Qia

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: The Eye of the Beholder
Mentions: Elio (@c3p-0h)
Interactions: Sya (@PrinceAlexus)}

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Thalia had just started convincing herself that the bread might not crack a molar if she chewed slowly when movement—graceful, slithering movement—entered her peripheral vision. She turned, just in time to catch the glint of Sya’s glittering tail sliding across the tavern floor, a tray expertly balanced in her arms like a challenge to every rule of physics. For a moment, Thalia forgot all about the breakfast roll halfway to her mouth.

“Food, hot food... sssssseeing as this morning is sssoo, hot breakfastsss!”

Thalia blinked once, then again, as Sya made her way over, lowering the tray toward her table.

Cheese. Venison toast. Spiced porridge. And—

Thalia squinted. “Is that…” She pointed a cautious finger at what looked like a savory pastry stuffed with porridge and reckless ambition that could rival her own every time she even got near a kitchen.

Sya beamed. “Miss, savory, or ssssweet, I made a sspecial breakfast.”

“‘Special.’” The word clattered from Thalia’s lips, brittle as the bread she’d abandoned. Special. A poisoned compliment, velvet-coated and hollow. Growing up in Aurelia, it had been code for mediocre but trying—a label slapped on her fumbling spellwork, her awkward curtsies, her mother’s tight smiles later on after yet another suitor withdrew his interest. Now, it hung in the tavern’s dusty air, a ghost of condescension. She stabbed her spoon into the selected porridge instead, its cinnamon warmth a safer betrayal.

“Thank you so much, my dear, for asking. I’m doing just fine and this all looks grand,” he replied to the lamia politely, Thalia stifling a laugh behind her spoon. Of course he would say that. Of course, he’d smile like Aelios himself had laid out this mismatched platter with divine intent. That was his gift—or maybe, more accurately, his defense. Where she bristled and picked and prodded at the world, her father… adjusted.

But now, watching him, she wondered if it was simply another form of armor.

Not steel, but warmth. Not walls, but manners.

It had fooled her as a child. She used to think her father’s charm was unshakable, enviable. Now, older—and perhaps a little more cracked herself—she recognized it for what it truly was: the gentlest way a man could endure a world that had offered him so much and then taken it all back. He wore it not to impress but to protect. Himself. Her. Maybe both. Because if he stayed calm, if he pretended everything was still “grand,” then maybe she wouldn’t have to look too closely at how far they’d fallen. Maybe neither of them would.

The porridge coated her tongue, its heat a balm. Edible. Acceptable. Not the sugared figs or honeyed pheasant of past feasts, but sustenance without pretense. She watched her father bite into the pastry, his smile never wavering as porridge globules oozed onto his plate. His eyes, though—fleeting and unguarded—flickered with the same exhaustion she’d seen the night they’d left their home, trunks clattering with the remnants of their name.

“Yes…thank you,” she murmured before the lamia took her leave of their table, the words softer than she’d intended. Gratitude, perhaps, for the meal—or for the unspoken pact between them. He would play the grateful guest; she would play the pragmatic survivor. And together, they would pretend this was enough.

The two ate in silence for a bit, her father being the one to break it.

“So,” he began, clearing his throat after a laborious swallow, “how was the big celebration last night? Meet anyone… notable?”

Thalia didn’t look up right away. She focused instead on the swirl her spoon made in the porridge, watching the steam curl upward like it might offer her an excuse.

“I managed not to throw a drink at anyone like last time,” she said eventually, “so I’d say it went better than expected.”

Her father chuckled. “High bar.”

“Well, I am known for my lofty standards.”

He leaned back, clearly content to let her set the pace. “Still… anyone worth noting? A neighbor? A friend?” He paused just long enough. “A suitor?”

Thalia raised an eyebrow. “What, like someone ready to whisk me away to his crumbling cottage and a life of shared root vegetables?”

“Stranger alliances have bloomed in stonier soil. I mean, look around you. Look at where we are.”

She sighed. “Well…there was… someone,” she admitted, then immediately regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

“Oh?” His brows arched, a silent prompt.

“A stonemason,” she clarified, too quickly. “Not a suitor. Just a man who hammers rocks for coin.”

Her father blinked, once. “A stonemason,” he repeated, as though trying to decide whether that was an actual job title or some kind of metaphor.

“Yes,” she said dryly. “He builds things. With stone. It’s very literal.”

“Ahh, I see. And…. what did this stonemason build with you?”

“A headache.” She jabbed her spoon downward. “And conversation. He invaded my table after playing hero to some drunkard.”

“Bold,” her father mused, though his lips twitched.

“You have no idea,” Thalia murmured, staring down into her bowl. She could still feel the heat of Elio’s breath at her ear, the way his voice had curved around her like smoke. The way he hadn’t touched her—but somehow still had.

She cleared her throat and straightened, the spoon clinking gently against the ceramic. “Anyway, it wasn’t anything serious.”

“Didn’t say it was,” her father replied, though his eyes crinkled with something that might’ve been amusement or curiosity, or both. “Just sounded like it made an impression.”

“It didn’t.”

“Of course.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“You’re doing the thing with your face.”

“I only have one face, my flower.”

She shot him a look over the rim of her bowl, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her. “It was just some banter, honestly. He was... irritating.”

“But charming?”

She didn’t answer that. Instead, she took another sip of her porridge before relenting. “Pass the mystery pastry before I change my mind about tolerating you this morning.”

Her father complied, still wearing that aggravatingly smug expression as he slid the plate across the table. She took the pastry with practiced caution, like it might lunge at her, then tore a bite from the corner. To her surprise, it wasn’t half bad. The crust was uneven and flaking in odd places, but the inside was warm—more savoury than she expected, with a hint of sweetness that didn’t quite make sense but somehow worked. She chewed slowly, eyes flicking across the tavern. A few other patrons were eating the same thing. No one looked offended. No one had keeled over. And Lark, stationed loyally near the hearth, watched with hawklike focus as if daring her to drop even a crumb.

Maybe Sya’s odd creation had more merit than she’d given it credit for. Not that she’d ever admit that aloud.

She took another bite, lips twitching in faint resignation.

“See?” her father said, in that insufferably pleased tone of his. “Not everything here has to be a disaster, despite the rough start.”

“Mm,” Thalia hummed noncommittally. “Well, don’t expect me to start praising it in song.”

Her father grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You’d have to rhyme ‘ingot’ with something, and I fear the options are quite bleak.”

She snorted softly into her pastry. For all her complaints about the town and its drafty rooms, half-frozen floors, and strange snake innkeepers with experimental cooking hobbies, somehow, against all odds, she didn’t hate this moment. It was all still a far cry from her home, but it was… tolerable. Endurable. Even, she admitted privately, not that awful.

And if her pulse still skittered, it was the spices. If her cheeks bloomed rose, it was the porridge’s steam. And if her thoughts strayed to a smirk half-lit by torchlight, to fingers that almost grazed her wrist—well. That was a secret for the stones in Dawnhaven to keep.

Nocturnal Memoirs: An Urban-Fantasy Mafia Epic

Finally gotten to filling out that questionnaire thingy zzz

@ERode

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

The air changed as soon as she stepped past the threshold. The warmth wasn’t the steady hum of regulated heat like in the upper levels—it clung like a fever, thick and cloying, as though the walls themselves were breathing decay. These ducts weren’t merely antiquated; they were necrotic, severed from the city’s pulse by decades of neglect. Selene had heard the myths traded in the market: tunnels carved during the colony’s infancy, abandoned when ambition outpaced infrastructure. No surveillance. No patrols. Just a vacuum perfect for contraband. Or corpses.

She’d passed through places like this before—not as deep, not as decrepit—but close enough to feel the shape of danger. There was a high likelihood of her suddenly disappearing here without a trace, with no hope of being found, even by her family. But Selene also knew that disappearance didn’t always mean death. Some simply went off-grid, too deep and too far for even the Council to bother. Others were forced down here—runners, fugitives, or just kids who owed the wrong people too much. In the underbelly of Dominion, vanishing was never clean. It was messy, and it always left behind questions no one wanted to answer.

So, the danger wasn’t the dark, nor the crumbling architecture. It was the uncertainty of walking on a bridge rigged with traps by strangers, decades dead.

Her boots struck the grating with hollow reverberations, each step flaking rust like dried blood. The metal groaned, its structural fatigue palpable. Above, exposed cables hung like nooses, their rubber sheathing peeled back to reveal copper sinew. One cluster bore scorch marks—a past explosion, or a purge. Selene noted it all, her gloved hand brushing a wall as the metal crumbled slightly, leaving a film of oxidized dust on her fingertips. Ahead, a soft hiss escaped a pressure valve, releasing a thin stream of steam that sliced the corridor like a veil. Selene ducked through it without pause, ignoring the brief sting of heat across her face. Behind that veil, the walls narrowed again—and that’s where she saw, or better yet heard, the first sign something had gone wrong.

A sudden scream tore through the space around her. Selene’s muscles locked, her breath suspended mid-inhale. Instincts honed in Dominion’s underbelly parsed the sound: youthful timbre, raw panic, cut short without echo. Not staged, she decided. Authentic terror had a texture to it, a raggedness no actor could replicate. Her gloved fingers tightened around the case, its edges digging into her ribs as she catalogued the absence of follow-up noise—no scuffle, no whimper, no mechanical whir of a trap resetting. Only the drip of condensation and the creak of fatigued metal.

Selene moved even faster now, because there was no doubt in her mind that the voice belonged to her tail. What were the chances that it was anyone else, given the timing?

The narrow passage opened just ahead, revealing a section of floor that had collapsed inward, its metal paneling twisted like peeled skin. Selene approached with care. Rust flaked from the edges. A few bolts still clung to the frame, but the rest had been torn free—whether from force or erosion was anyone’s guess. She crouched, angling the black case under her arm and peering into the open void below.

Darkness. A long drop. Then, a weak beam, bobbing just enough to catch on the curve of metal and then vanish again. Not much, but enough to confirm one thing. Someone was down there.

“Hey, Curious Boy, that you down there?” she yelled loud enough for him to hear.

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Interactions: Scotti (@The Savant)

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Frostmoon Lake
Mentions: Sya (@PrinceAlexus)}

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The snow around Frostmoon Lake lay thick and untouched. Orion walked silently, his dark cloak sweeping behind him. Wind tore across the frozen shore but left his clothes undisturbed. Snow fell gently now—no longer sharp, just soft and dull as dust. The lake stretched under the gray sky, still but not frozen, its surface black and glassy. It reminded him of a lake from his childhood. He’d named it Brightwater, though it had no true name. That southern lake had rested between sunlit mountains under Aurelia’s endless summers. To him, it had seemed enchanted, even holy. He’d believed the sun god turned its waters to gold each dawn.

Here at Frostmoon, there was no sun. No warmth. Just cold stillness, beautiful but hollow. A grave for what was lost.

But even graves demanded respect, and Orion had work to do.

He hadn’t stopped at the inn after leaving the post office. His body, though hardened by years of survival, hummed with a quiet ache. It wasn’t thirst for blood or hunger for food. It was deeper—an ancient, clawing need for life itself. Over time, he’d learned to feed that hunger without causing pain. Mostly.

He followed the edge of the woods where twisted bushes clawed through the snow. These plants were survivors, stubbornly gripping the frozen earth with roots that dove deep, hunting for hidden pockets of warmth. Orion knelt by a cluster of shrubs swallowed by white, sweeping his gloved hand to clear the snow. Then, bracing himself, he pressed his palm to the icy ground beneath.

The energy transfer began sluggishly. A faint thread of shadow seeped from his fingers into the earth, winding through the roots. The plants shuddered but held back, their leaves trembling as if afraid. Slowly, their strength trickled into him—uneven, reluctant, like water dripping through a cracked cup. His skin warmed a little, and the knots in his shoulders loosened. But a chill lingered at the base of his spine, sharp and unshakable, like a splinter of ice.

When he withdrew his hand, the shrubs lay brittle and gray, drained but peaceful. No pain. No struggle. Yet Orion’s hunger still gnawed at him, quieter now but unsatisfied. A prickle of unease crawled up his back. Not enough. He shoved the thought aside. Dwelling on weakness was dangerous.

Orion trudged farther along the trees, boots sinking into the snow as his eyes swept the ground. He scanned for movement, for color—anything that defied the endless white. Near a cluster of jagged rocks, he spotted it: winter grass clinging to a shallow slope, its frost-coated blades brittle and yellowed. The sight was almost pathetic, but survival often was. He knelt, brushing the snow aside with stiff fingers. This time, he didn’t hesitate. His palm met the frozen soil, bracing for the familiar pull.

The energy, this time, came in rough waves, sharp and grating. The plants resisted—roots thrashing, blades jerking back—as if the ground itself rejected him. The connection strained, threatening to snap. Heat flashed in his fingers, hot and sudden, then faded to empty numbness. Orion pulled his hand away, shaking it as if flicking off an insect sting. The grass lay wilted, partly drained but not dead, its remaining blades clenched tight. It had broken free. Defiance. Something so ordinary, yet stubborn enough to survive.

He breathed out slowly. His breath fogged the air. His face stayed blank—years of practice made sure of that—but tension crept back into his shoulders, knotting his neck.

Not enough. Not right. This mirrored the previous day’s failure: his shadows flickering out mid-fight while others defended themselves. He’d blamed the cold then. Blamed exhaustion. But twice now, his power had wavered.

Patterns warned of danger. Patterns meant traps.

Ignoring the unease, Orion stood, brushed snow off his knees, and walked to the lake. It sprawled ahead, silent and vast. No wind. No hint of sunlight to mark the time. The world felt frozen, as if holding its breath. He swept snow from a flat rock and sat, eyes fixed on the water.

The cold seeped into him now, but it no longer stung. Not like the early days, when his veins still burned with mortal warmth. Back then, the cold had been an enemy—a thief stealing sensation from his fingers, his lips, his heart. Now, it was a companion. Predictable. Honest. His hands rested loosely—one on his knee, the other gripping the boulder’s edge. His fingers no longer ached, but they felt distant, as if part of someone else’s body.

He stared at the lake’s black-glass surface, watching snow vanish into the dark. It shared only its shape with Brightwater, he realized then. That lake had pulsed with life—sunlight glinting, dragonflies darting, boys laughing as they jumped from rocks.

Frostmoon didn’t laugh. It waited. Silent. Uncaring. Did it see him as he truly was—not alive, not dead, just….existing?

Orion exhaled slowly, and the breath turned silver before fading. He did not often allow himself to dwell like this. But here, in the hush of snow and silence, the memories crept in with the cold. Aurelia. His son. Evangeline. The boy’s laughter, his stubbornness. He missed it all.

He had not written the child’s name in the letter. He couldn’t.

It was honestly enough that he’d written at all.

His hand drifted to his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the folded paper tucked safely within—the one he had received, not sent. Sya’s letter. As odd as it was, it had steadied him more than he cared to admit. She had seen through him in ways few ever tried to. Her words had been a bit unhinged, but they had also been heartfelt. Part of him wished he could respond in kind. Part of him feared she’d see too much if he did.

The wind shifted directions.

Then, a sound.

Soft. Delicate. The crunch of snow under something small.

Orion turned.

A white fox stepped from the trees, its fur matted with frost. Thin ribs pressed against its coat. It moved slowly, like it wasn’t sure it belonged here anymore. It paused at the edge of the clearing, ears twitching. Hungry. Wary. But not scared.

It took a step forward. One paw, then another, until it stood near the lake’s edge, just a few feet from Orion. Its eyes locked onto his, bright and unflinching, and in them, Orion saw no fear.

Only a question:

Which of us is the predator?

And the answer waited quietly beneath his skin.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Eye of the Beholder
Interactions: Open
Mentions: Sya (@PrinceAlexus), Ivor (@SkeankySnack)}

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Thalia glared at the flour bag as if it had called her a name to her face. In turn, the lumpy sack slumped on the counter like a lazy drunk, its rough surface coated in pale powder. She crossed her arms and cocked her head sideways, half hoping the stupid thing might sprout a label saying How Not to Ruin Bread: A Guide for Former Rich Girls Who Can’t. But no such luck.

The tavern’s main room felt heavy with quiet, broken only by the wind whining through boarded-up windows and the occasional groan of the wooden floors. A handful of people still huddled near the fireplace, wrapped in scarves and suspicion, their eyes darting toward the front door that had been locked the entire night. The bar itself stood abandoned, though someone had left out a sad spread of stale bread, wrinkled apples, and mystery meat under a greasy cloth.

Thalia didn’t mind picking through leftovers—hunger was a blunt teacher. What she did mind was being expected to turn flour into actual food. It was simply too big an ask for a girl like her. The noble houses of Aurelia had many rules, some of which were spoken plainly and some passed through generations in the silent way of tradition. Nowhere in those teachings had anyone ever instructed her on what, precisely, to do with a bag of flour at ten in the morning after a town lockdown.

Lark had plopped himself by the hearth the moment they’d entered, his tail giving a single thump against the floorboards as if to say, Feed me or else. Thalia’s father trailed behind her, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled face as he eyed the sad breakfast spread. He looked like a man who’d long ago stopped expecting anything better than whatever he could snatch with his hands. Thalia had noticed this about him lately—how he adjusted without fuss. Or maybe “adjusted” wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t ignorant of their crumbling status, their shrinking world. But he didn’t rage against it. Instead, he treated their downfall like bad weather—something to wait out. Something you couldn’t shout into changing.

He hadn’t argued when their servants had quit. Hadn’t flinched as their grand home’s doors were sealed one by one. Hadn’t blinked when friends had vanished like smoke.

It wasn’t surrender he exhibited, though. It was patience. A trait Thalia had never quite mastered.

Her jaw tightened as he ripped a hunk of bread like it was no different from the delicate pastries they’d once eaten on silver trays. Maybe it wasn’t, to him. Maybe he’d always known their glittering life would crumble. Maybe that’s why it stung—his quiet acceptance felt like a mirror, reflecting all the ways she hadn’t let go.

“You’ll scorch a hole through that flour bag with those eyes,” her father grumbled then, shuffling past her to poke at a plate of shriveled carrots.

“I wasn’t glaring,” Thalia replied, arms crossed. “I was… considering my wide range of options, as usual.”

He snorted, tossing a bread crust to Lark. The dog caught it midair, tail wagging. “Last time you weren’t doing something you were clearly doing, we had to air out the kitchen for days.”

“That was a new recipe.”

“It was toast,” he said, chewing, “You were making toast.”

Thalia snatched the driest bread roll she could find, ignoring his chuckle. Dawnhaven’s idea of a meal—stale bread and lumpy vegetables—made her miss Aurelia’s citrus-glazed cakes. But missing things was dangerous. It meant admitting they were gone.

Thalia had just slumped into a chair and bitten into her rock-hard roll when the tavern door crashed open. A blast of icy wind rushed in, followed by a booming voice that practically rattled the cups on the tables.

“Good morning everyone!”

Thalia blinked. Slowly.

She turned just in time to see what could only be described as a walking avalanche of fur and muscle stomping cheerfully inside. For a brief moment, her alcohol-blurred memory scrambled to place him—had he been at the feast? Or was this just what the gods conjured when they wanted to test one’s bravery?

Then came the realization: blight-born.

A proper one.

She’d seen them before, from a distance and heard references in hushed tones, sometimes described with words that sounded less like facts and more like folklore. But this was the first time she’d really taken one in. Not glimpsed through foggy eyes and mind. But really looked.

And stars above, he was moon-blighting massive.

Not just in height—though he easily towered over everyone in the room—but in presence. He wore his size like a declaration, all red hair and glowing eyes and scarred confidence, the kind of man who could lift a cart off someone or hurl it at someone and not break a sweat either way. She watched as he laughed easily, joked with the innkeeper- a snake! How inebriated had she been last night?- in a language she didn’t recognize, then handed off what looked like a bottle with a wink before turning toward a red-haired woman sitting deeper in the room.

Thalia released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and quickly turned her eyes back to her bread. Not that she was scared, exactly. Just… reminded that Dawnhaven didn’t play by the same rules as her home had. Here, a blight-born didn’t arrive, if they did, with armed escort or fanfare—they walked in like regular people. Talked like regular people. Smiled like—

She tore a bite from the bread a little more forcefully than necessary.

“You like the bread that much?” her father muttered as he took the seat facing her, voice dry as ever.

“Hardly,” Thalia replied, reaching for her mug. “Just readjusting my definition of ‘morning person.’”

Nocturnal Memoirs: An Urban-Fantasy Mafia Epic

@Herald Had Dom approach him for some free food. :)

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Seluna Temple
Interactions/Mentions: Daphne (@PrinceAlexus), Katherine (@SpicyMeatball)}

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Elara stepped through the temple door. It shut behind her with a soft click that felt too loud in the empty space. She paused, the sound lingering like a held breath. Around her, the air was cool and still, quieter than the forest outside but heavier too, as if the walls were holding their breath with her. Faint traces of incense clung to the stones, sweet and dusty. High above, the ceiling curved like the inside of some giant creature’s ribs, shadows nesting between pillars. The place felt half-asleep, she decided—a thing not quite ready to wake.

She’d imagined temples as grand, but not like this. Not so still. Temples dotted the Lunaris kingdom like stars, places people went to find answers. Elara had visited plenty, always for others: her grieving father, her sick mother, Amaya’s endless rituals. Never her own. Now, her boots whispered against the floor, and she wondered if Seluna even knew her name. At the far end of the hall, a silver crescent moon glowed faintly on a raised platform. It looked lonely, she thought, like it missed the sky.

She stood quietly near the entrance, drawing the too-large cloak more tightly around her. The scent of Aliseth clung to it still, calming her in the same way he had during their conversation.

Her eyes drifted toward the woman who’d opened the door for her. Robed in black and silver, adorned with Seluna’s sigil, the priestess stood with the calm authority of someone accustomed to thresholds—between night and dawn, death and mercy, goddess and mortal.

Elara inclined her head in greeting, her voice soft but steady.

“Good morning. Forgive the intrusion—I wasn’t sure if anyone would answer.”

She paused, her gaze flickering toward the still corners of the hall, and then back to the priestess.

“My name is Elara,” she said at last. “And… I think I’m meant to be here. Though I was not entirely sure why this morning and…I’m still not sure if I know, genuinely.” Perhaps a bit too genuine on her part.

She hesitated, then lifted the small wicker basket she’d nearly forgotten she was holding. The handle, smoothed from use, creaked softly beneath her fingers.

“Well—” her voice warmed with the faintest flicker of self-awareness, “except to help. In the smallest way that I can.”

Inside the basket were simple offerings: folded linens, salves for wounds, a bundle of dried herbs tied with twine, and a few spare candles she’d gathered from the servant stores. Nothing grand. Nothing that would merit recognition. But it mattered to her. The act of bringing it, unasked, felt like a stitch in something frayed—perhaps even something fraying within herself.

And if she lingered here a little longer, among strangers and stillness, it meant postponing the inevitable walk to the royal cabin. Just for a while. Just until she remembered how to wear the shape of a handmaiden again.

It was only then that she noticed it. The scent was initially hidden behind the incense. And then she saw them. Bodies. Laid out with care beneath simple cloth coverings. The breath in her throat snagged for just a second. Not from fear. Just a memory of the last she’d seen of her mother. She’d looked like that, too. As if her body had remembered how to be present but forgotten how to belong in the world anymore.

Elara turned her gaze away almost as soon as it landed. She wouldn’t dwell. She couldn’t. This wasn’t her grief to carry—but it brushed against her anyway, soft as a thread unwinding in her chest.

A rustle of movement drew her attention to something, or someone, behind the priestess. Another woman, taller, broad-shouldered, with violet eyes, a soldier’s poise, and a casual air that felt strangely at odds with the sacred hush around them. Elara’s gaze lingered for a moment, curious, but didn’t linger long. She didn’t know her. Probably one of the royal guards, judging by her uniform, or a knight-in-training under one of the nobles. They rarely crossed paths with handmaidens, even in a place this small.

The guard leaned toward the priestess, murmuring something that made the older woman nod. Familiar. Close. Elara’s stomach twisted. Not jealousy, exactly. Just a hollow feeling, like hunger. When had anyone ever looked at her like that? When had she ever been that sure of where she stood? The guard strode past, boots crunching snow outside, and Elara swallowed the ache.

Temples were for truths, she supposed. And here was hers: Duty wasn’t enough. Not anymore. She wanted… something. A path to follow. Maybe even a person to trust. The thought scared her. But as she stood there, basket in hand, Elara let herself imagine it—just for a breath—before turning back to the priestess.

Nocturnal Memoirs: An Urban-Fantasy Mafia Epic

I think I said no cus it's more interesting to just have it both ways when it makes sense (i.e. Mafia vs Mafia, Badges vs Badges, and Mafia vs Badges). Plus a bit more realistic.

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

Scotti moved.

So did Selene.

She was on him in seconds, cutting through the market’s tangled arteries. Her boots pounded the metal grates, each step sharp but steady as she dodged carts overflowing with junk parts and shoppers haggling over prices. A cloud of greasy smoke from a fried-scrap stall blurred her vision, but she lunged right, squeezing between two towers of dented engine cores. She didn’t yell his name—wasting breath was for amateurs. Ahead, glimpses of his faded hoodie flickered like a signal: there, then gone, boots skidding around a corner.

He leaped over a vendor’s table. Selene veered left, ducking under sagging cables that snagged her jacket. Her shoulder clipped a shelf of flickering holoscreens, sending one crashing to the floor. A voice shouted insults behind her. She ignored it.

The kid slammed into a dented door at the corridor’s end. Selene lunged, fingers grazing the frame—but metal shrieked as it sealed shut. No hesitation. She rammed her body against the door, once, twice, until the hinges snapped with a groan. Stale heat hit her face as she stumbled into a dim hallway. Steam hissed from fractured pipes above, cloaking the air in fog. The reek of rust and overheated wiring clawed at her throat.

A shadow flitted ahead, rounding a corner. Selene sprinted, boots slipping on damp metal. The hallway narrowed, walls closing in like a trap. Flickering orange lights revealed tangled pipes, some dripping with condensation. A crooked sign dangled by one bolt, its faded letters barely legible: Restricted. Maintenance Zone. Her pulse thudded in her ears, louder than the distant hum of generators.

Selene took one step forward.

Then she stopped.

The ducts stretched ahead, dark and narrow, like the gaping mouth of a creature forgotten by time. Selene hesitated at the entrance, her gaze tracing the crooked edges of the corridor beyond the bent warning sign. These weren’t the clean, regulated tunnels of the upper city—those were safe, mapped, and controlled. No, these were Dominion’s skeleton, ancient veins left to rot after newer systems replaced them. Rust coated the walls, and the air smelled faintly of burnt metal, a scent that made her throat itch.

The old vents were abandoned for good reason.

They twisted in every direction, a chaotic snarl of passages that burrowed under storage bays, brushed against sealed-off zones, and vanished into pitch-black depths. Stories claimed they linked to the first tunnels ever dug into the planet’s crust—tunnels that supposedly shifted when no one was looking. Selene had heard whispers of scavengers who’d entered these ducts and returned babbling about echoes that didn’t match their footsteps. Her jaw tightened. She’d never believed the rumours… until now.

Going deeper was dangerous.

The lower levels trapped heat like a furnace, and the air turned heavy, making every breath feel like swallowing ash. People who ventured down here either vanished or crawled back broken, their eyes hollow as they muttered about shapes in the shadows—things the Council pretended didn’t exist. Selene’s boot scuffed the dust-covered floor, stirring up a cloud. Not a soul, she thought. No one’s been here in years. But the hair on her arms prickled anyway.

She didn’t move forward.

The black case under her arm felt heavier suddenly, though she knew it weighed barely anything. Krell hadn’t told her what was inside. She’d dealt with his kind before, though. Smugglers. Hackers. People who traded in tech the Council banned or ignored. What he’d given her was likely off-grid. Illegally modded. Old Dominion systems spoke in dying languages, and this case might contain something that understood them.

A map, maybe.

A translator.

A way through.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t about to let it slip into someone else’s hands—not when someone had already tried to put a tail on her before she even touched it.

Selene exhaled through her nose. Then she crouched, pressing her palm to the floor just past the sign.

Warm. Dust-thick. Stable enough—for now.

She rose.

And stepped into the dark.

---

Mentions: Scotti (@The Savant)

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

I'll probably get one more post out today hopefully before that gm post :)