure that none of the snow got inside. Carefully dusting himself off so as not to tarnish the entrance and warming himself up in the warmness of the temple. A nice respite from the outside, and after Kale finished dusting himself off and taking down his hood. "Try not to mess up your first day Kale," he said to himself in a hushed voice. Reminding himself of what a good first impression is. Especially to the priestess of this temple, and he has been informed about the murder that happened before he came here. So that makes his job a bit more serious than he thought.

With a deep, calming breath, Kale took up position in the temple and was now ready to stand guard. Holding in place and time to see how good of a guard he can be.

The door shut with a hollow thud behind them, sealing the tension of the Commander’s quarters in its place. Flynn kept walking, hand still entwined with Amaya’s. He glanced down at her, concern tightening in his chest. Her skin was cold—unnaturally so—and that chill had crept up his own arm, absorbing the storm brewing within her.

But he said nothing.

Not yet.

Flynn’s eyes drifted forward—and narrowed.

Up ahead, beneath the long shadows of the treeline, two figures lingered. The Champion—still stationed exactly where they’d left her—stood in quiet conversation with a man Flynn recognized immediately by posture alone. Broad-shouldered. Sharp-eyed. A man so fastidious in his work that it bordered on artistry.

A necessary asset, but an endlessly irritating one.

Amber eyes flicked to the royal couple as they walked, lingering on Amaya. Then they caught Flynn’s gaze. The mason gave a small, sharp-edged smile, like he was laughing at his own joke. He turned his attention back to the Champion, eyes dancing with amusement.

Flynn gave them a wide berth, guiding Amaya toward the jail. Their next stop. Another fire to put out.

As they continued, the soldier’s grounds unfolded around them. Battered training dummies, barracks flanked with gear and noise. Soldiers milled about in wary groups, still keeping distance between factions, though the presence of two commanders under one roof might shift that, in time. He could only hope.

As the distance between them and the Champion grew, once he was sure they’d moved beyond stray ears, Flynn began to slow. He gave Amaya a quiet glance, a wordless signal, and gently tugged her toward the trees with him, veering from the path.

Just far enough for privacy.

The snow fluttered unnaturally around their feet with every step. Amaya was haunted by her father’s phantom, an oppressive weight that stilled her breath and stopped her heart.

Beneath the canopy, where snow struggled to touch the earth, Flynn stopped and turned to face her. His brow furrowed—not with anger or judgement. Just quiet worry.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low, his hand still entwined with hers.

It should’ve been harder to hear him, with her blood pounding in her ears, but his soft worry pierced through the storm — through her.

Amaya held herself very still as she felt something fracture. But it was small — just a crack in her mask. If she could just… focus, she could rebuild her walls, maintain her composure, keep this furious blizzard from tearing its way out of her —

Her hands were trembling. It wouldn’t have been obvious, but for the way Flynn’s steadiness wrapped around her.

Flynn, with his commanding voice and authority, and how he’d made her too solid, too tangible to the Commanders —

Volkov, with his evaluating eyes, like he hadn’t made up his mind about her years ago just like everyone else, like his first loyalty wouldn’t always be to the King —

Her father, and his inescapable presence even here, his heavy hand against her neck as he reminded her of the repercussions —

Elara, her hair and voice like a blanket of frost, waiting to be stained bloody —

Sir Abel, dead —

“Why did I not know there had been another death?” Her voice was soft as first snowfall, and just as bare. Her expression was blank. Ice blue eyes stared unseeing at Flynn’s chest, unable to look anywhere at all lest she find something else to weaken her defenses.

Flynn froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard. Of all the things she could have said, he hadn’t even considered that this would be the first thing she’d voice. The ice he felt along her fingertips, he realized, had been caused by him.

His heart sank.

She wouldn’t look at him—and he hated it. Hated that she wouldn’t see the fracture it’d caused in his expression. But he was grateful—grateful that her hand was still in his. That she hadn’t pulled away from him entirely.

“I…” His voice caught, dry in his throat, the words slow to form. Exhaling softly, he accepted another misstep he hadn’t meant to make. “I didn’t want to upset you further…”

Pale eyes cut to his, frigid with emotion that Amaya didn’t know how to voice. There was a sharp flicker of magic — the canopy above them shivered, stray snowflakes drifting down around their heads.

Shutting her eyes, Amaya fought to fold herself away again. Her frustration only built, directed inward, another revealing emotion that pressed against her failing walls. She forced a breath. It shook, a trembling cloud escaping her.

When she opened her eyes again, she wasn’t looking at Flynn. She took a step, trying to slip around him to retreat back to the path — back to the eyes of strangers that would press against her, and help maintain her walls.

Her fingers began to slip from his, and Flynn’s grip tightened instinctively, grounding them both in place. His heart lurched, a surge of dread sweeping through him in an instant.

“Amaya,” he said quickly, the plea already rising in his throat. “Please—”

He stepped forward, moving to block her path, catching her other hand in his. His fingers wrapped around hers, firm despite his heart thundering inside his chest, holding onto her like she was something already halfway gone.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, eyes searching hers. “I didn’t… I don’t know, I thought—”

None of the words fit. Nothing made it right. He felt sick.

“I’m sorry.” he said, quieter this time.

The little crack he’d managed to form in her mask only widened as Amaya looked up at him, heard the fragile tone in his voice.

His hands were warm. Hers were still shaking.

Deep in the heart she tried to hide, something reached towards him painfully. Emotions, one by one, started to slip through her fractured eyes. She lowered them again, finding that indistinct spot on his chest.

“It’s not –” Amaya, normally so precise with her words, cut herself off. She pressed her lips together. Snow hung above their heads like a sword, a constant reminder of all the ways she could ruin herself. Ruin Flynn.

Flynn’s brows pulled together, waiting for her to elaborate.

Thoughts tumbled like a storm, emotions dangerous as hail. Amaya tried to breathe again, only to find the air caught on words she couldn’t even find.

Two people were dead because of her – because she’d used her words too recklessly, and hadn’t considered how immediate the consequences would be without her father here to punish her for them.

She’d never known anyone to listen to what she had to say. Had never known her words to have weight. Amaya tried to search for any possible way to make him understand, when she could barely parse it out herself. All the while, she could feel her father’s lingering stare.

“Why,” she tried again, barely a whisper, “did you agree to combining their quarters?”

He blinked, thrown off by her question once again. He hadn’t recovered from the first wound, and now came another. There’d been no closure, just a pivot.

“It… felt right,” he said with a shake of his head and a small shrug, unsure of why she even felt the need to ask. “I agreed with it.”

Not good enough. He could feel that in the silence between them.

He looked down at her hands in his, searching for some deeper answer to her question.

“The Commanders are too comfortable. Neither wants to yield.” He drew in a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. “Building separate quarters for them only reinforced the divide.” He shook his head again, disappointment etched into his expression. “It was a mistake.” Another mistake.

He lifted his gaze to hers again, “You were right to suggest it. It was a good idea.”

“I didn’t mean it, Flynn!” The words slipped out, too quick, too charged. But it wasn’t anger that flashed through her eyes as she looked up at him – it was fear.

More snowflakes drifted down around their heads, dusting their hair and the tops of their shoulders.

Amaya squeezed her eyes shut, tilting her head down again as she tried to rein herself in. There was too much heat radiating off of his body, bridging the narrow space between them. She could feel the way her fingers thawed against his, circulation returning painfully. She hadn’t realized she was numb.

She stood there for a long moment, trying to steady herself.

He studied her in the silence that followed, searching her face, trying to piece together what she had meant. He replayed the meeting with the Commanders in his mind, searching for the subtle layers hidden beneath her words—the things she hadn’t said, the hints she’d left unspoken, the slight shifts in her tone or expression that might’ve meant more. He had watched her expertly navigate the war of words with the Commanders, each word calculated and deadly. But with him…

She was still playing the game. Only, he had never attempted to participate in it with her. They were speaking entirely different languages to one another, operating on different scripts.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice calm but certain.

“It was a good idea, whether or not you meant it.” He spoke with quiet conviction, trusting his instincts that it had been the right call. His gaze flicked briefly upward, warily eyeing the snow that threatened to spill over onto them, before returning to her.

“What did you mean, then?” His voice softened, careful, trying to find the right balance between pushing her for an answer and pulling back to give her space.

In the wake of his steadiness, his certainty, Amaya was suddenly self-conscious. Part of her wanted to simply… accept his assurances. If he’d made his decision, then what did it matter what she’d intended? She had no real experience. Her veiled words, her intricate song she’d learned to play… Amaya imagined herself trying to explain it to him. It felt childish. It felt too revealing.

Her eyes opened, finding their hands between them. Flynn had enfolded hers so completely, she could barely see them. Even as the cold slipped away, she was still shaking.

She could still feel –

“It was something to lose,” she finally said. It was like forcing a ship through an iceflow, but somehow the words found passage. Her lips parted. Then closed again. She gave a small, imperceptible shake of her head as she looked to some indistinct point on the ground. “Motivation. So when they compromised they could think it was their own idea.” Her eyes finally found his again. “So they don’t resent you the next time you need something from them.”

Flynn had never even played this game, he realized. His father had never taught him the art of manipulation, how to lure people into traps made of carefully placed words. Even his mother had urged him to be direct, to assert himself without hesitation. To make his will known in the room, should he desire it. Resentment held no weight—obedience did.

“I don’t want them thinking it was their idea, Amaya,” he said softly, his eyes shifting past her, weighing his words before continuing. “Their resentment doesn’t concern me.”

Her eyebrows pulled together, a new emotion cutting through her gaze – confusion. It caught her so off guard that for a moment it stilled the storm inside her.

For a brief moment, he fell silent again, wondering if he should have been softer in his approach with the Commanders. But then, a part of him fought back. With men like Volkov, showing any hint of hesitation, any sign of yielding, would have been perceived as weakness. If you gave an inch, they took a mile. That was the game he played.

“I need them to respect us as leaders.” His gaze returned to her, “We make the decisions, and they follow. Resentment or not, they answer to us.”

Amaya stared up at him, trying to process his words – his certainty that others would follow just… because he said so.

But why would he think otherwise? He’d built this town. Delayed their deaths, if only for a little while. Just because Amaya needed careful words and hidden motivations, didn’t mean he did. There was that insecurity again, the feeling that she was a foolish child spinning intricate webs and building walls around herself because she’d never learned how to move through the world properly.

Still, his words didn’t sit right – they were so removed from her reality that she didn’t know what to make of them. The Commanders’ dissatisfied faces, Volkov’s disrespect, flashed in her mind again.

Flynn was so… reckless. He wasn’t concerned with their resentment? With what it might cause them to do?

Suddenly the snow above their heads was not the only thing that threatened him. Flynn was scattering kindling about his feet, waiting for someone to produce a match. The cold fear in her chest only intensified. Amaya felt the precious warmth of his hands, saw the tired green of his eyes – and all the battles he thought were necessary. They would be the death of him.

“Do they?” she asked carefully, still looking up at him. “Or did our fathers order them here?” As gentle as her voice was, the words felt too harsh. But Amaya didn’t know how else to make him understand. “What do the Commanders write, when they report back? What will come of it? What do they say to their men when they give their orders? What tone do they use when they speak of you? How do others hear it?”

Flynn tensed. Just slightly, but Amaya could feel it. She’d tried to dull the razored edge of her words, but they burrowed in him all the same, hitting a place deeper than he had expected. He didn’t flinch, but something in him had been struck.

Amaya paused, holding his gaze intently. The muscles in her hands finally came back to life, fingers curling slightly into his. It was all she could do as she tried to soften her voice – soften herself – so he wouldn’t think she was damning him.

“You think you have authority because you have a title that Volkov won’t even use.” Somehow, she managed to brush her thumb over the back of his palm. Snowflakes at their feet pulled in a mirrored arc, settling gently back on the ground. “I have a title too, Flynn.” The words burned her with an icy grip, shameful like an admission of her own failures. But she leaned towards him and his warmth, holding his gaze. Amaya made herself continue for him. “What did you know of me before all this?”

It was a reminder – an echo of the same question she’d asked him yesterday, and Flynn had revealed that he’d known how the Princess of Lunaris was treated. He’d known how little power she held in her own kingdom.

He’d known what her title had been worth.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer.

He looked down at their hands laced together, his grip loosening slightly. Not to let go, but to…

He didn’t fully know.

Her hands felt glacial in his. Too frozen to thaw through, too distant for his touch to mean anything. He drew in a breath, held it for a beat, then slowly let it go—trying to cool the heat building behind his ribs. The wounded pride. The voice in the back of his head telling him to recoil.

He wanted to deny it. To tell her he didn’t want people to obey simply for his title alone. That his decisions weren’t born of arrogance or ignorance. But she was looking at him so directly, speaking so openly, and he didn’t know if the denial would have been entirely true.

Desperately, he tried to separate ego from rationale.

It had been easier to do in Aurelia, when his decisions hadn’t meant life or death to him or anyone he’d loved.

Yet, even in her Kingdom, Amaya’s title had meant little. And something inside him cracked for her, understanding clicking into place as he tried to sort through the fear that had flashed through her eyes. She had to operate this way, to control the room with charm and veiled suggestion. To read people before they could read her. It wasn’t weakness. It was survival.

You see things that I don’t. You know things I can’t begin to perceive.

He’d said those words to her once. He’d meant them. And now, they echoed in his mind—sharp and truer than ever.

This caution was her way—her strength. A subtler blade than the one Flynn had been raised to wield. But no less effective. She didn’t meet force with force. She moved around it. Held the tension in a smile until her opponent cut themselves on their own arrogance. She could command a room without all the debate that Flynn had been forged within.

And he could learn something from that.

The sharp edges around his ego softened, and for a moment, he managed to see past himself.

She wasn’t against him. She was his partner. A soft voice trying to guide him when the shadows of his heritage threatened to reshape the man he was trying to be.

“You’re right…” he said finally, voice low. Guarded. Afraid that articulating his thoughts wouldn’t come out in the way he intended. Something flickered in her eyes – surprise. Softness. A worry she tried to stifle.

His eyes remained focused on their hands. “I don’t know what they say or do when I’m not in the room.” There was no defiance in his tone, only quiet reflection.

He met her gaze again. “But I don’t want to play games. I don’t want to be a man who manipulates his way into loyalty. I want them to follow because I make the right calls. Because they trust me to lead with their best interests in mind. Not because I wear a crown. Or because they’re afraid of what happens if they don’t.”

A breath passed between them.

“But you’re right,” he added more softly. “The trust isn’t there yet. And your way… it would have fostered that better.”

His mind flicked through names and faces. Barrett. Hightower. Nightingale.

At least with the nobles he’d brought from Aurelia, Flynn knew exactly where he stood. He had proven himself to them. Proven that he was not his father—at least not in the ways that counted. Not so rigid. Not so absolute. Flynn could listen when it mattered. Change course when he needed to. In the council chambers, he’d saved lives before he’d ever drawn a sword. He’d made decisions that had worked. That had persuaded his father not to slaughter innocent blight-born for simply existing.

That was why the Commander, the Sage, and his Advisor had come to Dawnhaven. That was why they stood with him now. Not because they were ordered to, but because they believed in the cause. Believed in him.

“Barrett didn’t come because my father told him to.” He said, some part of his ego still slipping out in defense of itself. “My father left the summons to me. Said if the plan was mine, the burden was too.”

And it had stung—that neither of his parents had lifted a finger to gather people, to stall what was coming. Aside from forcing church members to come along, they’d left it to him to chase the impossible. To convince nobles to risk their lives on a dream. But still… he had done it.

“I gave him a choice. I didn’t demand it. He came because I asked.” Another pause. “I earned that much.”

But Volkov… Volkov was different. Flynn didn’t know why he’d come—or any of the high-standing Lunarians, for that matter. Flynn had heard that the Lunarian King had threatened death to those who disobeyed the summons, but why? Would he truly go so far as to kill those who walked away?

Flynn had noticed every time Volkov refused to use the proper title, of course, but he’d let it pass. Not because he didn’t care. But because he did.

Stripping Volkov of rank or sending him away might satisfy his pride—but what would it prove? That he was thin-skinned and could silence anyone who challenged him?

No. He knew he needed to earn Volkov’s respect, just as he’d stated. Lamenting over proper titles wouldn’t work. Not with men like him. He had to prove himself a better leader. Steady, but not submissive. Rational. Patient (which, admittedly, could use work). Flynn needed to show him that he was not just a boy playing King. That he was someone worth following.

“I haven’t corrected Volkov because he’s trying to provoke me.” He added, keeping his gaze on Amaya as he tried to sort through every thought spiraling in his mind. “He’s testing the water. But if I make the right decisions—if I lead well—he’ll have no choice than to see me for what I am. Through action… and time.”

The thought was optimistic, he knew. Volkov could very well have no intention of ever bending the knee to anyone but King Jericho. Perhaps Lunarians were just as he’d heard—incapable of change or further consideration. But he’d glimpsed change in Amaya. And Flynn had to hold onto hope, however fragile. If this plan were going to work, he needed to believe. And if all came crashing down, he would meet the consequences with a clear conscience—knowing he’d done what he could to shift the tide, rather than be swept away by it.

Amaya looked up at him, brows drawn together, eyes clear and focused, thoughts and emotions spinning around his words. She wanted to rebut him. Sometimes it didn’t matter how well you proved yourself, how noble your intentions, how deftly you maneuvered a conversation –

Sometimes who you were and what you were capable of had been decided long before a conversation ever began. You couldn’t convince someone of something that they didn’t want to believe. You had to work around them.

It wasn’t a game as he’d called it – it was the only way Amaya’d had any voice at all. It was the only reason she was still alive.

A bitter thought occurred to her, cutting her to the core. Perhaps what was true for her simply wasn’t true for him. Maybe Flynn was simply someone people could place their trust in. He’d never needed games because they were just for those not meant for real power.

Her eyes drifted back down to their hands. Beyond them, on the snow dusted ground, there was the faint outline of Flynn’s shadow. She tried not to see her father in it.

“I… I’m not asking you to stop thinking the way you do. I need it. You see the things I miss… clearly. But I… ” He gave a faint shake of his head, the corner of his mouth twitching—not quite a smile. “I was raised to walk straight into the fire, not circle it.”

Amaya’s lips pressed together, afraid of how unconcerned he was. The fire wouldn’t just burn, it would consume him.

His fingers curled a little tighter around hers again. “But I want to learn how to do this with you. To get better at it. At… all of it.”

He took another breath, trying to will the ache in his chest to disappear.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For not… not knowing what you needed from me.”

His gentle apology pierced through her in a way she’d never learned how to defend against. She took in a shaking breath, unprepared for the emotion that surged through her. She remembered the night before – his simple acknowledgements of her pain striking her like lightning, and the storm surge that had threatened to drown her as he pulled her close.

Words caught in Amaya’s throat, too honest to be given shape.

He spoke truths into existence like it was his right. Like his wants and motivations wouldn’t be turned into a blade against him.

Amaya saw his eyes, green as the sea and just as inescapable, as he said she was his. As he called her a partner. She looked up at him – it felt like a risk. His eyes were the same now, looking down at her instead of up at the canopy of snow that might collapse around their heads — like it simply wasn’t a concern. But she could feel the weight of the avalanche as if it had already buried her.

His hands were impossibly warm. His eyes impossibly open. Amaya felt her throat freezing shut in response as more cracks formed across her walls. If she spoke they would collapse.

…Would that be so awful? A small voice hissed an answer, even as something in her pulled dangerously toward him.

She looked down, back to the spot on his chest. Amaya blinked rapidly. She hadn’t realized her eyes were damp. Her hands curled around his the slightest bit. Then reckless impulse carried her. She let out a shaking breath and stepped forward across the small distance that separated them – into Flynn’s warmth. Snowflakes at their feet pulled forward like the tide. He froze for half a heartbeat, breath catching in his throat. Slowly, his arms rose, then folded around her like instinct, like gravity pulling him home. He held her cautiously at first, then drew her in tighter. Amaya’s head bowed, tucking against him as her eyes closed. She sighed, and his scent washed over her.

There were still too many things she disagreed with, too many fears swimming in her mind. But this — she knew she wanted this, at least. The simplicity of being held. Honesty was easier this way – warm and hidden, too close for him to see the emotions playing across her face.

“There are things for me to learn too,” she murmured into his chest. It wasn’t quite an apology, wasn’t quite vulnerability, but it still felt like baring herself.

Somehow, she’d always managed this—turning his world sideways with a single movement. She’d iced the ground beneath his feet just as easily as she’d done with the Commanders, leaving him unsteady, unsure where the cracks might spider out next. And yet, he wanted to stay.

He lowered his cheek to rest against the top of her head, eyes drifting shut. Absorbing the scent of her, the feel of her—he let it ground him. Or maybe it unmoored him entirely. He wasn’t sure. He tried not to think about how loud his heart must’ve sounded to her, pounding against his chest. Though—maybe she was used to it by now.

For longer than he probably realized, he just held her. Then, quietly, his voice barely more than a breath, he asked, “Do you want to go see them now?” He opened his eyes, fixed on some indistinct point in the gravel path between guard camps. “At the temple?”

She tensed in his hold, pressing herself closer to him. If a damp spot formed on his coat beneath her closed eye, Amaya couldn’t see it. She could pretend it wasn’t there.

She made herself nod.

Snowflakes trembled like her breath as they fell.