Qia

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions/Mentions:@The Muse Kira, @PrinceAlexus Sya}

---

Orion found Kira’s teasing words both unexpected and oddly disarming.

Her comment about preferring something more “mysterious and brooding” elicited a subtle tilt of his head, his crimson gaze steady as it locked onto hers. The charge between them was undeniable, a fleeting spark of something unspoken that lingered just long enough to unsettle him. It was a game he wasn’t entirely unaccustomed to, but one he hadn’t played in some time.

“Brooding, is it?” he replied smoothly. “Careful what you wish for. Mystery and brooding often come with more baggage than you’d like.” The corners of his mouth lifted in the faintest smirk, but there was a weight to his words—a quiet acknowledgment of the truths behind his own enigmatic exterior.

Sya’s playful remarks were a welcome distraction. Her laughter blended with the soothing sounds of the spring—the gentle lapping of water against stone, the hiss of steam rising into the cool morning air. As her tail flicked droplets of water in his direction, Orion raised a brow but made no effort to dodge, letting the ripples roll over his legs. Her cheeky comment about tall partners earned a soft chuckle from him, a rare sound that felt foreign even to his own ears.

“You have a knack for negotiation, Sya,” he said dryly, acknowledging her earlier suggestion of “lightening his purse.” “I’ll keep that in mind should I ever need someone to charm a room—or an entire town, for that matter.” His tone was light, but there was a genuine respect in his words. Despite her playful demeanor, Sya was resourceful, and it was clear she had carved out a meaningful role in Dawnhaven. It was no small feat for anyone, let alone a Blight-Born.

Then, as Ayel’s name surfaced, the mood shifted as if a cloud had passed over the moon above them.

Orion could feel the heat of Kira’s anger, as palpable as the steam rising from the water, and he studied her in silence for a moment. Her words weren’t just about Ayel—they were about power, control, and the scars left by those who thought themselves untouchable.

“That man’s weakness is his own undoing,” Orion said to her after a beat. “But don’t let him take up space in your mind. He’s not worth the energy it takes to hate him.” His words weren’t meant to dismiss her anger but to offer perspective. It was something he’d learned to do with his own situation thanks to Flynn.

Sya, perhaps sensing the tension, shifted the focus with a playful remark aimed at him. Her flattery was bold, her teasing so exaggerated it bordered on absurdity, and yet it managed to draw a faint smile from him. “Abs, is it now?” he echoed, arching a brow as his voice took on a drier edge. “I’ll have to remember to wear a thicker coat next time if my reputation is getting this out of hand.”

The attention, however playful, unsettled Orion in ways he couldn’t entirely name.

It wasn’t the teasing itself—he’d faced far sharper wit in courtly circles—but something about the simplicity of the moment left him unmoored. Perhaps it was because it felt so distant from the life he had once known. Before the blight had claimed him, comments like Sya’s might have been met with a smirk or a quick-witted reply. Back then, they would have simply been part of the easy rhythm of human connection—playful, fleeting, and inconsequential. Now, they tugged at something deeper, a reminder of how much he had lost. Not just in himself but in the bonds he had once cherished, the ones that had fractured under the weight of his transformation.

Like with his wife. His ex-wife.

She had loved him once, flattered him with words that held a tenderness no one else could replicate. And he had flattered her in return, their affection woven into the fabric of their daily lives. He had taken it for granted, he realized now. Her laughter, bright and unrestrained. After the blight, it had turned brittle, her gaze weighted with something he couldn’t bear to name—fear, perhaps, or worse, pity.

He hadn’t blamed her for leaving; he couldn’t.

How could anyone stay when the man they loved had become a stranger cloaked in the form of a monster?

Orion shifted slightly, the warm water lapping at his legs as he pushed the thoughts aside. “Though,” he added after a beat, his tone lightening again as he met Sya’s gaze, “I suppose there are worse things to be known for.”

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions/Mentions: @c3p-0h Amaya, @Dark Light Vellion, @BlackRoseSiren Aurora, @Fetzen Valthyr, @Dezuel Gadez}

---

Elara’s gaze locked onto Vellion’s hand as it closed around Amaya’s with a predator’s swiftness, the movement so fluid it felt almost inhuman. Her breath caught as she watched his fingers tighten with unsettling ease, their pale, sinewy strength both precise and deliberate. The outside firelight flickered off his sharp features, casting shadows across his expression that only deepened the unnatural hunger etched there. The weight of his presence appeared to loom over Amaya, suffocating, as though he were a stormcloud pressing down, threatening to drown her beneath its weight.

The audacity of this man was truly staggering.

A sharp pang coiled in Elara’s chest, every instinct screaming at her to act, to step forward and sever his hold on her friend. Her fingers twitched at her sides, an unconscious echo of her rising frustration, but her feet remained frozen. She knew Amaya—knew the fierce pride that burned within her, the resolve to meet such moments head-on. Even so, the sight of Vellion leaning closer, his dark eyes searching Amaya’s with an almost invasive intensity, made her pulse quicken. His words, smooth and calculated, oozed charm, but their saccharine tone felt like venom to Elara’s ears.

Her frustration flared anew when yet another figure joined the tableau, the blond man stepping into the fray with a casual familiarity that only added to the claustrophobia of the scene. The crowded intimacy of their gestures, the unspoken tension between them, left Elara on edge. She barely held herself back, her muscles taut as her resolve battled against the urgency building within her.

And then Amaya smiled.

Elara’s breath caught as her princess turned her attention to her, her question about Bishop Ashwood landing like a stone in the pit of her stomach.

Ashwood. The codeword. The one they’d been trained to recognize, to act upon without hesitation.

Which meant this wasn’t just a ploy to placate the crowd—Amaya was signalling danger.

Elara’s gaze flicked to the guards as they fell into step, their postures rigid, their eyes scanning the crowd with practiced precision. Relief mingled with dread as she realized they understood the code, but it wasn’t enough to fully settle her nerves. She followed them with her eyes as they moved away from the gathering, her every instinct telling her to go after them.

Yet her feet stayed rooted to the spot, her cloak heavy around her shoulders as the morning air's chill seeped into her skin. She couldn’t shake the image of Amaya’s smile, that mask of poise concealing the icy anger Elara had only ever seen in rare, private moments. She knew her friend was strong, capable of navigating the treacherous waters of diplomacy and danger alike.

But this wasn’t the palace, and Vellion was no courtier bound by decorum.

She couldn’t let this end here, couldn’t let Amaya bear this alone, even if she did have the guards with her. If there was one thing Elara knew with certainty, it was that her place had always been by Amaya’s side—and no predator, no danger would change that.

Her pulse quickened as she hesitated, her feet rooted for a fleeting moment. Amaya’s poise, her clever maneuver with the codeword, showed her ability to think quickly even under pressure. Elara trusted that. She had to. But the tension twisting in her chest refused to loosen, the faintest voice in her mind whispering that Amaya might not have enough—enough allies, enough strength, enough time. The thought was a splinter beneath her skin and it was what propelled her forward, unwilling to let the growing distance between them stretch too far.

Drawing her cloak closer around her shoulders, Elara slipped into the space behind the guards. She wouldn’t intrude; Amaya had made her choice, and the handmaiden respected it. But neither would she let herself be more than a breath away, ready to step forward should the need arise.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: Strigidae Dorm - P.R.C.U.}

Human #5.050: Walk Me Home

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_{Interaction(s): Aurora @Melissa}

Previously: The Prodigal Daughter

“Hey, Hayv,” she greeted, a touch of warmth and melancholy in her voice.“Big day…”

“It’s me, Harps,” Aurora stated by way of greeting, feeling her throat tighten as she announced herself knowing her friend couldn’t visually tell who was there, “It’s Rora.”

Over Harper’s shoulder, the redhead could see how barren her dorm room had become. The cozy space that her friend had carefully crafted and curated over the last year was a distant memory, now just blank walls and empty air. It was strange, foreign even.

“I came to say goodbye and, uh,” She pulled the heart shaped pendant along the chain of her necklace nervously, trying to find the words, “Apologize for how I spoke to you last night. I was- and still am- angry. I don’t know how to deal with everything, and I took it out on you. You didn’t deserve that.”

Harper’s hand hovered by her side, her fingers brushing the rough denim of her jeans as Aurora’s words sank into her like unexpected rain, soft and unanticipated. Apologies from Aurora were rare, precious in their own way, each one a carefully offered truth that only emerged when her emotions were sharpest, most real. This wasn’t a casual truce or a quick fix; it was something deeper, a shift in the ground beneath them, and Harper could feel herself momentarily losing balance, her mind scrambling to find some steady place to stand.

She parted her lips, ready to respond, but her words knotted up.

How did she even begin to address everything that had been said? How could she possibly address the anger, the hurt, that had built over the past days? The past years?

She wasn’t entirely sure.

But if she could say anything, she wanted it to be honest, to be free of the masks she’d hidden behind for so long. She wanted to cleanse herself of the guilt and grief that she’d carried, layer by painful layer, a burden she’d placed squarely on her own shoulders. But no more.

Taking a steadying breath, Harper leaned into the silence for just a heartbeat longer, searching for the courage to unravel her thoughts. “I get it…the anger. I understand that more than you’ll ever know,” she finally murmured, the words coming slowly, unpolished but true. She knew what it felt like to be angry—at herself, at the world, and even, painfully, at the people she cared about. And just like back then, there was the aching need to leave, to board the ferry and let the weight of this place, this fractured island and the turmoil it held, slide from her shoulders.

But she couldn’t yet. Not until she’d said goodbye to her best friend.

“And you were wrong, you know?” She lifted her face, sightless but unflinching, as if in that darkness she could still find Aurora’s gaze, as if speaking the truth might light the way forward. “You’re not alone in feeling like someone tried to take everything away from you. I know exactly what that feels like and more.” A bitter smile curved her lips, a flicker of something close to humour but edged with pain.

“Because they succeeded.”

Aurora’s chest tightened at the final words, the weight of Harper’s voice sinking deep into her, twisting the apology into something far heavier than she’d expected. There was no relief in hearing that she wasn’t alone in her anger- no comfort in knowing that the brunette shared that ache. Instead, it felt like a second, sharper cut, something she hadn’t quite been prepared for. How had she really thought, in the depth of her fury, that Harper had been unaffected? That she had been untouched by everything that had happened?

It had been selfish.

“I..” Her voice faltered as she searched for words that would make sense of everything that was unfolding.Her throat closed up again, and she could feel the familiar sting of tears burning behind her eyes, the feeling of being on the edge of breaking but not sure if she could, or even should. “I’m sorry.”

Harper’s white eyes might have been pinned on her, but Aurora knew that she couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see the way her brow was furrowed, unsure of what else she could say to comfort her friend, and herself. So, she asked the next logical question.

“Can I come in for a minute?”

It would be so easy to keep her at the doorway, to let the farewell be quick and clean. But that small part of Harper that had been aching for closure, for something real and lasting, reached out before she could even consider pulling back.

“Yeah,” she murmured, stepping aside to make room, letting her voice carry the invitation she hadn’t quite found the courage to give. As Aurora moved past her, Harper felt the door close behind them, sealing them into this moment with no escape, no easy way out.

It was the quietest they had been together in a long time.

Though, this time, the silence felt gentle. Like a fragile truce.

“I’m sorry too,” Harper began after a while, leaning against her door. She could feel Aurora’s gaze on her, waiting, patient, giving her the space to say what she hadn’t been able to put into words before. “I know I’ve always been…closed off. More than I should have been with you. It’s not fair, and I think that’s part of what got us here in the first place.”

A brief silence followed, one that felt both comforting and tense, as if they were both bracing themselves for something inevitable. Aurora felt the urge to speak, but knew better than to interrupt or attempt to fill the quiet with words that would only detract from whatever her friend was about to reveal. Harper’s fingers found the edge of the door frame, tracing the cool wood, finding something tangible to hold onto.

“Eight years ago… my parents died,” she continued, “Sierra…my sister, she’d just gone off to college at the time. So, when I’d received the news, I was fourteen, and I was—well, I was alone.” She swallowed, the ache of that time resurfacing, though it felt muted, more like an old scar than a fresh wound.

“I think that’s when it started,” Harper admitted, her words slow, careful, as though she were piecing together a puzzle she’d kept locked away. “I didn’t want anyone to see how much it hurt, how hard it was just to…get through the days. So I kept it all inside, even when I knew that wasn’t healthy.” A faint, humourless smile tugged at her lips, a small acknowledgment of the irony that hadn’t escaped her. “Over time, I guess it became a habit—pushing people away. It felt safer, easier.”

Her gaze drifted in Aurora’s direction, though sightless, her expression softened, more open than it had been in a long time. “Maybe if I’d been more open with you—if I’d let you in a little more—things would have been different.” She sighed, the words feeling both like a release and a revelation. “I don’t want to keep doing that, Rora. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

How easy it was. To be honest with a goodbye.

The redhead’s heart splintered almost instantly.

Harper had never been forthcoming about her past or her family, rarely had Aurora heard tales of what her friend’s life was like before enrolling. As much as she wanted to understand her more, she never pried, never wanted to overstep. She knew as well as anyone that people kept things close to their chests for a reason. After all, Dundas Island was not only an institution for higher learning, but a place of refuge.

So hearing the brunette let her truth flow so freely in that moment felt even more devastating. A sign that things had changed so drastically in the last few weeks, days even, that warranted such things finally coming to light. And the truth was just as jarring as she had once hypothesized.

“Harper,” Aurora's voice was barely above a whisper, the single word hanging in the air between them like a fragile thread. And then she was moving, crossing the room in only a few steps before tentatively reaching around her friend and pulling her into a comforting embrace. She could feel how fast Harper’s heart was racing, no doubt from the truth she just laid at her feet. The redhead swallowed the lump that had formed at the back of her throat before speaking.

“I don’t blame you for not being open with me,” She started, assuring her friend that she hadn’t misstepped by not being candid earlier. “When I was younger, and I first got here, it took me a while to warm up to anyone. I was so used to being by myself and doing things on my own, that I didn’t want to burden anyone.” Aurora exhaled, pulling back and looking her friend in the eyes, thankful she could not see the moisture brimming in her eyes.

“But after a while, I learned how exhausting it is to go it alone.” She expressed, “And it makes a world of difference to allow people in your life to help lighten that load.”

“Thank you for trusting me, and I only wish you would have told me sooner so I could have supported you more.”

Harper took a deep breath as she heard the soft rustle of Aurora’s footsteps, the space between them shrinking until Aurora’s arms wrapped around her in a gentle embrace. The unexpected closeness caught the brunette off guard, and for a moment, she stiffened, her senses overwhelmed by the sudden warmth and scent of her friend. Slowly, hesitantly, she began to relax, allowing herself to lean into Aurora’s arms. She felt the rapid thud of her own heartbeat beginning to slow, her breathing becoming more even as her own arms wrapped around Aurora’s waist, her head finding solace on her friend’s shoulder.

Aurora was right. It truly had been exhausting. The endless cycle of fear and guardedness had left Harper feeling worn down, her spirit fragile beneath the layers she’d built up over the years. So, she was more than willing to let herself rest. For now, she could let go just enough to lean on her best friend.

“I wish I could have told you sooner, too.” Harper's voice was soft, muffled slightly against Aurora’s shoulder before she felt the redhead pull away just enough to look at her. “But I didn’t know how. I thought I could handle it all on my own.”

Harper took in a shaky breath, her fingers tightening momentarily on Aurora's arm, her emotions spilling over the edges she could no longer contain. “But I can't,” she admitted, her voice breaking just slightly as she forced herself to continue. “I thought I was strong enough to keep it all in, to keep everyone at arm's length and just... bear it by myself. But I’m terrified, Rora. I’ve been so scared for so long, and I didn’t want anyone to see it.”

She paused, her lips trembling as she tried to gather her thoughts, trying to find a way to put into words what had haunted her for years. “I’m scared of losing the people I care about. I’m scared of getting close, of letting anyone in, and then watching them slip away. And the more I tried to push it down, the more it ate at me. It’s like... it’s like I’ve been running on empty, and I’m just too tired to keep going like this.” Her voice wavered, the fear she had kept hidden for so long now bleeding into every word.

Harper swallowed, her throat tight as she finally let herself say what had been truly weighing on her the moment Aurora had appeared at her door.

“I need to learn how to be okay again, Rora. And I think the Foundation might be the only way I can be.”

The moment the words left her lips, Harper felt Aurora tense. She didn’t need sight to know how Aurora felt about the Foundation—after all, she shared the same wariness, the same mistrust. Harper wasn't going there for a sense of community or for any belief in their goodness. She knew what they were, and she had no illusions about it.

But this decision wasn't about them. Not entirely.

“When you said you were going to Crestwood Hollow, that you’d figure it out...” Harper continued, her words rushed, almost like she needed to defend herself before Aurora could object.“You said it like you weren’t sure, but you knew it was something you had to do. I think I need to do that too.”

Harper’s words resonated deeply with Aurora, more than anything ever had between the pair. They were two sides of the same coin, with the same fears that seemed to eat away at them all this time. They’d loved and lost before, and it was evident that those emotions still lingered and affected every choice and decision they made. The redhead still struggled with the possibility that those she cared about most would vanish into thin air again. Her relationship with Lorcán especially, now that her heart was his.

But as much as she agreed with the brunette, it was the mention of the Foundation that caused her to bristle. The cold and callous hallways of that asylum were not the right setting for Harper to go on a journey of self-discovery, she knew that as much. Yet, Aurora remembered that if things hadn’t played out for her as they did, she too would have ended up at the Institute. And although it wouldn't have been her first choice, she would have made the most of it, as scary and unknown as it was.

“If that’s what you think is best,” Aurora inhaled and relaxed her shoulders, “Then you should go. I can’t stop you or tell you what to do, but please be careful.” She shuddered, “I have the worst feeling about that place.”

The gravity in Aurora’s voice settled over Harper like a veil, one that draped itself around her, heavy and undeniable. For a moment, doubt fluttered in her chest, clawing at the resolve she’d spent the morning building. Her decision hadn’t been easy—she knew the Foundation’s reputation, the rumours, and the risks. Haven and she had, after all, tried to find out as much as they could about the place. But her reasons for going weren’t about finding safety or shelter. She’d had enough of those half-solutions, enough empty reassurances from people who didn’t understand or know themselves.

What she needed was truth.

But something else anchored Harper, too—something that reached back to her very first day with Blackjack. She could still remember the way the training room had felt that day, charged with an electric hum of excitement and camaraderie that she wasn’t sure she belonged in. She’d lingered at the edges, hands shoved into her pockets. Laughter and banter had rippled through the room, the kind of easy familiarity that only time and trust could forge. But instead of joining in, Harper had felt that camaraderie deepen the divide between her and the others. She’d told herself she preferred it that way—keeping her distance, staying quiet, speaking only when absolutely necessary.

And then Aurora had walked over, cutting through Harper’s self-imposed isolation with a presence that was impossible to ignore.

Back then, Harper hadn’t yet mastered her enhanced vision, and Aurora’s presence had almost glowed with a surreal, heightened clarity. Her hair fell in a blazing wave of copper and gold, each strand catching and reflecting the light as though lit from within. The freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks stood out like constellations painted against the backdrop of her pale skin. Aurora’s eyes—bright, open, and blue as the sky—held a sincerity that seemed almost too genuine. Even the faint flush on her cheeks, probably from the recent drills, softened her features, making her look approachable in a way that felt almost foreign to Harper’s guarded perspective.

And then, without any invitation or prompting, Aurora had offered her a small piece of advice in an attempt to extend an olive branch —a light, almost offhand tip on adjusting her stance to keep her balance. It wasn’t what Harper had wanted or expected. Actually, she hadn’t asked for anything, and the redhead’s casual confidence had caught her completely off guard. Without thinking, Harper had let the words slip out in a dry, slightly impudent tone: “Didn’t realize I’d signed up for private coaching.”

There was a beat of silence, one in which Harper braced herself for a brush-off or a frown, some sign that her comment had stung. But instead, Aurora had laughed—a warm, unguarded sound that danced between them. Her laughter wasn’t offended or deterred; if anything, it was as if Aurora had found amusement in Harper’s walls, not intimidation.

In that moment, something had shifted. Harper had felt a tiny crack form in her carefully constructed defences, even though she hadn’t been ready to admit it. She’d rolled her eyes, shifting her stance ever so slightly—a grudging acknowledgment of Aurora’s advice, though she’d die before expressing any measure of gratitude to the girl. “Well, don’t expect a thank you,” she’d muttered instead, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her shoulder as though to reassert her pride, her independence, her need for control.

Aurora’s presence, since then, had been persistent but not forceful, like the steady pressure of sunlight warming a cold surface. And somehow, without Harper even noticing it happening, that persistence had started to chip away at her walls, piece by cautious piece, until Harper had realized that Aurora wasn’t just a teammate—she was a friend. A friend who saw her, who stayed, even when Harper pushed back.

Still.

She’d changed in her own ways since then, bit by bit, but no one—not even her best friend—had been able to alter who she was at her core.

And maybe, Harper realized, that was why Aurora had stayed.

“I know the risks,” she replied softly now, a hint of steel beneath her voice. “The Foundation isn’t... good.” It wasn’t a haven, a place of second chances, or even a place to heal. It was a calculated gamble, and Harper was ready to place her stakes. “But they won’t change me. I won’t let them.”

Her lips curved slightly, a spark of humour returning as she tilted her head slightly in Aurora’s direction, as if she could still see her there.

“Besides…you couldn’t, could you?”

Aurora’s breath hitched at the question, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and something deeper, something harder to name. There was a new edge to her tone, a quiet defiance that she hadn't heard in a long while. She had broken down her walls with time, but it seemed they were being built back up again in preparation for the path she was headed down.

The redhead let out a quiet laugh, though it didn’t reach her eyes, not that Harper could see her expression. “I wouldn’t want to, even if I could,” she said softly, her voice laced with an odd tenderness. "You’ve never been the kind of person to let anyone change you.”

The thought of Harper facing the cold, indifferent walls of the Foundation though made her stomach twist in knots.

“Just- promise me you’ll keep your head, Harps.” A plea. “Don’t let them break you. I don’t care what they say, who they think you are- don’t let them take that from you.”

“I promise,” Harper said almost immediately. “I’ll keep my head. I’ll keep me. No matter what they try.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence felt fragile but not uncomfortable, like the pause between the closing of one chapter and the beginning of another. The brunette shifted her weight, her boot scuffing against the floor, the faint sound sharp in the otherwise still room. Her hand brushed against Aurora’s—lightly, fleetingly, as if testing the air between them—but she didn’t pull away. She wasn’t sure what she was searching for, only that the moment felt like it needed to stretch, to breathe, just a little longer.

Harper wasn’t used to asking for things, especially not like this.

But, as Aurora had, it was her turn to make a plea now.

“Walk with me?” It was posed quieter than she’d expected, almost like a confession. “To the ferry. Haven’s coming too, but... I don’t know. I just think... it’d be nice.”

“Of course, Harper,” Aurora didn’t hesitate, agreeing immediately, wanting to see off her friend for what could be the final time.

“Of course I will.”

---

Recollections: Primal Sinister

_{Interactions: Loni @FernStone, James @NoriWasHere}

---

Loni’s words carried a brightness that made Elena’s earlier frustrations feel distant, almost as if they were fading into the background of the cozy bakery.

It was nice—this unexpected connection. It felt like a reminder that not everything in Cloverfield had to be a mystery or burdened by the city’s secrets. For a few minutes, it was just a mother and daughter, sharing a moment of love in the mundane, and Elena found herself drawn into the simplicity of it.

Throughout it, Elena couldn’t help but catch the way Loni looked at her daughter—with such fierce love that it almost took her by surprise. That gaze was powerful, reminiscent of how her own mother had once looked at her. It held a depth of care that seemed limitless, a kind of love that made someone willing to go to war, even if they’d never picked up a weapon before.

But then, Luciana’s demeanor shifted, sudden as a wind changing direction, and the mood in the bakery seemed to shift with her. The air felt colder, as if all the warmth had been sucked out of the room. The child’s frightened sobs broke the comforting murmur of the bakery, piercing the soft atmosphere with a cry so sharp it made Elena’s heart clench. Luciana’s small body trembled, her tiny hands reaching out in distress, and Elena’s fingers tightened instinctively around the rim of her now-cold cup, her gaze snapping to the man near the door.

Something about him was off—she felt it in her gut before her mind could even process it.

He stood there, dressed too perfectly, his crisp suit almost out of place among the casual patrons. The polished shoes, the overly practiced smile that stretched but never touched his eyes, all of it made her skin crawl. Elena’s nose caught a whiff of something that didn’t belong—the harsh, artificial scent of cologne, like over-brewed black tea clashing with the comforting bakery smells. It felt like an unwelcome intrusion, like a bitter herb thrown carelessly into an otherwise soothing blend.

Her mother had always taught her that if something felt wrong, it probably was. She’d once even dragged her across an entire block because of a man who’d looked at her the wrong way— “Trust your gut, always,” her mother had said, and Elena had never forgotten it. Those words had been her guide through moments of uncertainty, and right now, they were blaring in her mind like a siren. As she watched this stranger’s smile linger on Luciana, every instinct in her screamed that this was wrong.

Luciana’s fear wasn’t unfounded simply on the basis of her being a child. It couldn’t be.

“Hey,” Elena spoke up. She pushed her chair back slightly, the wooden legs scraping against the floor with a sharp sound that drew attention. “I think you should listen to the lady.” Her words weren’t loud, but they were firm, carrying an unspoken warning. There was no reason for a grown man to be standing there, smiling at a terrified child. Whatever his intentions were, she had no patience for it.

Not with the way Luciana clung to her mother, hiding her face as though that smile was some kind of monster.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions/Mentions:@The Muse Kira, @PrinceAlexus Sya}

---

Orion listened in silence, absorbing Sya’s words with the same respect she’d shown him. Her story, layered with loss and resilience, wove a path that brought him closer to understanding the woman beside him. He hadn’t known the depth of her past—the noble roots in a land lost to the blight, the hard-won survival she’d fought for, and the subtle note of gratitude that crept into her voice when she spoke of the prince’s acceptance. There was a kinship in her journey that resonated with him, a shared history of isolation, survival, and finding a place in a world that seemed to offer little warmth to people like them.

As she described Thornsrock and the life she’d left behind, Orion noted the distant look in her blue eye, as if she were watching the ashes of her former home rise in the steam of the springs. He could almost see it as she spoke—the castle perched high upon a rocky cliff, her father’s forge alive with sparks, a younger Sya managing the accounts beside the fire. When she mentioned the stable boy, her voice softened with a touch of playful nostalgia, the smallest glimpse of the life she might have led before the blight.

Her memories, however distant, seemed to stir something within her, something almost like warmth.

Her remark about the stable boy, punctuated by a mischievous grin at Kira, gave him a glimpse of the woman she might have been before the blight—a woman who could laugh and tease easily, who hadn’t yet been weighed down by the burden of survival. Even now, with her tail flicking lazily out of the water in a rare display of ease, Sya seemed to allow herself a sliver of freedom from her past. Her openness was unexpected, and he sensed it took courage to share these pieces of herself, fragments of a life she could never return to.

When she thanked them, her voice laced with genuine gratitude, Orion’s expression softened. He understood what it meant to feel like a monster in the eyes of others, to struggle against perceptions that saw only the blight-born and not the person beneath. “You’re no monster, Sya,” he replied. “You’ve built a life here—an inn that welcomes others, a place where people find comfort. That alone speaks to your strength.”

Then there was Kira, who had sidestepped his question with practiced ease, skillfully deflecting the conversation away from herself while keeping them all engaged. It was a familiar tactic—one he had used himself countless times, back when revealing too much could be dangerous, when sharing anything was a risk he couldn’t afford to take.

But he had to admit: she was good at it, her defences smooth and polished, almost second nature by comparison.

He understood that instinct to deflect, the subtle closing off that kept old wounds hidden. There were parts of him he didn’t wish to share either—especially his past, bound as it was to a family he’d once held close, now distanced by the blight. Despite everything, the memory of his wife and son remained a wound he kept locked away, an ache that hadn’t dulled but that he refused to expose, even here.
Some scars, he knew, were best left hidden.

Instead, he allowed the faintest smirk to break through, a subtle expression that was gone almost as soon as it appeared. “A stable boy?” he echoed, catching her teasing tone and meeting it with his own dry amusement. “Hardly my type.” His voice held a hint of challenge, a light riposte that matched her earlier innuendo.

“Though…. perhaps I’ll leave that to you. Unless of course…that’s not your type either.”

Recollections: Primal Sinister

_{Interactions: Loni @FernStone}

---

Elena watched as the man shuffled out of the bakery, his slumped figure gradually fading into the bustling crowd outside. She sighed deeply, her fingers tightening around her half-empty cup, the ceramic warm against her palm. This was always the hardest part—the disappointment that settled in after chasing leads that led nowhere. It wasn't just frustration; it was that nagging ache that came with wanting to help and realizing that sometimes, sheer determination just wasn’t enough. A part of her had wanted to believe him too, wanted his story to be something more than just an illusion built on fear. But the reality was, there had been nothing concrete, nothing more than a jumble of desperate words from a man whose credibility seemed as fragile as his trembling hands.

The skepticism she had held onto earlier now settled into a tangled web of emotions—regret, frustration, even a flicker of self-doubt. Had she been too quick to dismiss him? Had there been a subtle cue she overlooked, something in his words or mannerisms that hinted at a deeper truth she hadn’t given herself the time to see? After all, Cloverfield had a way of blurring the lines between what was real and what was just the fevered imaginings of desperate people.

Elena shook her head slightly, the movement almost imperceptible, as if she could physically rid herself of those thoughts. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to regain some semblance of balance. It was just another dead end, she reminded herself. This city was filled with people like him—people desperate to find meaning in things they couldn’t understand, people who blurred the line between their fears and reality until the distinction became impossible to see.

This wasn’t the first time she had encountered someone like that, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last.

Just as Elena tried to let go of the lingering frustration and disappointment, a sudden jolt interrupted her thoughts. A small force collided with her legs, almost making her drop her cup. Startled, she looked down, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of a little girl gazing up at her with large, curious brown eyes.

For a moment, Elena blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift. The girl’s tiny hand grabbed at her pant leg, tugging insistently, her other hand pointing at the stool beside Elena as she babbled words that were incomprehensible but full of conviction. The child’s puffy jacket made her look almost comically round, like a little marshmallow, and despite the abruptness of it all, Elena felt a smile tugging at her lips.

Before she could react, a woman rushed over, her voice frantic as she scooped the little girl into her arms. Elena watched, still off-balance, as the mother tried to corral her daughter, who was wriggling with relentless energy. The girl—Luciana, she soon learned—leaned toward the empty stool, her tiny hands reaching, her eyes alight with fascination. There was something endearing in the chaos, an innocence that felt strangely comforting in the wake of her earlier disappointment.

“'M so sorry,” the woman—Loni—said, finally turning her gaze to Elena, her expression open and apologetic. “She’s a runner- Mind if we sit? Just for a moment.”

Before Elena could nod, Loni had already settled Luciana onto the stool next to her, one hand resting on the little girl’s back for support. Luciana continued to babble happily, her legs kicking in excitement as her wide eyes took in every detail of the bakery. Elena chuckled quietly, the heaviness of her previous thoughts easing slightly. Loni’s gaze softened as she watched her daughter, her eyes filled with a love so deep it seemed to glow. Her laughter, light and genuine, carried a warmth that was hard to ignore, even for Elena, who found herself relaxing despite everything. The exhaustion was evident in Loni’s eyes, but so was a quiet resilience.

Motherhood was clearly a challenge, but one that Loni seemed to face with unwavering love.

Elena found herself smiling back at Loni without hesitation. “Nice to meet you, Loni. And you too, Luciana,”she said, her voice gentler now, softer, as if she was trying not to startle the little one. As to the other’s question, Elena shrugged slightly, her eyes glancing toward the counter where the barista worked.“They’re all about cards and digital payments now, I think,” she said, her eyes returning to Loni. “I remember the first time I came up to the North Side after the Cataclysm, I didn’t even realize that cash was such a rare thing here. I tried to grab a coffee at a place like this—stood there for what felt like forever, digging through my bag for change, while the barista just stared at me.” She shook her head with a small, rueful smile. “It was pretty embarrassing, but I learned my lesson. Now, I always make sure I’ve got at least one card on me when I come over here.”

Elena looked at Luciana, whose eyes were still filled with wonder as she gazed around, seemingly taking in everything at once. There was something so unguarded about her, something so genuinely curious, that it made Elena’s chest feel a little less tight.

“I guess some things never change,”she added, her gaze softening. Her eyes shifted back to Loni, and she added with a hint of sincerity,“You keep finding surprises, even if they aren’t the ones you expected.”

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions/Mentions:@The Muse Kira, @PrinceAlexus Sya}

---

Orion accepted the bottle from Kira with a subtle nod, feeling the weight of her gaze rest on him as he lifted it to his lips. Her amber eyes held a spark of playful challenge, her presence enticing, magnetic even, drawing his attention in a way that unsettled him just enough to make him pause. He hesitated, his gaze drifting to the spot where her mouth had touched the bottle. It was a detail he knew shouldn’t matter—a triviality he would typically dismiss without thought. Yet here, it did.

That slight, unbidden awareness lingered, unexpected and oddly compelling, stirring something within him that he wasn’t entirely prepared to examine right then and there.

He finally took a sip, the wine’s warmth blending with the natural heat of the springs.

The pause that followed then felt significant. His gaze met Kira's, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly in a silent acknowledgment of her curiosity—a curiosity that was more direct than he’d anticipated. It wasn’t often that someone pried, however lightly, into the bond between him and the prince. He set the bottle down beside him, leaning back slightly as he allowed himself to consider her words.

“The Prince is… resilient,” he replied after a moment, each word carefully chosen. “He’d manage, even if I were to disappear for a night or two.”

The truth was far more complex, of course.

His loyalty to the prince went beyond simple duty; it was forged in hardship, and Orion’s role as protector had become inseparable from his identity. The bond between the two was not one of mere service but of unspoken trust, a connection deeper than the expectations others might place on a noble advisor.

“The prince… he saw potential in me when others didn’t. Especially after….well, after I changed,” he continued, the words drawn from a place he rarely shared with anyone. “Not everyone would trust a blight-born, yet he has.” He didn’t mention how that trust had kept him anchored, a quiet certainty that pulled him back from the brink when isolation threatened to become all he knew.

The prince’s acceptance had been more than a gesture.

It was the reason Orion still stood here, a silent reminder of who he could be despite what he had become.

He let his gaze drop, the memories settling over him like a heavy cloak, almost tangible in their gravity. “There was a time I didn’t even trust myself, not fully,” he admitted. “The change was… more than I’d anticipated, and the darkness felt stronger than I could control. To the world, I was something to be feared, something monstrous. But him—he didn’t even flinch.” He allowed himself a brief, quiet smile, one that faded as quickly as it had appeared.

“The prince believed in me before I believed in myself,” he continued, his tone quiet but resolute. “And that’s something I won’t forget.” In fact, the prince’s unwavering belief in him had become a kind of redemption, a chance to reclaim the parts of himself that the blight hadn’t taken.

His gaze drifted to the sky, where stars blinked coldly against the endless dark, untouched by earthly burdens. For a moment, he let himself lose focus, recalling those early days of transformation when everything had felt chaotic, fractured, the blight a force within him that was as foreign as it was consuming. The cold brilliance of the stars reminded him of that isolation, of the silence that had once seemed all-encompassing. But something here, something in this very moment, was different.

Kira and Sya’s subtle companionship—together, they brought him back, grounding him in a way that felt strangely comforting.

Turning his attention back to the two women, he allowed a softness to enter his voice, his tone carrying a note of genuine curiosity. “And what about you?” he asked, glancing between Kira and Sya. “Do either of you have any past connections that you still treasure?”He knew his question was intimate, perhaps even bold, but he sensed they might share more in common than just the blight that marked them.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions/Mentions: @c3p-0h Amaya, @Dark Light Vellion, @BlackRoseSiren Aurora, @Fetzen Valthyr, @The Muse Flynn, @Dezuel Gadez}

---

Elara’s gaze lingered on the man, a mix of concern and intrigue flickering within her. There was an edge to his request to see the temple, an unsettling tone beneath the simple words, that hinted at motives beyond his polite demeanor. She stole a quick glance at Amaya, wondering if her friend felt the same sense of unease or if Elara’s own instinct to protect was heightening her suspicion, especially after her earlier almost guileless reaction.

“The temple is a peaceful place,” she said calmly. “I’m sure you’ll find solace there.” The words were simple, but her gaze held steady on him, a quiet promise to keep close watch. Whatever his purpose, she intended to follow his movements with the caution that the situation seemed to call for, each word a signal that she was not as easily swayed by his genteel exterior.

As she awaited his response, her attention flicked momentarily to the newcomer, a man whose attire seemed almost as strange as his timing. His clothing was light, a far cry from the warm layers Dawnhaven’s harsh winter demanded, and his bare feet sank into the snow as if the cold were an afterthought. Curiosity and caution both stirred within her—he seemed entirely out of place, like a wanderer from another world, and Elara felt an odd pull to understand what had brought him here. She couldn’t deny the unusual air about him, though whether it was a sign of innocence or something more elusive, she couldn’t yet tell.

Before she could even begin to parse the strangeness of yet another arrival, a familiar figure joined them—Flynn, the prince. His presence seemed to fill the space with a quiet authority, and Elara noticed the gentleness in his movement as he placed a steady hand at the small of Amaya’s back. He offered a brief, apologetic smile to the group, his voice smooth and effortlessly respectful, carrying that undeniable weight of belonging. Then, leaning in to speak with Amaya alone, he held her gaze with a subtle warmth that seemed to form an unspoken connection, a moment so private that Elara felt herself almost intruding, even as she stood a respectful distance away.

And yet, she couldn’t ignore the mix of emotions that washed over her—gratitude, yes, but also something else, an ache she hadn’t anticipated.

She was genuinely relieved that Amaya had found someone who appeared to understand her so naturally, someone who could shoulder her burdens without words. But as she watched their quiet exchange, she felt herself pulled back by an unwelcome pang, a flicker of something fragile in the face of this silent understanding they seemed to share.

Almost like I do.

The thought caught her off guard, unexpected and bittersweet. She lowered her gaze, feeling the faint sting beneath her relief, surprised by its sharpness. She had been at Amaya’s side long before Flynn entered her life, as her handmaiden, her confidante, the one who knew Amaya’s silent struggles and hidden fears. And now, watching Flynn hold that same position with her friend, she felt an unwelcome shift, as though her place beside Amaya was being subtly, yet irrevocably, redefined.

Elara averted her gaze, allowing them a moment of privacy while her own thoughts churned. She’d shared countless conversations with Amaya. Yet since Flynn’s arrival, the princess had grown more reserved, guarding parts of herself that she once openly shared. Elara, always careful and gentle, had refrained from asking about Flynn, unwilling to push too far into Amaya’s guarded heart. But these small exchanges—the stolen glances, the quiet words, the weight of unsaid things—left Elara questioning her own place in Amaya’s life, each unasked question seeming to rise, more insistent, as she watched them together.

As Flynn offered Amaya a final reassuring look, he straightened, addressing the group with a polite apology for his departure. Elara noted the slight reluctance in his stance, a glance back at Amaya before he turned to leave.

She herself couldn’t deny the small sense of relief that accompanied his exit, however.

But that relief brought with it a stirring of something else, something more complex. The space Flynn left behind felt heavier than before, as though he had taken with him an invisible tether that had once bound her and Amaya. Amaya remained rooted beside her, but her expression was distant, her eyes seemingly glazed with the memory of Flynn’s presence, as if part of her still followed his retreat.

Elara’s gaze flicked to her friend’s face, reading the thoughtful quiet that had settled there, and she felt another pang she couldn’t quite place.

An unexpected sense of being on the outside.

Recollections: Primal Sinister

_{Interactions: Open}

---

Elena stepped into the warmth of The Cozy Bakery, brushing a stray curl out of her face as she absorbed the bustling, inviting atmosphere. Nestled on Main Street, the bakery was filled with the irresistible scents of freshly baked bread and delicate pastries—a blend of butter, sugar, and something more elusive, perhaps a hint of cardamom or even red bean. The comforting warmth and smells wrapped around her like a soft blanket, banishing the sharp November chill she’d left behind at the door.

The bakery itself was relatively new but had quickly become a staple on the North Side, known for its unique fusion of French and Chinese baked goods. The owner, a culinary experimenter by reputation, was a local legend, drawing in patrons who eagerly awaited her weekly special. This week’s offering, scribbled in neat chalk script on a board by the counter, read Matcha-Filled Croissants, and Elena made a mental note to try one before leaving. She might even splurge on an extra one for her mother, a small token of indulgence she rarely allowed herself.

If I can afford it, the young woman thought with a rueful smile, the familiar pang of frugality tugging at her. Money was tight these days, and luxuries like bakery treats didn’t often make it into her budget. Still, standing in the warm, fragrant air, surrounded by displays of golden pastries and neatly lined rows of bread, it was hard not to entertain the idea of a small indulgence. After all, the week was young, and who knew what unexpected challenges might be waiting for her around the corner?

Her gaze swept over the bakery, taking in the cozy light that streamed through the large, arched windows. Sunlight filtered through lush green plants hanging from the ceiling, casting soft shadows across the wooden floor and highlighting the muted greens and golds painted along the walls. Near the windows, a row of stools was occupied by early risers nursing cups of coffee or tapping away on laptops, the quiet murmur of their conversations adding a gentle hum to the bakery's atmosphere.

Perfect, Elena thought as she spotted an empty stool near the corner, her chosen vantage point. She wove through the tables with ease, the view from the wide windows promising a pleasant distraction. Outside, the last of the autumn leaves, in shades of orange and brown, skittered across the pavement, a peaceful contrast to the cold bustle of Cloverfield’s streets beyond.

Settling onto the stool, Elena ordered a green tea and one of the matcha croissants, her fingers tracing the worn edge of the counter as she waited. She tapped her notebook lightly against the tabletop, eyes drifting over the scrawled notes about the witness she was here to meet. He was supposed to arrive soon, and despite her cautious skepticism, she couldn’t ignore the thrill of curiosity bubbling up inside her

She lived for moments like these, when something strange and unknown hovered on the edge of her reality, waiting for the perfect time to introduce itself.

As her tea and pastry arrived, Elena tucked the notebook away, allowing herself a moment to savor the calm before things grew complicated. She took a slow sip, feeling the warmth spread through her, grounding her as she glanced out the window with a quiet, lingering optimism. Perhaps, this time, the witness would have something real to offer—something that could actually be followed, a breadcrumb that could lead somewhere interesting.

Minutes ticked by, and Elena found herself glancing toward the door each time it swung open, trying to keep her expression neutral. But she knew there was a glimmer of anticipation in her eyes, an intensity she couldn’t quite mask whenever she was on the scent of a lead. After weeks of relative quiet, this felt like a chance to dive back into the mysteries that Cloverfield held, and her mind buzzed with the possibilities.

Finally, the door creaked open, and an older man shuffled inside, bundled in a coat that seemed comically oversized. His clothes were mismatched—a tattered scarf wrapped around a worn-out jacket—and his large, slightly crooked glasses perched haphazardly on his nose. His eyes scanned the room uncertainly, and after a moment, they found her, holding her gaze with a kind of sheepish determination.

Elena straightened, a small smile tugging at her lips as she raised her hand slightly to wave him over, her anticipation mingling now with a flicker of skepticism.Well, here goes nothing, she thought, watching as he hesitated, then shuffled awkwardly toward her.

The man reached her table with an awkward nod, one that might have been respectful if not for the nervous energy vibrating beneath it. “Ms. Castellano?” he rasped, his voice rough, each word grinding out like gravel scraping across pavement. His gaze held a peculiar intensity, a strange mix of fear and sincerity, as if he was still questioning whether she was someone he could trust.

She nodded, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate you reaching out.” Her voice was steady, professional, as she sized him up, trying to read the shifting expressions on his face.

He lowered himself into the chair with a jittery stiffness, fingers fidgeting with his scarf like it might offer him some protection. His eyes darted around the room, scanning the shadows as if they might spring to life and expose his secrets. “I, uh… I don’t know if anyone else would believe what I saw,” he admitted, his voice dropping, his gaze fixed on his hands as if the words were too heavy to lift. “But you seem like the kind of person who… doesn’t just brush things off.”

Elena leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. “Well, you’re right about that. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

He took a shaky breath, the air escaping him in a tremor as he glanced around the bakery, eyes flickering to the windows as if he feared prying eyes might materialize. “It happened last week… I was walking home late, through the old district. I was… well, I’d had a few drinks, so I wasn’t thinking too much of it, you know?” His eyes darted up, seeking some spark of understanding, perhaps expecting her to laugh or dismiss him. But her expression remained calm, inviting him to continue.

He cleared his throat, as if trying to summon courage from somewhere deep inside himself. “I saw… something,” he said. “A shadow, moving like it had a mind of its own. At first, I thought it was just… you know, a trick of the light or something.” He paused, fingers clutching the edge of the table.

“But then it… it started following me.”

Elena’s skepticism began to soften, replaced by a flicker of intrigue that she couldn’t quite suppress. Shadows with minds of their own were far from unusual tales in Cloverfield, where strange occurrences were whispered about as often as the weather. Yet there was something in his tone, in the slight tremor of his hands, that suggested his fear was real. She leaned in a little closer, signaling her full engagement. “And then?” she asked, her voice low and gentle, coaxing him to keep going.

He swallowed, his gaze darting to the door as if half-expecting something to slink inside after him. “It… it whispered my name,” he finally managed, his voice barely more than a tremor. “Not… not like a person would. It was like the air itself was speaking.”

She tilted her head slightly, her mind racing through a catalog of strange encounters she’d heard of in Cloverfield, none of them quite like this. “And did it say anything else?”

His nod was slow, reluctant, as if dredging up the memory brought him pain. His eyes, wide and haunted, seemed to look past her, to somewhere only he could see. “It told me I couldn’t run,” he whispered, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the hum of the bakery around them. “That it was waiting.”

A chill crept down Elena’s spine, but she kept her face impassive, her expression open and receptive. “Waiting for what?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. His hands twisted in his lap, fingers white with tension. “It… it felt like it was inside my head, whispering things I didn’t understand. Like it knew everything about me—things no one else could possibly know.” He paused, a haunted look flickering across his face. “It was like it was… claiming me.”

“And…has it spoken to you since?”

The man gave a shaky nod, his gaze dropping to the tabletop as if the memory itself was too intense to meet head-on. “Every night since,” he whispered. “It... calls to me. Just outside my window.” He paused, lowering his voice further, as though afraid it might hear him even now. “Sometimes, I think I see it, just… standing there, in the corner of my room.” His words were punctuated by a shudder, his arms wrapping tightly around himself as though that alone could stave off the chill of his fears.

Elena watched him closely. This wasn't the first time she’d heard stories about strange, shadowy figures lurking around Cloverfield’s alleys and bedrooms. The city had an uncanny knack for drawing in such tales like moths to a flame, and every block had its own ghost story. Yet, as she noted the deep lines of exhaustion etched into the man's face, she felt a prickling hint of doubt creeping up, tempered by skepticism. People could be dramatic, especially when it came to late-night shadows and minds muddled by exhaustion or too much to drink.

Maybe he was just another lost soul, tangled up in his own mind, desperate for an explanation—any explanation.

Or just incredibly fricken high, she thought, her lips twitching with the trace of a smirk she quickly suppressed.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the edge of her cup as she continued to study him, keeping her expression neutral. “Has anyone seen it? Or is it just you?”

The man's face contorted, his mouth opening and closing as though he were searching for the right words but only finding hollow ones. “No one else,” he admitted, a flicker of shame darkening his expression. “I’ve told a few people, but they… they look at me like I’m crazy.” His gaze rose to meet hers, a plea written in his haunted eyes. “But I’m not. I know what I saw. I know what I feel.”

Elena pressed her lips together, her doubt solidifying into something that felt uncomfortably close to resignation.

This was the problem with cases like his—more often than not, they unraveled into nothing more than a string of feverish imaginings and overactive imaginations, propped up by loneliness or a need to feel seen. She’d encountered it time and again: people so eager to make sense of the unknown that they would weave entire mythologies around a shadow cast by a streetlamp or a draft in a creaking house.

She took a slow, measured sip of her tea, letting the silence linger between them, hoping he might bridge it with something more substantial. But he only sat there, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the edge of his coat, his eyes flitting back and forth between her and the window, as if expecting the shadow itself to be lurking just outside the glass.

“So, let me get this straight,” she said finally, her voice a blend of patience and faint incredulity. “You're saying a shadow—a shadow with a mind of its own—has been following you, whispering things only you can hear. And no one else has witnessed this?” She raised an eyebrow, keeping her expression calm but allowing just a trace of doubt to color her tone. “And this shadow… it’s waiting for you?”

He nodded again, but his confidence wavered, the certainty in his eyes flickering like a candle nearly snuffed out. “I know how it sounds,” he said, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, as if desperation alone kept it alive. “But please, Ms. Castellano… I’m not crazy. I don’t know what it wants, but I can’t sleep, I can’t think—I’m afraid it’s going to take something from me, something I can’t get back.”

A pang of sympathy stirred in her, but it was tempered by practicality. There was no proof, no other witnesses, just the tale of a man who seemed to teeter on the edge of sanity, grappling with shadows only he could see. She didn’t doubt his belief in his own story—whatever he’d seen had shaken him to his core.

But in a city like Cloverfield, where legends bled into everyday life, she couldn’t afford to chase down every tale spun by someone caught between fear and reality.

Elena leaned back, setting her cup down with a soft clink against the saucer. “Look,” she said gently, choosing her words carefully. “I can tell this has been hard on you, and I don’t doubt that you experienced something. But without more to go on… there’s not much I can do here.” She paused, offering a sympathetic, if not slightly weary, smile. “Cloverfield is a strange place, and sometimes things that seem real… well, they’re just shadows playing tricks.”

The man’s face crumpled, his shoulders drooping as if her words had drained the last reserves of hope from him. “So… you don’t believe me,” he whispered, his voice hollow.

She sighed softly, guilt tugging at her as his gaze dropped to his hands in defeat. “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” she said softly, almost apologetically. “I just need more than a story. If you see it again… if you can capture any kind of proof, even the smallest thing… come back to me, and I promise, I’ll look into it.”

He nodded numbly, his hope extinguished, a shadow of the man he’d been when he first sat down. Muttering a quiet thank you, the man stood, his figure hunched, defeated, and slipped out of the bakery.

Elena watched him fade into the crowd outside, blending in with the city’s anonymous faces, as though he’d never even been there at all.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

^{_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Strigidae Dorm - P.R.C.U.}

Human #5.044: The Prodigal Daughter

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): N/A}

Previously: In the Absence of Light

Her aunt’s voice filled the small, still space of her soon-to-be former dorm room, wrapping around her with a warmth that seeped into corners of Harper’s mind she hadn’t realized, until now, had felt so empty. The faint sounds in the background—the soft clinks and quiet shuffling—painted an image of Barbara moving through the living room, perhaps dusting off the coffee table where Harper used to sit, scribbling out math problems or scribbling lines of history notes. Each sound brought a flood of memories crashing back, carrying her to when she was just a fourteen year old girl.

That house had practically gathered her up, catching each piece of her fragile, broken self, and had pieced her together when she’d felt like little more than shards and edges.

“Now, I’ve gone and set up the spare room for you already,” her aunt Barbara continued, her voice bright with a familiar energy Harper had grown up hearing. “Pulled out that old quilt from the closet and even got John to replace the blinds. He says he wants it ‘just right’ for when you get here. Thought he’d fall off the ladder, the old fool.” Her aunt’s chuckle rippled through the phone, filling the silence with an ease that felt like home itself.

The scene she described played out in Harper’s mind with a vividness that surprised her. She could see it as clearly as if she were standing in that spare room right now, with the quilt her aunt had stitched together, blinds pulled down to shade her from the bright Southern sun.

A space that felt suspended in time, waiting just for her.

Her lips curved into a faint smile, almost without permission, as her thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles over her phone screen. For a moment, it was so easy to let herself sink into that vision, to imagine walking into that familiar warmth, where nothing seemed to ask more of her than just being there.

But then, like a shadow cast over that warm picture, a different voice sounded in the back of her mind, interrupting the comforting illusion of choice.

Her own voice. Mocking her.

“I don’t exactly have a line of people volunteering to carry me off to paradise.”

She’d tossed those words out with a casual bitterness, half-joking, a thin shield thrown up in front of Banjo’s well-meaning questions. But now, as she felt her aunt’s steady, unconditional love radiating through every word, the truth in her own remark stung. Her old home was still there, waiting for her—a place she could return to and, in some ways, lose herself in. Just slip back into the ease of it, the comfort of not having to reach, to strain.

And for a moment, she was tempted, almost ready to let herself fall into that safety, that simplicity. But the tug of it felt wrong, didn’t it?

Just because it was safe, just because it would be easy, didn’t make it the right path for her.

Even if her vision came back, Harper would still be, in more ways than one, blind.

“And your uncle’s been fussin’ about what to do with that old dresser of yours,” her aunt went on, her voice dipping into a softer, more reflective tone. “He keeps sayin’ it’s too small for someone ‘bout to start life proper. Thinks you need somethin’ with more drawers, more space. Said maybe he’ll get you one of those tall ones, sturdy as a rock.”

Her aunt’s words held more than a casual suggestion about a new piece of furniture.

They were laced with an invitation, a silent hope that reached beyond the phone, like a hand extended in the dark.

_{“Come home…”}

_{“Settle back in.”}

_{“Let the pieces you left here find their way back to you.”}

And, most of all,

stay a while longer this time.

▅

Harper didn’t answer immediately.

“Harper Rae?”her aunt’s voice floated through the phone again. “You still there, sweetheart?”

The sound of that name, one she hadn’t heard in so long, pulled her back to the present.

Harper blinked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” she replied, her tone softer than she intended. “But…you guys really didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

Her aunt’s laugh brushed off Harper’s protest as if it were the silliest thing she’d ever heard.

“Trouble? Now, don’t you start on that,” she replied. “You know we’ve got nothing but time and love to give—especially for you, dear.”

It was the kind of love that didn’t ask for anything in return. No strings attached, no hidden expectations.

Just…there.

Harper had once marveled at it, that feeling of belonging given so freely, unconditionally, even though her aunt and uncle weren’t bound to her by blood. They’d taken her in, made her feel whole, like she was enough, just as she was.

But maybe that was why, when she’d turned eighteen, she’d felt the pull to leave. The need to forge her own path without those considerate hands always ready to catch her if she stumbled.

“Besides,” her aunt chimed in, “the room needed a little sprucing up anyway. Just imagine, you’ll have everything right there waiting—everything just like it used to be, almost.”

“Yeah…that sounds nice.” The words slipped out with a warmth Harper couldn’t quite hide, a small confession wrapped in nostalgia. She could almost feel the weight of the old quilt her aunt had mentioned, smell the faint scent of coffee lingering in the kitchen. It was the kind of safety she’d once taken for granted, a memory she could sink into if only she allowed herself to fall back into that comfort.

She took a slow, steadying breath, the kind that kept her from saying too much too quickly.

“Actually… there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh?” Her aunt’s voice came through with a subtle strain wrapped in maternal worry—and maybe even a hint of disappointment. It was as if Barbara already knew, sensing the direction of this conversation before Harper had even finished speaking.

They’d been down this road before, after all.

“I… I’ve been thinking,” Harper continued, letting the words come slowly, carefully, as if shaping them out loud would make her conviction clearer, more real. “About what I need right now. And as much as I want to come back… I think I need to try something else first.”

A pause stretched like a wall between them until a sigh from the other end filled it.

“Oh… well, I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed,” Barbara admitted, her tone gentle but laced with an unmistakable resignation. “What changed your mind?”

“I’m… sorry. I know it probably doesn’t make much sense, and I wish I could just—" Harper stopped, feeling the urge to retreat, to pull back and tell her aunt what she wanted to hear.

But no, that wasn’t fair—to either of them.

“I wish I could just… let myself come back. But there’s this part of me that feels like… like I’ll never really grow if I don’t do this.”

Barbara’s silence filled the line once again, and when she finally spoke her voice seemed to hold the kind of patience that came from a life of nurturing spaces for others to grow.

“You know,” Barbara began gently, “when you left years ago…well, I told John that was just you wanting to find your own way. And it wasn’t easy to see you go, but deep down, I knew it was what you needed.” Her tone softened further, like she was peeling back a layer of herself she hadn’t before. “Maybe it’s selfish of me, but having you here, with Sierra off doing her own thing… well, it made this old house feel a little more like family. Gave us something to hold on to, I guess. To work towards.”

Harper’s grip tightened on the phone, her throat tightening, too, at the quiet way Barbara’s words reached out to her. It was so subtle, the way her aunt hinted at things Harper knew they’d never really discussed about that quiet living room she was probably sitting in now.

A place that had seen so many years pass in the hopes that someone might come in and fill it with laughter, with footsteps, with family.

She knew, without needing to ask, that her aunt hadn’t filled those rooms just for her sister and her. She’d done it to fill her own life, too, finding a family where she could.

“But I want you to know,” Barbara continued, “that whatever it is you’re after, whatever it is you need to do… I’ll be here, Harper. You go and find your way. Just… make sure you come back when you’re ready.”

The depth of her aunt’s words washed over her, filling her with a kind of understanding that left her momentarily speechless. It wasn’t just permission to go; it was a promise. A promise that no matter how far she strayed or how long she took, there would always be a place for her—a home—waiting, whenever she was ready to return.

Pacific Royal had once been that place for her until now. Through all the challenges, her team had been her tether, a second family that gave her a sense of belonging she’d never known she needed. With the university closing and her friends scattered, that foundation had felt as though it had crumbled beneath her feet, leaving her adrift in a world that now seemed fragmented and uncertain.

But maybe Harper had been wrong.

Home wasn’t bound to walls or floors or even the people who moved through them; it was something deeper, something that could exist in more than one place at a time.

It was the steady presence of a hand reaching out, the quiet understanding that no matter where she went or how far she strayed, there’d always be a place to return to.

Whether it was in her aunt’s house,

whether it was in the fading echoes of this school,

or whether it was in the connections she’d fought so hard to build.

It didn’t matter.

▅

Barbara let out a soft sigh on the other end, a sound woven with relief but tinged with an unmistakable thread of unspoken questions that Harper could feel more than hear.

“Now, I know you’ve got your own path to follow, being an adult and all,” she began carefully, her tone gentle but probing. “But…where exactly are you headed, sweetheart?”

Harper had anticipated this moment, had rehearsed her answer more times than she’d admit before calling.

But now, with her aunt’s voice carrying a weight that reached across the miles, her practiced words felt as fragile as glass. Speaking them aloud now, she felt a mix of resolution and vulnerability, as though each syllable she spoke etched her chosen path more firmly into place.

“I’m going to the Foundation,” Harper replied, “It’s…another school for people like me.”

Saying it out loud felt both bold and strange.

Silence hung on the line, her aunt’s quiet processing almost palpable through the phone. In her mind’s eye, Harper could picture the soft crease of Barbara’s brow, her expression thoughtful, weighing this new revelation about the life her adopted daughter had chosen.

“All right, honey,” Barbara replied at last, her tone a careful blend of pride and the quiet worry she didn’t attempt to mask. “I trust you know what you’re doing. I’ll admit, I don’t know much about this place you’re headed to, but if you believe this is what you need…then I believe in you, too. Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself, all right?”

“I will,” Harper promised, the words feeling like a vow rather than a simple answer. Realizing then how much she needed this—this moment, this blessing that felt like a tether to home—she added, “And…I’ll come back. When I’m ready. I…”

Her voice trailed off. Unsaid but understood.

I promise

“Just don’t be a stranger, Harper Rae,” her aunt murmured, her words filled with tenderness, as if sensing the unspoken depths of Harper’s intentions. “We’ll always be here when you are.”

Before Harper could respond, a light knock echoed from the door, and she instinctively turned her head toward the sound despite the blindfold that veiled her eyes.

“My friend’s here to walk with me to the ferry,” she said softly, the words both an end and a beginning.

“Alright then, honey,” her aunt replied, “Take care of yourself, you hear? And remember—don’t stay gone too long.”

“Will do,” Harper replied, a faint smile pulling at her lips. She held the phone to her ear a moment longer, absorbing her aunt’s presence one last time, before letting the phone slip from her ear and ending the call. With a steadying breath, she moved to answer the door, a hesitant smile forming as she opened it.

“Hey, Hayv,” she greeted, a touch of warmth and melancholy in her voice. “Big day…”