Qia

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Fractured Reflections
Final Part

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_{Location: Elara's Home---> Seluna Temple
Collab Between: (@Dark Light & @Qia)}

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“If I could step beyond all expectation, all duty, and chase only what calls to me…?” Elara would not lie. Nor would she answer with something merely palatable. So instead, she turned slightly, studying the longest, straightest path leading toward the temple—the one Aliseth had stepped just beside, never quite on.

Her boot descended, crushing its crisp edge into slush.

“There was never truly a choice for me. Only the illusion of it.”

A laugh escaped her, self-aware and resigned. “You see it too. However many forks you draw, my feet know their road.”

The temple loomed, its spires piercing the sky like accusing fingers. She met Aliseth’s gaze, her face a mask of ice save for the faint thaw in her eyes.

“But if I had the choice?”

A pause.
Something flickered in her eyes, something nearly spoken.

The door had been ajar. Just enough for her to see the light spilling out, golden and warm, flickering against the stone walls of her childhood home. Just enough for her to hear the low murmur of voices within—the steady cadence of her father’s, the softer tones of the healers, and beneath it all, the rasp of shallow, weakening breaths.

She had lingered. She had waited. Just a moment longer. Because to step forward was to surrender to the inevitable—to let the clock’s hands snap shut. So she’d frozen, a silver-haired fox caught in a snare, until silence fell. Not a sigh, not a gasp. An absence, voracious and final, devouring the room’s warmth.

Elara blinked, the present settling over her like freshly fallen snow.

Her breath left her in a slow, measured exhale. Then, deliberately, she stepped past the lines Aliseth had drawn.

“Some paths claim us before we choose them,” she said. “They simply… are.” She turned, studying him as if his face held a cipher. “Do you believe your roads still fork, Aliseth?”

"Fork? Mi'lady." He questioned rhetorically as he connected his sword back to his belt.
The question was a pause, a grab for time, while he considered her choice and those laid out before himself. A distraction while he hid his disappointment.

"I don't believe in black and white." He said firmly as he looked up to the black sky above and held out a cold hand to catch the falling white snow.
"I don't believe in left and right."
With more of a casual movement to his step he went and stood in the circle he made for Elara and studied the paths.
"But despite fate and destiny convening against me." He looked up and caught her eyes, adding a weight to his words.
"I do believe, I know, it's always my choice where I go next."

He made no further signs of movement towards the temple.

He meant her to hear his words. A truth he’d wrestled down, and made peace with.

She admired it. Envied it, even.

But belief was a different sort of magic. One Elara hadn’t quite mastered.

She stepped to the edge of the circle, her gaze lowering to the fractured lines beneath her feet. Then her eyes lifted again to meet his.

“That certainty of yours…” Elara said softly. “It’s rare. I don’t think I’ve ever known it.” A beat. “But I find I don’t want to dismiss it, either.”

The admission hung between them for a moment before she continued. “Perhaps… I need to believe the road ahead isn’t a mirror of the past.” The words were no vow, but a seedling breaking soil—tender, green, trembling toward light. She glanced toward the temple—still towering, still immense—but this time, she didn’t flinch.

“Come with me?” Elara’s words were barely louder than the snow falling around them. “If a new path exists… perhaps it demands two sets of footprints.”

The words slipped out before she could temper them. A part of her—small but growing—meant them.

But almost as quickly, the handmaiden blinked, as if awakening to her own forwardness.

Heat bloomed in her cheeks once again. Her fingers grazed the coat draped over her shoulders—his coat, its wool still whispering with the cedar-and-iron scent of him. The fabric’s memory of warmth seared her skin, a silent rebuke: You don’t own his tomorrows.

Elara glanced down, the flush deepening. “Unless…” she added, more gently now, “you’re expected elsewhere. Or this—” she pinched the coat’s edge, a half-hearted tug, “was meant to be returned before now.”

She tilted her head, a rueful smile curving her lips.

“Regardless… thank you. For the warmth. And the reminder that the road doesn’t always end where we think it does.”

Aliseth was pleasantly surprised as Elara stepped toward him. Her sweet, soft scent permeated his senses. Her proximity broke all the etiquette drilled into him during his training, but he didn't care—not now, not ever again.

He did not retreat nor shy away from her, he couldn't even if he wanted to.
It was like invisible strings were pulling him her way.
As if gravity had changed direction and she had become the centre of his world.
It was as if he needed the exhale of her breath just to breathe.
Or the warmth of her body and her body alone could bring him to life.
It was as if the answers to the universe lay in her eyes, if only he surrendered himself to them.
He felt like she was the last spec of color in a world of white and grey, and to move away now would be to lose it all forever...

So instead of stepping away, he found himself inadvertently leaning in, drawn towards her, going as far as he could without actually stepping. Like the circle around his feet was a magical barrier and the only thing keeping them apart.

He chose his own destiny'

Symbolic he thought it be, that she should be standing along the deepest most direct line before him while he himself was found inside the bubble. Intoxicated as his mind was, he could think of little beyond her scent and beauty.

His eyes sunk deep into hers as he softly shook his head with an elegant polite refusal. Smiling sweetly, he reached up and took her gently by the wrist, careful not to touch her skin with his cold hands as he removed her grip from it.

His hand stopped her.

Not forcefully, not in warning—but gently, with purpose. As if to say: you don’t have to.

And something inside her… paused.

His fingers lingered at her wrist, warm even through the leather of his glove, and her pulse stuttered like a bird trapped behind glass. She’d known restraint before: Amaya’s glacial decorum, the rigid choreography of service, the way duty clipped her voice into measured tones. But this—Aliseth’s proximity, his breath fogging the air between them—was a language without rules, a silence louder than any command.

Her eyes lifted, meeting his, and the world narrowed to the space between them.

He did not kiss her.

But he could have.

And that knowledge pulsed through her like a second heartbeat.

She did not retreat.

She also did not lean in.

Because some boundaries, once crossed, cannot be redrawn—and she wasn’t sure which version of herself she’d lose if she reached for more.

So she hovered, a leaf caught in a draft, torn between the ache to fall and the terror of landing.

---

Amaya.

Her name ghosted through Elara’s mind like a breath fogging glass.

The princess, marble-carved and untouchable, whose affection had been a distant star—visible, admired, never grasped. Aliseth’s need was different: immediate, unguarded, a flame that threatened to melt the frost she’d nurtured for years. It wasn’t betrayal that hollowed her chest, but mourning—for the version of herself who’d once believed love could be earned through service, stoicism, and vanishing into another’s shadow.

---

It didn’t feel like betrayal.
It felt like grief.

And grief, Elara had learned, could wear many faces.

---

She spoke, at last, her voice low—barely louder than the hush of snow.

“Do you think I care about station?”
The question came without warning, the tension of it sharpened by honesty.
“Do you think that’s what this is? Some unspoken rule that says I can’t stand beside you?”

Her words held no scorn—only sorrow. Because she had seen it in his eyes, the way he hesitated to step fully across that line. Not because of her—but because of what the world had told him she represented.

“If I was born to a pedestal… I never asked to be put on it.”

She looked down, then, at the coat still draped over her shoulders.

The warmth still lingered.

So did the ache.

“You remind me there’s still a version of myself beneath the role. Not just the handmaiden. Not just her.”

Her hand gently covered his wrist—still gloved in its own distance—but she didn’t move it away.

“But I don’t know who that woman is yet.” A breath. “I think… she wants to believe in something. Or someone.”

Another pause. Then, quietly:

“I think she wanted you to kiss her.”

Her gaze flicked up, meeting his again.

“But I’m not sure she could’ve kissed you back.”

Then, softer:
“So…thank you for both those things.”

"I choose for this to be where we part ways." Aliseth whispered ever so softly, a slight tinge of regret staining his voice. His hands were still connected to her, the space between them having become space enough only for the mingling of their warm breaths or the radiating heat of their bodies. "Please, keep the cloak, for now at least. It is my selfish desire that you have reason to seek me out for I would very much like to spend more time with the Elara who is more than a handmaiden"
In a softer tone, he continued, "No matter the direction you take, Elara, you are not the same person who left those footprints earlier."
Aliseth glanced back at the path they had trodden only moments before—traces of their shared steps delicately etched into the snow. "Those paths, those footprints, they are our roots from which we grow.”

He raised a hand to cup her cheek as he gazed into her eyes.

"And you Elara, are ready to blossom. Believe in yourself.”

Step by reluctant step, he backed away, his lingering fingers slowly releasing her as he stepped out of the enchanted circle cut into the snow. Regaining his composure, his posture straightened, and he assumed the formal bearing of a guard. With a precise salute—fist pressed against his chest followed by a deep, respectful bow—he addressed her.

"Lady Elara, your company has been a pleasure, and a kindness I fear I have not fully deserved. It has been an honor to make your acquaintance."

Just before turning away, his guarded composure faltered for a heartbeat, revealing a longing in the depths of his dark eyes and a playful, hungry smile tugging at his cold lips.

His leaving felt akin to stirring from a sweet dream, the comforting haze dissolving swiftly into the sharp clarity of waking. Elara stood rooted in place, her gaze trailing after Aliseth as the unseen threads connecting them strained thin and then snapped soundlessly as the chill air reclaimed the space between them.

“You are ready to blossom. Believe in yourself.”

How effortlessly he had spoken those words, as if belief were as natural as drawing breath. Yet in his eyes—those dark mirrors reflecting quiet sincerity—she had glimpsed an authenticity that tugged at something deeply buried within her. Not because faith came easily, but precisely because it did not.

Minutes ago, she’d left her home armoured in duty to cover her sorrow; now, stripped of pretense, she felt both flayed and forged anew.

Elara strode toward the temple doors, the entrance yawning before her, its carvings of the goddess leering with eyes chiselled to judge. She paused, half-turning, though logic told her the path behind lay empty. Old habits, she supposed, died slower than hope.

Their mingled footprints were already fading, devoured by night’s insatiable maw.

Sighing, she turned for the last time and struck the temple doors with three raps.

Do You Have RP Pet Peeves?

When the post code with sparkly images and banner and colors is deeper and more complex than the character it's for

@Mistress Dizzy

shit don’t call me out like that. jk jk xD
But fr, it’s wild when the post code is giving Oscar-worthy visuals and the character’s got the depth of a puddle. Like congrats on the sparkles, but who are you?? 💀

I get that some people just really love the aesthetic side—and that’s cool! But man...felt. To play devil’s advocate though… sometimes people just find joy in the visual side of things. Like, coding can be its own creative outlet, and not every character needs to be a five-layer trauma onion to be valid. Some folks might still be figuring their character out, or maybe they express them better through aesthetics at first.

Plus, flashy code might actually help get into the vibe of a character. It sets a tone—even if the depth isn’t all there yet, it could be coming. Not everyone develops their characters the same way, and that’s okay too.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Fractured Reflections
Part 3

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_{Location: Elara's Home---> Seluna Temple
Collab Between: (@Dark Light & @Qia)}

---

Aliseth quickly cleared his throat and regained his composure as he turned away, standing tall once again.

"Sorry m'lady, I deviate from your question. I'm not sure exactly what I expected, but it certainly wasn't you." His words, although mysterious, held an unmistakable compliment hidden within, said with a soft admiration.

She ought to have brushed past the words—ought to have turned the conversation elsewhere. And yet, without glancing at him, Elara found herself wondering… what exactly had he expected? What had he seen in her before?

What had changed?

And why, against her better judgment, had these words nearly slipped from her lips?

But another thought surfaced before she could bury it:

“But what about your survival?”

Elara had left before answering. She had stepped away, pulled herself back into the silence because she hadn’t known what to say—because she had not wanted to be seen. Not like that. Not as something fragile, something to be cared for. And now, here was Aliseth, staring at her in a way that felt entirely too familiar.

Amaya's scrutiny still burned within her memories, coupled with Flynn’s words that had encroached upon spaces she had once confidently occupied. Amaya had permitted it, had yielded ground willingly, and now—was Aliseth similarly reshaping her identity, encasing her within confines she had neither created nor consented to?

Elara compelled herself forward, her fingers shifting against the cloak's fabric in rejection of these silent implications.

“You mistake me, Sir Aliseth,” she might have said, her tone poised, carrying just the faintest hint of distance to make it all seem like nothing at all.

But she held her tongue.

Instead, she walked on, gazing forward, as though the moment had already passed.

“We are almost there,” Elara said after some time, her voice restored to what it was before.

Although near imperceivable, Aliseth felt it, more than he could physically rationalize, the mood had changed. A new regret layering itself upon the many he already wore.

He gave a pleasant nod, its meaning obscure, as in his mind he saw the many choices, the many possible words, splintering off from his every step.

In the end, he followed a familiar path and remained silent. Allowing his thoughts to focus on the road ahead as a tension slowly began to infiltrate his muscles.

Slowly the town started to fade away behind them as they reached an all too familiar stretch of road leading to the temple. A single long path encroached on either side by a shadowed forest where even the sporadic lantern light dared not tread. It was hours later but the air still had an unnatural feel to it, as if tainted by the lingering effect of both death and magic.

Despite the eerie silence, Aliseth felt as though he could still hear the screams and commotion echoing off the nearby trees.

The snow had long covered the blood and footsteps but in his mind, he saw through the soft coating and bore witness to the carnage that was no more.

He did his best to keep stride, to be a pillar of support for Elara, but also he did not hide from his face the myriad of emotions that plagued him.

Then he saw it, or what remained. The ice sculpture, its jagged edges dulled, a soft snow covering its wilted form, but there it was, standing like a grave marker, a stark reminder.

“It hasn’t melted.”

The words emerged involuntarily, slipping softly past Elara’s lips without her conscious bidding.

For a moment, she wondered if she had spoken aloud at all, the snowfall’s hush swallowing the syllables whole. But no—the tension that coiled subtly in Aliseth’s stance confirmed he had heard her.

And yet, the fact remained.

Why hasn't it melted?

Why hasn’t time erased this, as it erases all things?

Intellectually, Elara understood the rational explanation. Merely a day had elapsed since the incident, and the air retained its bitter edge, the frost relentless in its hold upon the land. Practically, logically, the frozen figure had no cause to have diminished, no reason for her anticipation of its disappearance.

But logic held little sway over hope.

It was magic. A thing summoned into existence, shaped by will and intent. Not natural. Not real. And if it wasn’t real, then surely it should have faded, dissipated like a half-remembered dream upon waking. It should not still be here, standing in defiant, crystalline silence.

It should not retain power over them still.

She understood that time eroded all things eventually, smoothing and washing away memory like sediment. Yet, she still detested that this remained defiantly intact.

Because, with it, so did the weight of that moment.

She felt, with acute certainty, that Aliseth carried the memory too—probably in the exact visceral manner she did, etched deeply into sinew and breath, woven into the fabric of his presence.

A thought flickered at the edge of her mind: What does he see when he looks at it?

Elara’s fingers flexed around the handle of her basket. Then, without turning, she spoke again.

“Strange, isn’t it?”

The ensuing silence stretched, one heartbeat, then another, elongating the interval until it bordered on discomfort.

Finally, Elara shifted, turning just enough to cast a sidelong glance at Aliseth, waiting.

"I know it's white, but I see blood."

He replied softly. His voice only audible because of the sheer silence that surrounded them. His breath was heavy as he stared at the unnatural monument that shouldn't exist. Its presence was an abomination, yet it was also a display of the princess's power.

"She did this."

He added without explanation, eyes still glued to the structure.

"I see a body without a head, I see the ice breaking beneath my feet, I see futures changing and being taken away. I feel the cold of that magic permeating my very bones."

"I see all the 'choices' not taken."

He walks forward slowly through the snow and tentatively raises an outstretched hand towards the ice.

"What about you, what do you see?"

He asked in return, before adding another question.

"It is a personal question and you do not have to answer. What is your greatest regret?"

His fingers slipped through the cover of snow as his palm pressed against the cold smooth ice. His eyes portray thoughts that were a million miles away, extending beyond the mere recent couple of days. Only Elara's voice would draw him back to the present.

She did not immediately answer. Instead, she followed the movement of his outstretched hand, watching as his fingers pressed against the ice’s smooth surface.

What did she see?

“I see what remains,” she murmured, her gaze drifting across the ice’s surface. “I see the questions left unanswered. The things we were too late to change.” A quiet exhale, barely there. “I see permanence, where there should be none.”

She turned her head just enough to glance at him. His hand still rested against the ice, the distant weight in his eyes betraying the question that lingered between them.

An intensely personal question.

Her greatest regret.

Elara had never fully voiced it—never granted it the permanence of open acknowledgment, least of all to anyone who wasn’t Amaya. She could have easily deflected, smoothly diverting his attention as she had before. And yet...

“My mother lay dying,” she began, her voice subdued. “We had all been summoned to her bedside, each of us aware that the end was imminent.”

She paused—not from uncertainty, but to allow the gravity of remembrance its rightful place.

“I found myself paralyzed outside the door,” she admitted. “Fearful of witnessing her decline, fearful of confronting a change I knew would fracture something fundamental within me.” Her lips pressed together, holding back the smallest tremor of sorrow.

“I told myself I needed a moment. Just one. I remained outside the door, listening to my father’s voice, to the small talking of those who were already there. I believed—” She inhaled deeply, “—I genuinely believed that time would grant me mercy.”

Her lashes lowered gently, shielding her gaze as it settled pensively upon her fingers lightly clasping the basket's chilled handle.

“But death offers no patience for the timid or hesitant. I learned that the hard way. And grew from it.”

An extended silence stretched gently between them, laden with a quiet acceptance she had borne privately for years, never entirely relinquished nor fully expressed.

“I was too late.”

Aliseth was taken aback by her reply, he was unprepared for such vulnerability and raw honesty. He felt the full weight of every word, every pause, every breath. The implication of her truth was unmistakable. With his hand still resting on the sculpture, he turned to face the handmaiden, giving her his undivided attention, hanging on to every word. That single moment had undoubtedly shaped her core, defining the woman she had become. He found himself at a loss for how to respond to such a monumental truth. It wasn’t something to fix or compete with, nor was it meant to draw attention or elicit sympathy, it was simply a fact of her life, as heavy and painful as it was, it was a glimpse into her soul.

Instead of trying to fill the silence, he honored the weight of the moment and echoed her own words: "Death offers no patience."
Stepping away from the frozen sculpture, he left his handprint behind. The ice glistening and slick in the shape where it had melted to his touch. Clenching and unclenching his cold fingers he watched the warmth come back into them before looking up at the sky.

"Death offers no patience,"
he muttered once more as if those words were tipping some invisible scales in his mind. Suddenly, a new question spills from his lips.

"Do you recall what it was like to gaze upon the rising sun? To witness the birth of a new day, its golden rays reflecting off dreamy white clouds against a brilliant sea of blue? I remember the idea, the concept, the words... but I can no longer envision those gorgeous hues of pink and blue in my mind."

Unable to conjure that image, greeted only by a blanket of snow and a backdrop of darkness, he turned his gaze back to Elara and stepped closer.
"Only now, I regret not spending enough time appreciating them while… well" His words trailed off, hanging in the chill air, not needing to be said. Then his thoughts resumed, heavy with memories and regret: "I remember when oceans were blue, a thing I never imagined could be taken for granted." He let out a sigh. His thoughts slowly leading to a conclusion but getting stuck along the way.

"I have fought my whole life, Elara. I'm tired of fighting. I... I think I just want to enjoy what I have left while I still can." He hesitated, as if an apology hovered on his lips, before speaking again: "They say she can fix this—that it is prophecy. If so, then why hasn't she? Why delay, dragging it out? People are suffering and dying... and for what? I will keep my word until my last breath, but... Elara, who am I serving? Our savior or...?" His voice failed to conceal his inner conflict. He was torn, divided—questioning those he served was not a quality of those in his line of duty, and he knew it was unfair to burden Elara, who was already suffering in her own way. Yet, he had to know, who it was that he, much like Elara, had forfeited their lives in service to.

“Is she worth it? Does she deserve it… All those paths not taken, the choices…
All the choices never made?” There was a hint of sadness in his eyes as he looked upon her now.

Elara had always perceived people like Aliseth as figures shaped irrevocably by conviction and duty— warriors whose strength, valour, and very essence were pledged unwaveringly to an ideal surpassing personal ambition. Yet now, he stood before her, voice tinged with vulnerability, questioning the merit of their collective sacrifices.

A man who had spent a lifetime fighting was asking if it had been for nothing.

A query neither posed lightly nor answered easily.

“She is no deity, Aliseth. Nor has she ever aspired to be one,” Elara responded calmly, her voice clear and devoid of misplaced reverence. Her gaze ascended gently, meeting his, seeking meaning within the solemn depths of his troubled eyes. “Nevertheless, she remains our beacon of hope. Both of them do.”

Yet, was hope alone sufficient?

Could it possibly sustain them?

Slowly, her attention returned to the sculpture before them—an unmelted relic of frozen anguish. The persistent preservation of the past was undeniable, resistant to forgetfulness or release. How many such reminders would they be forced to confront before the final chapter was etched into history’s cold annals?

“I offer her my trust,” Elara continued quietly. “Not from blind obedience, nor obligation dictated by prophecy, but from witnessing the sorrow she carries—the torment embedded in her heart from the immense burden placed upon her.”

She paused, throat tightening with restrained emotion.

“You wonder if she merits such loyalty?” she queried rhetorically. “That answer eludes me. But consider this—never once has she demanded our lives, yet we willingly give them.”

Another contemplative pause stretched gently between them.

“If my faith does not rest with her, Aliseth, where else should it reside?”

'In yourself.' was his reactive thought, but the words never made it past his lips.

"She might not demand our lives, but she holds them all in balance." He replied softly as he joined her one last time in looking at the pillar of ice.
"And there are those that are giving it."

'How long until he too was counted amongst them?'

Already Aliseth had started to close himself off from that sudden spill of vulnerability. He was backstepping, retreating. It was evident in his voice, that subtle change, composing itself as before. It was in his face, as it solidified once again chasing the emotion from its surface. His rigid posture returned as internally familiar walls fell back into their allotted places.
However, it was always his eyes that betrayed him. In them, there was a tired sadness, a loss of identity, purpose and a lack of faith. He had been searching for an excuse but found nothing in Elara's words.

He was about to say more, he looked ready to continue on to the temple when suddenly his head snapped to the side and his hand fell to the hilt of the sword on his hip. He stared intently out into the darkness of the forest, silent, alert, searching.

Elara remained silent initially, carefully observing Aliseth as the burden of his unspoken thoughts visibly tightened around him, constricting him like invisible armour.

When his head suddenly jerked aside, however, his hand swiftly grasping the familiar hilt of his sword, her breath momentarily halted in surprise.

Elara possessed no weapon to draw; instead, her eyes intently tracked his gaze, peering warily into the shadowed reaches of the forest.

“What is it?” she asked softly, voice edged with cautious tension.

Instinctively he put her to his side and behind him, taking a step towards the sound that set him alert.

The snow continued to rob sight and sound of his senses allowing whatever was out there, whatever was watching them, to get far closer than it should.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Fractured Reflections
Part 1

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_{Location: Elara's Home---> Seluna Temple
Collab With: (@Dark Light)}

---

The snowfall persisted without reprieve.

Dawnhaven languished silently beneath winter's relentless embrace, streets carpeted in immaculate drifts that muffled sound as effortlessly as they concealed traces of passage. The town itself seemed suspended in a delicate slumber, shrouded in an indifferent silence that neither invited nor repelled. Aside from the occasional guard, shivering at their posts, the thoroughfares remained untouched, an undisturbed canvas awaiting footsteps that rarely came.

And who could blame anyone for that, really? Someone had been killed, and Elara had been unlucky enough to witness the whole thing.

The handmaiden moved through the quiet, basket in hand, her path dictated by necessity rather than desire. The Seluna temple was not far now, and the linen bandages she carried were neatly arranged atop salves meant for frostbite and deep bruises.

There was nothing unusual about this errand.

And yet, everything about her felt misplaced.

Sleep had eluded her, leaving exhaustion etched in the contours of her face, a tension coiling around her shoulders like a serpent. Nonetheless, she appeared composed as was her custom, but the façade was fragile—like a porcelain doll hastily reassembled, its seams yet unsealed.

Snowflakes drifted down, alighting on the pale silver strands of hair escaping the edge of her hood. They dissolved into droplets almost immediately, denied the chance to linger, crystallize, and weave themselves into her presence. Oddly, she felt no sting of cold against her skin because of them; the usual bite of winter seemed dulled this morning. Perhaps she had simply withdrawn from sensation altogether, lost to the numbness that reached beyond the physical.

Or perhaps it was simply that the frost had already reached her heart and done its part.

Elara wondered briefly if it would ever thaw and beat as it used to.

It was an idle curiosity, one she would not afford the luxury of answering. Not now. Not when there were things to be done, duties to be fulfilled. And so, she pushed it aside—buried it beneath the weight of practicality, as she always had.

But practicality could not ease the heaviness in her limbs.

Nor could it explain the way her body hesitated before her mind had reason to.

Turning onto a secluded road—a modest route winding gently toward the temple precinct—Elara’s stride faltered into an uncertain shuffle before halting altogether, her feet suddenly as heavy as stone. Her breath caught in her throat, a tremulous note breaking the rhythm of her breathing. Her pulse began to ascend, not like the rapid gallop of sudden panic, but the slow, sinister crescendo of anxiety stealthily tightening its hold.

Her chest constricted, the invisible fingers of fear wrapping firmly around her heart, squeezing relentlessly. The frigid air she had barely noticed moments prior seemed to thicken and sour, transforming into a smothering shroud. It was as though winter itself conspired against her, snow pressing insistently upon her lungs, suffocating as surely as a merciless hand.

A memory clawed its way to the surface, unwanted. The rush of movement through the snow, her pulse hammering against her ribs, Amaya’s hand in hers, their breaths coming fast and shallow. The feeling of being hunted. Of knowing that if they faltered, even for a moment, they wouldn’t make it.

And somewhere—near or far, real or imagined—she swore she heard footsteps.

Step by step, the world moved past him, his mind singularly focused as he paid little heed to the blanket of snow beneath his feet, the wooden structures gliding by or the shadows that danced about flickering under the watchful gaze of hanging lanterns.

Beneath the endless, starless night, the world appeared pale, with soft snow gently consuming all of Dawnhaven. Every flake and every snowy surface seemed to draw the very sound from the air, creating a rare, complete silence. There was no malice in the crystalline drops, yet they carried the promise that should he ever stop, they would smother him whole, bury him alive, and remove him from existence without remorse.

This of course was not true, but it sure felt that way. 'Would that really be so bad?'

With a sharp exhale, the single-minded man brushed the snow from his shoulders and pressed onward, his silent steps carrying him forward. His breath coiled in the frigid air as the icy wind bit at his flesh. Always moving, always stalking, his cloak swept over the footprints he left behind, erasing any trace of his passage. In this desolate landscape, he was nothing more than a ghost. The world drifted around him, drawing a solitary figure ever closer. The one he had been tracking had finally paused, and the distance between them was quickly vanishing.

He could feel it, like a sixth sense, a taste on the breeze, a tingle along the back of his neck, a palpable tension in the air. Panic. Fear. His quarry had sensed something amiss, perhaps stirred by its own survival instinct or an untapped sense of self-preservation. Whatever the cause, on a subconscious level, it knew of his presence, it knew of its own impending doom.
A satisfied grin cracked across the predator's lips as his fingers closed around his dagger, and in a flash, the remaining distance between them disappeared.

………

In an instant, Vellion drove his dagger between two ribs and straight into the heart of his prey. Death was swift for his victim. A consequence of its wandering around town where it didn't belong. Now, at the end of its life, the frail old fox would serve as nothing more than a meal and a source of valuable fur.

…….

Elsewhere, a firm, gentle hand rested on Elara's shoulder as a second cloak was drawn around her body, adding another layer of protection and warmth. "You're ok," a reassuring voice whispered confidently by her ear.

Initially, Elara scarcely perceived the burgeoning warmth.

Her body had long resigned itself to the insidious numbness seeping deep into her marrow, blurring the boundary between the piercing cold and the sudden mantle of warmth enveloping her. Her muscles, however, responded instinctively—imperceptibly leaning into the offered heat like a flower subtly yearning toward sunlight after prolonged darkness.

Still supporting her with a steady hand on her shoulders, Aliseth repeated his quiet reassurance as he moved to stand before her. His dark eyes took her in, and a flicker of concerned curiosity was quickly replaced by surprise as he realized whom he was aiding.

“It, it's you?” he stammered, struggling to capture her attention as their eyes locked.

"You're ok," he repeated, his tone now laced with a subtle hint of relief, his hands giving her a gentle squeeze—the only acceptable display of affection for one of his status in this abstract situation.

"Elara, was it?"

Aliseth wasn’t clad in his Lunarian guard’s armor, although a sword still rested at his hip. Without his cloak, he wore a simple yet slightly elegant teal tunic paired with dark trousers tucked into tall leather boots. His well-honed torso and arms—sculpted by countless hours of swordplay and shield work—had already begun to gather snow, which settled on his exposed skin without hindrance.

Dark eyes, firm and watchful, studied her with an almost startling intensity. For an instant, Elara did not recognize him. Not truly. Her thoughts were sluggish, tangled in the remnants of panic and the weariness that clung to her like frost.

The attack. Steel flashing. Blood on the snow. And him, standing among them.

A trace of raw honesty colored his voice—perhaps relief, perhaps something deeper. His gaze mirrored her fleeting recognition, though contemplation escaped her in the moment. She felt his hands tighten marginally on her shoulders—a subtle affirmation.

And it steadied her.

Not completely. But enough to diminish the tremor in her breath, enough to remind her that she was not where her mind had tried to take her.

Elara hesitated briefly, words snagged within her throat. It was uncharacteristic for vulnerability to manifest so transparently, yet exhaustion dulled her reflexive concealment. The thoughtful resonance of her name in his voice held her rooted, preventing immediate retreat.

“Yes,” she murmured at last, her voice quieter than she intended.

Her fingers, still clenched at her sides, flexed tentatively, reacquainting themselves with sensation. There was a wariness in the way she regarded him now, but not distrust. Just… uncertainty.

Only then did she fully register the heavy drape of the cloak upon her shoulders, the generous warmth permeating its fibers. He had relinquished it freely, exposing himself to the cold. The revelation stirred an unnamed emotion within her chest.

Elara’s gaze dropped to the snow-dusted folds of the cloak, then back up to him, searching for—what, exactly? An explanation?

But she did not ask. Instead, she exhaled again.

“I—” Her voice faltered, not in hesitation, but in unfamiliarity. In the weight of whatever had just passed between them.

She swallowed, then tried again.

“You shouldn’t have surrendered your cloak,” she managed to say at last, her tone bereft of reproach, merely pragmatic acknowledgment.

Yet, despite her words, she made no effort to relinquish the loaned garment.

A quiet moment hovered delicately between them, snowflakes drifting languidly, suspended in silent witness. Then, softly, she added—almost inaudibly—

“…But thank you.”

Aliseth's breath hung in the air between them as time appeared to freeze around them. The falling of snow seemingly slowed, the silent moment stretching out, his intense gaze ever stripping back her words or lack thereof as his eyes remained locked on hers.

"You're ok." He offered once again, a reassuring finality to his words this time. A promise that he would not say it again, that he need not say it again. He said it like the gentle closure of a completed book. It was all-encompassing, speaking on every level.

He spoke for the panic attack, for his cloak that she wore, the current interaction they shared, and the incident from before. It was reassurance, compassion, forgiveness, trust and truth all rolled into one. And, of course, within the vibrations of those simple, strong words, a hint of soothing psychic magic reverberated through the still air.

Hands slowly releasing her shoulders and sliding down to her elbows. Twisting to stand by her side, he offers out his arm in a gentlemanly fashion.

"Where are you heading?" He enquired, boldly insistent she take it and accept his escort. It left clear on his face his intention and desire to speak with her.

She drew in a breath.

This inhalation unfurled within her more freely than its predecessor. Gradually, subtly, the iron band constricting her chest loosened its merciless grip, the serpentine tension coiled tightly at the base of her spine unravelling thread by delicate thread. It wasn't a dramatic release, merely the faintest lifting of oppressive weight, yet sufficient to keep her anchored, preventing an inward retreat. Just enough resilience seeped back into her bones to sustain her upright stance.

Aliseth had positioned himself at her side now, one arm extended in a gentleman’s gesture, his intent unmistakable.

Elara knew instinctively she ought to decline.

It wasn't pride or protocol urging restraint, but the sheer unfamiliarity of dependency. Of leaning. It was a foreign concept, uncomfortable like an ill-fitting garment. Nevertheless, she found herself inexplicably rooted in place, her resolve wavering slightly beneath the allure of support. Her gaze slipped downward, absorbing the solidity of his outstretched arm. The cloak upon her shoulders retained the subtle imprint of his warmth, a quiet contradiction to her determination of solitary strength.

Her fingers twitched, hovering between refusal and acceptance.

Slowly, cautiously, Elara lifted her hand and rested it with the gentlest touch upon his proffered arm—hesitation still apparent, a subtle tremor betraying her tentative acceptance.

She swallowed.

“I am headed to the temple,” she murmured at last, her voice softer than intended, like a confession spoken into the cold.

Then, a quiet inhale. A decision.

“Shall we?”

He gave a slight nod, waiting patiently until she was ready before beginning to walk. His gaze lingered on her, just beyond the border of what was necessary, his stoic demeanor betraying nothing of the thoughts that stirred behind his eyes. But there seemed to be a thread of relief that she accepted his company.

He moved beside her with practiced grace, close enough to support her if needed, yet careful never to brush against her. He glided through the snow like a dancer, reading her movements and intentions through their touch.

The first few paces were surrendered to the silence of the snow and the bitter chill of the air. Then, at last, he spoke. Aliseth was not a man known for doubt or hesitation, yet now there was a quiet uncertainty in his voice as he searched for the right words.

"You care for her... don't you?" he said, flicking a glance toward Elara. "I mean, it's more than just duty to you. I saw it on your face that night."

He hesitated for a second.

"You... you were very brave. Are very brave." He added softly.
His words drifted into the cold night, carried away by the wind as he tilted his head back, eyes closing for a moment. A faint tension flickered through his body, and a subtle twitch crossed his eyelids.
Then, with a heavy exhale, he opened his eyes and pressed forward, shaking off the weight of a memory that threatened to pull him under.

Once more, he surrendered to the quiet of the barren street. Step by near-silent step, Dawnhaven passed him by — snow, shadows, and forgotten dreams buried beneath the endless white.

Elara had envisioned many inquiries following the onslaught—some blunt and others cloaked in sympathetic kindness. Yet, this particular query had escaped her foresight entirely.

It was a simple question. It was a dangerous question.

Her fingers curled slightly where they rested against his arm. There were a thousand ways to answer—she could dismiss it, evade it, offer a polite deflection and retreat behind duty’s impenetrable walls. It would be the expected course. The safest.

And yet…

Elara’s gaze remained forward, fixed on the path ahead, but her grip betrayed her wavering.

“She is my charge,” she said first. The response of a handmaiden. Of someone who had rehearsed this answer a thousand times over. But the truth, unbidden, rose just behind it.

“She is also—” Elara hesitated, caught in the space between what could be spoken and what must be left unsaid. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before, as if to name it too clearly would strip it of its sanctuary. “Someone for whom I would willingly surrender my life—not from obligation, but of my own volition.”

A confession in the cold. Nothing grand, nothing embellished.

Elara exhaled slowly as if the admission itself required release.

The second question lingered still. Bravery. She did not feel brave. She felt weary as if she had been holding something together with hands that had long since begun to tremble.

“I don’t know if bravery is the word,” she murmured at last. “I only know that fear does not change what must be done.”

Her lashes lowered before she turned slightly toward him.

“And you?” Her voice bore no harshness, merely quiet contemplation. “You were there as well. You stood and fought when others fell. Would you name yourself brave?”

As Aliseth continued to walk, he listened intently but did not push or pry. He gave space for Elara, for her words, for her emotions and her thoughts, glancing sporadically towards her with soft nods and gentle eyes.

It was only after she returned a question his way that the faintest curl formed in the corner of his lips, admiring her wit to turn his compliment around back at him. It was at least five long steps later before he eventually replied, looking out into the endless white as he spoke.

"Someone once told me, bravery is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to act despite of."

He let that settle in the air around them, inviting a moment's silence as he took a few more steps.

"I could not be brave, because there is nothing I fear."
He replied matter-of-factly, with a sudden deadpan, pompous, arrogance. But it was the playful smirk he threw Elara’s way that gave his ruse away. A lighthearted attempt to lighten the mood. If only a little.

"No." He said more solemnly with a sigh, looking down at his feet buried in the snow.
"I was not brave, nor was I fast enough to act.
My lady...."

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

Lies.

They weren’t obvious lies, at least not to anyone who hadn’t spent years in places like this. The kid’s voice was steady, his expression casual—but Selene had lived among ghosts before. She knew when someone was trying to slip through the cracks.

And right now, this boy was looking for an exit.

Selene tilted her head slightly, watching as he inched backward—just enough that she’d have to move to reach him. Smart. It meant he thought ahead. It meant he knew how to survive.

It also meant he was afraid.

The best way to test a liar wasn’t to press—it was to wait. Given enough space, a liar invariably betrayed himself, filling the silence with truths he’d never intended to share.

Selene adjusted her stance imperceptibly, the case still cradled securely beneath one arm. “People don’t follow strangers into the depths of the Grey Market just because they looked ‘interesting.’” Her lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile, more a knowing acknowledgment of hidden machinations.

A second passed.

Then another.

“But let’s play along. Let’s say you really are just another street rat with an eye for ‘interesting’ people. That still leaves the question—” she lifted a brow, “—why me?”

She had become numb to the calculating gazes that followed her—the kind wielded by merchants coveting her surname’s influence or smugglers scheming to exploit her. But this was different. This wasn’t the look of someone with a grudge or a debt to collect.

This was the look of someone who had been given a job.

The difference between a stray and a hound.

And this boy was decidedly not a stray.

---

Interactions: Scotti (@The Savant)

Realms of Sun & Shadow

---

_{Location: Orion's home--->Post Office
Interactions/Mentions: Sya (@PrinceAlexus), Flynn, Eris (@The Muse)}

---

Orion was already awake.

He had been for some time, though it was difficult to determine exactly how long. Time passed elusively here—there was no sun to track its rise, only the slow, creeping shift of cold air seeping deeper into the walls of his home.

The room was silent except for the occasional soft crackle from the hearth, its flame small but persistent. He had not added more wood. There was no need. The cold did not bother him the way it once did.

He moved methodically, his motions precise, more out of habit than necessity. His carefully folded cloak was draped over the back of a chair, and his gloves lay beside it. Orion reached toward them absent-mindedly, his fingertips grazing their worn surface, only to pause abruptly.

Something else had caught his attention.

He had not set out to find it, but as he sifted through his belongings, ensuring nothing had been misplaced, his hand hovered over a familiar weight hidden beneath layers of fabric.

Slowly, his fingers curled around the small treasure, pulling it free.

Orion held the delicate locket, its silver surface catching and refracting the waning light. The metal was cool against his skin, carved intricately with floral motifs whose elegance had dulled only slightly with the passage of years. A single imperfection marred its hinge—a subtle scar, as if left deliberately by fate to remind him of hands other than his own that had held it.

Orion remembered vividly the day he reclaimed it from Eris; the exchange had been courteous yet terse, his anger and frustration at Willis’s intrusion barely tapered down. Thus, complete gratitude had been difficult, burdened by memory. Now however, cradling the fragile object in his palm, he could not dismiss the heaviness of what it represented. It was a fragment of another life, preserved in metal and sentiment, tethered to him irrevocably yet feeling strangely foreign in his grasp.

He turned it over in his palm, thumb tracing along the edge before pressing against the small indent. A soft click.

The locket unfurled, revealing the drawing within.

A woman, brunette, delicate in frame but not in presence, cradling a child. Though the ink had dimmed like memory softened by time's gentle hand, its details persisted. The subtle arc of her smile lingered, etched with an enduring warmth. Her fingers curled tenderly around the child's shoulder as if holding something infinitely precious and equally fragile.

Then there was the child himself.

His son.

Ten years old now.

Orion stared at the boy’s likeness, committing every detail to memory, though he knew it was already outdated. How much had he grown? Had his features sharpened, taken on more of his mother’s angular grace or Orion’s own once-human countenance? Was his voice deeper now? Did he still laugh the same way?

These contemplations were not idle curiosity born from paternal absence alone.

His son had known him once.

Orion had been present for those nascent years, holding him, guiding small fingers in exploration of the world’s simplest wonders. He could vividly recall the warmth of those moments and could conclude that there was nothing like the joy that spilled freely from a child discovering life under the protective gaze of a father who believed, in those fleeting days, he might shield his family from harm’s reach.

But what would his son see now if he could?

Orion’s grip on the locket tightened.

What had his wife told their son? Had she painted Orion as lost to duty, a man who had been taken by the course of fate? Or had she told him the truth—that his father still lived, but not in the way he once had?

Had the boy’s memories of him begun to warp, shifting from something warm to something distant? Was he waiting for Orion to come home?

Or had he already accepted that his father never would?

And what of her? Would the woman who had once gazed upon Orion with warmth and trust now regard him as a ghostly remnant of someone long lost? He wondered, with quiet anguish concealed beneath stoicism’s practiced veil, whether he would repulse her still, or if, perhaps, she could glimpse beneath the surface and find remnants worthy of compassion or even redemption.

Could their son?

The flame in the hearth sputtered.

And then, without ceremony, he snapped the locket shut.

For a moment, Orion remained still, the weight of the past pressing heavily against him. But the past did not change. No matter how often he held onto its remnants, it remained as it was—untouchable. It was the present that demanded his attention.

Still…

His gaze shifted abruptly, drawn toward the sturdy oak desk standing solemnly in the corner.

The events of the preceding day loitered now at the periphery of his mind, fragmented yet relentless.The prince, frustrated but resolute, sitting before him, seeking counsel in the privacy of his study. Orion had spoken plainly, cautioning Flynn against letting others define his choices for him. You must seize agency over your choice, lest another defines its significance on your behalf. He had meant it as advice, but the words now echoed back at him with a sort of irony.

His wife had exercised her choice once.

And he, too, had chosen.

And now, here they were with an abyss carved wide and fathomless between them as a result of those choices.

A slow exhalation escaped Orion's lungs, releasing a breath burdened with resignation, as he crossed towards the desk. The chair creaked softly as he sat, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment.

A moment passed, ink glistening on the nib of his pen, hesitation lingering at the threshold of intent. Then, with quiet decisiveness, he pressed the tip to the page.

My Dearest Evangeline,

---

The post office was quiet when Orion stepped inside, the scent of ink and old parchment thick in the air. A small iron stove crackled in the corner, casting weak warmth against the cold seeping in through the door frame. The snowfall had made foot traffic scarce, and the only sound was the scratching of the postmaster’s quill as he sorted through letters.

Orion approached the counter without a word, reaching into his coat and producing the envelope he had sealed earlier that morning. The wax had cooled smoothly over the parchment, pressed with the faint impression of his family’s insignia—a habit he had not yet abandoned. He set it down in front of the postmaster, who glanced up briefly before taking it.

“Delivery fee,” the man stated gruffly, not bothering with pleasantries.

Orion wordlessly placed the necessary coin beside the letter.

The transaction was done. He turned to leave.

“Ah. Wait a moment.” The postmaster's voice stalled his steps. “There's something for you, Lord Nightingale.”

Orion stilled.

For him?

He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly as the postmaster rifled through a stack of newly arrived correspondence. After a moment, the man withdrew a single envelope, its wax seal a deep, almost crimson red, stamped without a house crest. Instead, a looping script adorned its face, the handwriting unfamiliar to him.

Orion reached for it, his fingers gliding over the rough texture of the paper. He had not expected a letter.

Breaking the seal, he unfolded the parchment and read.

Orion’s eyes traced the words, unmoving. His expression remained impassive for a long moment—until a sound, so unfamiliar that it startled even him, escaped his lips.

A small, abrupt laugh.

It was brief, involuntary. But it was there. Real.

The realization hit him at the same time as the postmaster’s raised brow, and Orion quickly covered the sound with a cough, clearing his throat as if dismissing some imaginary irritation. He folded the letter swiftly and held it up slightly in acknowledgment.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice as even as ever.

Without waiting for a response, he slipped the letter into the pocket of his coat, turned on his heel, and stepped back into the snowfall.

Nocturnal Memoirs: An Urban-Fantasy Mafia Epic

Alrighty I'll be going away for the next 3-4 days (should be back no later than the 18th of March), but I'll check in occassionally while I'm on my trip.

We are also getting close to the 2 week mark that Esty has unfortunately been required to leave and unable to return. I think we need to consider the possibility that she may not return (at least not within a time frame of a few months). So I propose the following actions (More or less what I have previously mentioned):

- We complete the Beach Episode intermission while we play in IC, getting back into IC normal play on the 25th of March (Or approximately) with a new resource system (Single resource - Supply). Territory wars Continue.

- We complete the Beach Episode intermission first, then enter back into IC normal play on the 15th of April (Or approximately) with a new resource system (Single resource - Supply). Terrirory wars Freeze.

- We complete the Beach Episode intermission first, then enter back into IC normal play on the 15th of April (Or approximately) with the old resource system (Dual resources - Personnel and Wealth). Territory wars Continue.

- We complete the Beach Episode intermission first, then place Nocturnia Memoirs on indeffinate hold for Esty's return (If she wants to continue it after returning as well).

I have drawn up plans, arcs and systems to continue IC normal play that I'm getting close to being happy to share, but if people aren't comfortable to continue the game in Esty's abscence I understand~. Let me know your throughts and I'll chip in when I have time.

@flux

I think option 2 is the safest tbh. But of course, it's up to the group as a whole.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Location: Eye of the Beholder

Interactions/Mentions: Sya (@PrinceAlexus)

---

Frigid.

It was the first thing Thalia registered as she drifted toward wakefulness, her consciousness sluggish beneath the oppressive weight of the woolen blankets. The fire in the hearth had long since surrendered to the night, leaving only a bed of ashen embers, their glow extinguished by the creeping chill that had infiltrated the room. Though the inn’s sturdy walls had shielded them from the worst of the storm, they could not keep out the insidious fingers of cold that coiled through the air, settling deep into the marrow of her bones.

She exhaled slowly, her breath blooming pale in the dim, brittle light of the moon outside her window. Or what little of it managed to come through behind the clouds.

Snow lay heaped against the windowpane, its frost-webbed surface distorting the feeble light that strained to filter through. Beyond it, the world had been swallowed whole—a formless, endless white that smothered the landscape in silence. The storm had left no edges, no contours, only an empty vastness that seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction.

She blinked up at the wooden ceiling, letting herself be still for a moment.

Lark was already awake.

The sheepdog lay curled near the door, his thick coat barely rising with each breath. Though he made no sound, his ears twitched in restless intervals, attuned to the muted stirrings of the inn beyond. Every so often, his nose lifted, nostrils flaring, sifting through the scents that seeped in from the hallway. If there was anything delicious to look forward to, however, Thalia could not say for certain.

By contrast, her father remained slumped in the chair beside the hearth, boots still on, arms crossed, his face slack with sleep so deep it seemed almost unnatural.

Thalia studied him for a long moment. He must have finally drifted off sometime after she had. She hadn’t expected that.

She shifted under the covers, rolling onto her side as the events of the night before crept back into her mind.

The bells. The lockdown. The guards sweeping through the streets like wolves closing in on a herd.

She had played the part expected of her—sat in stillness, chewed and swallowed, waited in silence. All the trappings of obedience, neatly displayed.

And yet…

The disquiet in her chest had not abated. If anything, it had merely settled deeper, burrowing like a splinter beneath the skin. It was quieter now, but no less present—a realization that had taken root in the dark and refused to be dislodged.

There had been no walls tall enough to keep out danger. No decrees to soften its blow. No whispered reassurances that it would be handled before she ever had to bear witness to it.

She had not been protected.

It was a thought that lingered unpleasantly, like the distant ache of a bruise yet to fully surface.

Thalia pushed the blankets aside, the chill biting at her exposed skin the instant she left their sanctuary. She rubbed at her arms, a futile attempt to chase away the cold, before casting a glance toward Lark. He shifted at the movement, tail thumping once against the floor. He did not rise, but his gaze never left her.

She raked a hand through her tangled red hair, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. The motion sent a shiver down her spine, the chill clinging to her skin where the thick blankets had once shielded her from it.

Her nightgown—a simple thing of soft, well-worn linen—offered little in the way of warmth, the thin fabric pooling loosely around her frame. It was a far cry from the silks and velvets she had once slept in, the kind embroidered with fine thread and scented with dried flowers pressed between their folds. This was practical, plain—another quiet concession to her new life.

She traced a finger along the edge of the sleeve absentmindedly before letting her hand fall away. There was no sense dwelling on it.

Her thoughts turned instead to the night before—to the conversation with Sya, the carefully worded explanations, the way the innkeeper had kept people occupied without ever truly answering the questions lingering beneath the surface.

There had been an attack. Inside the walls of the town.

That much had been confirmed. But what still gnawed at her was the absence of certainty. The attacker hadn’t been caught. No clear reassurances had been given. Even now, the silence outside felt heavier than it should have—like the town itself was still bracing for something.

For the first time since arriving in Dawnhaven, Thalia found herself wondering whether anyone truly knew what they were doing.

She dragged a hand down her face, releasing a slow exhale.

Speculation wouldn’t get her anywhere.

Instead, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet meeting the cool wooden floor with a muted thump. Lark lifted his head slightly, ears flicking in acknowledgment, but did not rise.

Thalia exhaled, pressing her palms to her knees as she steadied herself.

Breakfast. That was a start. And if nothing else, it was a simple goal she could work with.

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

They weren’t perusing wares.

They weren’t exchanging goods.

They weren’t pilfering valuables.

They were tailing her.

Selene’s lips parted gently, yet silence remained her chosen ally. The metallic case beneath her arm suddenly assumed an intangible heaviness, weighty not in the literal sense but as if infused with newfound consequence—as desirable as a truth to ears thirsting for secrets. Her secrets.

What, then, was the appropriate response here?

Lose them? Too easy. Too soon. A tail like this wasn’t about getting close. It was about seeing where she was going—and that was another part that concerned her.

Selene had grown up knowing that the most dangerous eyes weren’t always the ones looking at you. They were the ones waiting for you to lead them somewhere.

Her family never needed to chase her—they’d had systems for that. Logs of her movements, coded access, people in the right places at the right times to keep her within reach. They didn’t watch in the obvious sense. They let her believe in the illusion of autonomy—until the moment she unwittingly walked herself straight into their grasp.

And the Council? They weren’t much different.

The broadcast reminded them all of this. People who asked questions and went looking for things that weren’t meant to be found didn’t get warnings; they vanished.

So this person wasn’t the problem.

It was whom they might be watching for.

Selene moved past a stall selling modified power cores and into a tighter alley, where the overhead pipes hung low and steam vents hissed from the cracks in the walls. The glow of the market behind her became distant, muffled, leaving her in the spaces where only the careful tread.

Then she stopped.

Waited.

And there it was. The hesitation of someone who had anticipated movement but not its sudden cessation.

“Are you tailing me for amusement?” Selene inquired, then, tilting her head just so. “Or are you hoping to part ways with one of your limbs?” A bluff. She hoped one not so obvious.

Only then did she pivot slightly, just enough for her gaze to capture the person in full.

A boy.

Young. Sixteen, maybe younger. Hood up, stance practiced, hands deep in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie like he had nowhere better to be. Just another street rat, a fixture of Dominion’s lowest rungs—someone meant to be ignored.

“Who sent you, kid?”

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

The Grey Market was never silent. Even in the earliest hours before the artificial lights had yet to awaken and bathe the cavernous corridors in their harsh glare, there was movement. Whispers of bartered secrets, the soft shuffle of boots on grated walkways, the unmistakable scent of soldered metal and damp stone—all reminders that Dominion’s underbelly never truly slept.

Selene Syn blended into the chaos as if she belonged there because, in a way, she did. Her presence was a contradiction—both noticed and unnoticed, standing out with her heterochromatic eyes and the vivid purple streaks in her otherwise dark waves, yet moving so seamlessly through the market’s tangled arteries that no one stopped to stare. She wore her usual ensemble: a reinforced jacket patched with scavenged plating, a form-fitting top, and rugged boots designed for quick movement. Every inch of her was built for survival, from the industrial piercings in her ears to the makeshift metal accessories looped around her fingers—scraps that could double as tools or weapons if needed.

She had a deal to finish.

Selene’s steps were unhurried despite the restless energy pulsing around her. The Grey Market’s maze of repurposed tunnels and scaffolding sprawled before her, illuminated by flickering light strips and bioluminescent fungi growing in the crevices. The market itself was a shifting thing, never in the same place for long, built from reclaimed storage containers, rusted ventilation ducts, and old maintenance stations repurposed into trading posts. Vendors lined the walls, their goods displayed on folding tables or old conveyor belts or hung from overhead pipes.

The air smelled of burnt circuits, damp stone, and spices smuggled in from distant districts. She passed a cybernetics dealer arguing with a one-eyed man over the price of a retinal mod, a food vendor selling skewered cave fish roasted over a modified turbine vent, and a smuggler hunched over a stack of salvaged tech, inspecting each piece with a scrutinizing eye.

Selene wasn’t here to browse, though. She had arranged a meeting with a man known as Krell, a broker who specialized in obtaining “misplaced” shipments—things that conveniently never reached their official destinations. The kind of items the Crystalline Council would rather not see in circulation. Modified battery cores, bypass chips, coded clearance cards—the market’s lifeblood.

She approached Krell's stall, unmistakable in its extravagance and decrepitude—a once-proud mining rig now hollowed and repurposed into a grotesque storefront. Krell himself, rotund and flushed, stood amid a tangle of cables and microchips dangling like gutted prey. His eyes caught hers, and a knowing smirk twisted his lips, his gaze alight with predatory amusement.

“Ah, the prodigal Syn returns,” Krell purred, his voice oily to the point that she could feel it slick against her skin from where she was. “Come to dip into the family coffers, or still insistent on your farce of independence?”

Selene didn’t react, not outwardly. She just tilted her head slightly, her silver and amber eyes reflecting the dim light in a way that made them seem almost unnatural. “You have what I want or not?”

Krell chuckled, a sound that carried too much amusement for her liking. He reached beneath the tarp and pulled out a small black case, setting it on the counter between them. “Depends. You have the payment we talked about?”

Selene produced a slim data chip. She never paid in credits, which left a trail. Data, on the other hand, was a currency of its own—one that people like Krell valued even more than material goods.

The broker's laughter dripped with acerbic cynicism as he considered her. Thick, grimy fingers twisted cables in restless anticipation, their metallic strands resembling grotesque trophies hung for all to see. Then, with a greedy eagerness, he snatched the datachip she presented, his gesture dripping with barely concealed avarice.

“Such implicit trust,” he drawled, his oily voice now lined with a bit of contempt. “It borders on recklessness, especially for a girl so insistent on running from her own blood.”

“Trouble and I have long been acquainted, Krell,” Selene retorted. “We're practically intimate. Though…I don’t blame you for lack of familiarity with such a concept.”

Krell’s grin widened, showing teeth yellowed by age and indulgence. “Oh, you always know how to wound a man,” he drawled, tapping the black case between them. “Still, you make things interesting, Syn. I’ll give you that.”

Selene had just reached for the case when the market’s usual hum shifted—not in sound, but in feeling. At least until the broadcast hijacked the screens. Every jury-rigged monitor and rusted console lining the Grey Market blinked to static, and the emblem of the Crystalline Council bled into existence.

The market stilled, the murmuring of traders dying mid-breath.

Selene remained motionless, her fingers suspended over the case, but internally, gears turned swiftly, assessing the implications of the sudden intrusion.

And then came the voice.

“People of Dominion, I address you at this early hour because of a recent incident that has caused unnecessary panic among some of our citizens…”

Tarin Geode’s voice carried through the cavernous space, his tone firm but calm.

Selene felt it—the way the traders around her exchanged glances, the way some stepped closer to the screens while others pretended to ignore it, too practiced in the art of feigned indifference.

But no one wasn’t listening.

“...a small group of individuals have been attempting to breach the ceiling vents of our great underground civilization. Their intent, they claim, was to ‘expose’ the surface world.”

The girl inhaled slowly, measuring the tension coiling through her spine, the way her heartbeat ticked a fraction faster. Not because she was surprised.

But because this was exactly the kind of message she’d been waiting for.

“Let me be absolutely clear: there is nothing to expose,” Geode declared. “The surface was destroyed long ago by war and technology that is no longer understood, nor do we have the means to restore it. And we absolutely wouldn’t want to.”

A soft scoff came from someone nearby—a grizzled trader, his face lined with years of experience, arms crossed tight over his chest. Others shifted uneasily, but still no one spoke.

“As for those responsible, they have been taken into custody. They will face a fair trial by jury, as is our law, and they will receive a just punishment for their reckless actions. We do not tolerate disorder. We do not entertain fantasies that threaten the peace of Dominion.”

A murmur finally rippled through the market—a low, fractured sound, neither agreement nor rebellion, just the kind of noise people made when they weren’t sure how to feel.

Selene exhaled softly through parted lips.

So.

The Council was rattled.

And if they were rattled, that meant—

The broadcast cut to the Council’s insignia once more before transitioning to a new speaker—a woman with a polished voice and a calculated warmth that made Selene’s skin prickle.

Liora Vex.

Public Affairs.

The cleanup crew.

“Good morning, citizens of Dominion! While Council Member Geode has addressed today’s concerning incident, I want to take a moment to share some positive news…”

Selene tuned her out.

Her thoughts were already unraveling the implications, already tracing the paths this could lead to.

The surface.

No one ever spoke of it in anything more than whispers, myths passed between traders and wanderers. And now, here was the Council, standing before every citizen in Dominion, telling them in no uncertain terms that the surface was dead.

Telling them there was nothing to see.

Which meant, of course—

There was everything to see.

A beat of silence followed the end of the transmission.

Then, like a fuse finally catching flame, the market erupted back to life.

But it wasn’t the same noise as before.

Now, it was hushed conversations, hurried whispers, the frantic undercurrent of unease woven into every transaction. People moved with purpose, some finishing deals quickly, others vanishing into the tunnels, their minds clearly set on things far beyond simple trades.

Selene felt Krell’s eyes on her.

She met his gaze, her expression unreadable.

“You know,” Krell remarked, his smirk tightening into a wary half-grin, “I’ve haunted this market a long while. Seen countless Council threats, crackdowns, and endless noise. It grows somewhat… repetitive, don't you think?”

Selene didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she lifted the black case, tucking it beneath her arm before finally replying.

“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice thoughtful. “Sometimes.”

Then, with one last glance at the screens, which were now dark and silent, she turned and disappeared into the maze of the market.