I'm Kiwi!

The only light is the dim glow of a bulb here and there, as well as the swinging metal clutched in her claw, but it's enough. She's accustomed to the dark— her eyesight was just as clear at night as it is in daylight. She's used to navigating tunnels; it's practically her bread and butter. Still, that doesn't make her any less on edge. With each careful step, the faint sound of something dripping echoes against the walls, and her steps become quieter; a hunter moving through foreign territory in a silent, deliberate way.

Her lantern paints odd shadows against the stone walls of the Deep Docks.

She's been walking for what felt like hours, and she hasn't seen anything other than magma and fire and empty halls of metal. Some of the tunnels are so suffocatingly dark, she can only rely on her lantern and instinct to guide her through them. Some of the rooms are so brightly blazened by flames that it forces her eyes to squint as a shield against it. The cavern, for all intents and purposes, seems emptier than the last time she was here. Quiet, until she notices something— the faintest sound, as if something were stirring.

A whisper? No. More of a… humming?

The sound is soft, but it's there, just on the edge of her senses. And though every warrior instinct tells her to keep moving, to stay on high alert and avoid it… Hornet finds the melody pulling her towards it, like a moth to flame, like prey to a spider's web. She turns her head slightly, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sound, and she steps further into the cavern, her pace quickening.

‘This place is empty,’ she reminds herself, clenching her lantern tighter. ‘So why does it feel like I'm being watched?’

The dim hallways eventually expand outward, leading to a room filled with magma that surrounded a large metal platform. There used to be a gate here; one that separated the open room from where Hornet stood. But it is gone now, and as she steps forward, she’s hit by a wave of heat. The room was sweltering, and bright: so much more than the halls that Hornet had to squint and blink until her eyes adjusted. And when her vision focuses more, she sees a gash of white against the burning embers and heated metal. 

A figure, clad in all white silk— no, their body was silken in nature, even beneath their clothes. A thin, lithe figure that was delicate, feminine and shaped almost like a doll. Pinprick legs, standing neat together that lead to wide, shapely hips, and then back to a pencil-thin waist and chest. Her arms are raised like a preacher, and she holds a pin in one hand, and she sways and twirls like a conductor, like a dancer, guiding silkflies in a performance like a symphony. And the silken body ends with a round head clad in a bonnet, surrounding a dark face, and pale eyes so wide that gaze upon the glowing flies with something unreadable.

And the pale figure hums; a soft, melodic song.

Hornet freezes; not from fear, but from something far more complicated. The figure is beautiful, ethereal in a way that makes her chest ache. Like something pulled straight from a dream. Every instinct screams at her to be wary— this creature is no mere bug— but the melody tugs at her, wrapping around her senses like silk ropes. For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. She simply watches, her claws tightening around the lantern’s handle as the figure dances, their pin flashing gold in the firelight. 

Then— “Who are you?” Hornet's voice cuts through the song, surprising even herself.

The swaying of the pin pauses; and the little silkflies scatter in a rush of glowing light. For a moment, there is just a long moment of silence: stretching between the pair like something forbidden. And then, the figure turns, and her dark face tilts upward; her expression almost amused as she regards Hornet with thinly-veiled annoyance.

“How sad,” She says, her tone faux-sympathy and mocking. She turns her body fully to face the weaver, and she presses her claws against her own chest, giggling a little bit. “Look at the little spider, who has fallen from its cage. A weak and lost thing. You poor little morsel~” Her pin twirls in her grasp, and she hums, bringing the razor-sharp tip to her fingers, pressing against it. “I can save you, dear spider, from all the suffering you would endure above us, in that Citadel. I’ll just skewer you right here, and pluck the life right out of you.”

Hornet bristles. The words are condescending as they are threatening. And they prick at some deep, primal part of her: rousing something hot and dangerous in her chest. The needle in her hand twitches, itching to throw it and— her eyes narrow. The figure is mocking, almost teasing her, like she's nothing more than a toy to be used and discarded. It's not unfamiliar; she's been underestimated too many times; but what was strange is that it was working surprisingly well. And yet, there's something so eerily captivating about her that Hornet hesitates. She exhales slowly through her mask— a measured, deliberate breath— before tilting her head just slightly. 

“Skewer me?” Her voice is low, steady, keeping her tone flat and unbothered. "You speak as though you've already won." She steps forward, the heat of the chamber licking at her chitin as she moves with purpose. “I am no lost spider. And you—” A pause, her needle shifting ever so slightly in her grip. “—are no decider of my fate.” She studies the silk-clad figure with sharp, calculating eyes. “Your threats are worthless, child.” The word child is deliberate— a challenge wrapped in courtesy. “If you intend to raise your pin, I would wish to know who stands before me.”

The silken figure laughs— a light, airy noise that sounds like a song in itself. She swirls her pin in a flourish, gripping the end like a fencer, and setting her pose in a similar manner. Her body almost glows in the firelight; the stitching of her frame grandiose and skilled, like lace. Her tone is light, almost manic in how eager she seems for conflict. “Delicious! I like you already! I am no child, dear weaver; I am Lace. Now then, let us dance, little spider~”

And the figure lunges forward with a quick slash of her pin!

Hornet's eyes narrow; a brief twitch of a smirk behind her mask. The silk figure's movement is fast, almost too fast for a mortal bug, but the weaver is just that much faster. She leaps back, evading the golden pin with a graceful back flip. “You dance well,” she muses, her needle held at the ready as she moves to circle Lace. Her movements are trained, precise, like the strikes of a bee. “You're trained under someone, aren't you? The silk that binds you is not of your own making, I feel.”

That seems to anger her.

Lace strikes quicker, putting her annoyance in each slash of her pin, each stroke and each motion. She moves like a dancer, and fights like a fencer. And despite Hornet’s own skill she has honed over years, over her time here in Pharloom, this other seems to be a decent match. Pin and needle clash in a strike that radiates down their spines, and they stand together, straining. Hornet braces— barely— as their weapons lock them in place. Sparks fly where pin and needle meet, and she can feel the heat surrounding them almost intensify. And at this distance, she can see the silk that makes up Lace’s form shifting with every movement, like the delicate wirings of— Lace laughs again, her voice strained slightly beneath the mock-joy. “Oh spider, you speak of binding silk— the strings that have drawn you back here will always keep you bound!” And her leg sweeps out, to knock Hornet over.

Infuriating pale child—!

It catches her ankles, sending her stumbling back, but she recovers with a roll, springing up in one fluid motion, her needle poised for another strike. Her chest heaves slightly beneath her cloak, her voice low but tinged with amusement. “You fight like you were woven for it,” Hornet remarks, circling again. “But you speak like a puppet— desperate to bite the hand that pulls your strings.” A pause, a challenge. “…Prove me wrong.”

“I do not need to prove anything, much less to you!” Lace charges forward again; this time, with caution thrown to the wind. Her pin sweeps downward to hit Hornet, but the weaver ducks out of the way in time. Lace turns back around with a huff, and thrusts forward— Hornet dodges, the movements nearly instinct at this point. She's used to fighting larger bugs, bugs with weight, and the weaver is fast— her needle is a blur as she weaves through Lace’s strikes, lunging back each time.

Her blood pumps with fire, adrenaline singing in her veins. It's been too long since she's sparred with someone like this: someone who matches her in skill. The challenge it brings is addicting. And some sick part of Hornet finds it almost amusing to watch the anger grow in the silken being before her. To watch her face contort into annoyance, to rage, to violent fury is something of an art. Her movements grow more desperate, her pin swinging more wildly; all in an attempt to skewer Hornet.

But evenly matched, they are— needle and pin clash once, twice, sending sparks in the air that burn, and twists to disarm one another fail, so they clash again. And again.

It's a dance. A frenzied one, a violent one of sharpened metal, a flurry of strikes exchanged in the firelight. Hornet is fluid, graceful as she leaps across the open chamber— twisting out of the way, landing light as a feather. But Lace dances just as fast: her footwork delicate, her movements sharp, her body light as if she might take flight at any moment. The clash continues, and it's exhilarating.

The fencer thrusts once more, and this time, her pin catches Hornet’s cloak— tearing the red fabric in one sharp motion, the sharp tip cutting the very edge of her thigh. The first drawn blood, and it is Hornet’s: dripping onto the ground, and sending the scent into the air. Lace’s smile widens into something manic and violent, and she begins to giggle uncontrollably.

“Such a beautiful color—!! I want to see more!!”

Hornet hisses through her mask; the pain is sharp, but there's something thrilling about it. The blood is thick, like a vibrant splash across the metal platform. And Lace’s reaction is maddening: she's like a wild, feral thing, all sharp edges and crazed intent. Hornet's head tilts, her gaze narrowing underneath the mask. “…More?” Her voice is rough. Dark. Excited.

“More! Give me more of your blood, spider! Bleed onto this tile for me, and me alone!” Lace slashes again, and again, her movements frenzied and eager to slice open the weaver. Her pin is a dangerous thing, whipping about, but she misses each strike, and that seems to infuriate her further. “Hold still, and let me gut you!”

Hornet moves so fast, she's almost a blur— dodging, rolling, twisting through each swing like she's made of air. The tip of Lace’s pin grazes her cloak, and it tears further, the red fabric frayed at the edges. She's breathing hard now; her heart pounding in her chest. And the sight of that anger inside the other sparks something wild inside her. Hornet grins, sharp, feral. “You'll have to do better than that to cut me, child.”

“You terrible, horrible spider!” Lace jumps back a moment, panting heavily. Her chest heaves with the motion, and she sways a little on her petite legs, before standing upright. Her bonnet has fallen askew lightly, and a few strands of deliciously pure silken hair fall before her dark face. “You deny me such a simple request— your organs splayed out on this platform. You weavers are all selfish things.”

Hornet's stance shifts, slightly looser, more relaxed. She twirls her needle in her grip, humming softly in amusement. “Selfish?” Her tone is mocking— playful, even. “If I were selfish, I wouldn't have indulged you this long.” She steps forward again, her gait slow and deliberate. The torn cloak flutters behind her like tattered wings. “But if it's organs you want…” Her needle rises. “…Come take them.”

The taunt works; Lace takes the bait.

She lunges forward with a giggle, and at the same time, Hornet dashes towards her. Both raise their weapons, pin and needle, clashing once, twice, and then with a thrust, a jab—

Hornet feels her needle connect, and she watches it sink directly into Lace’s chest, impaling her in a way that makes the silken being gasp. And at that moment, her pin hits Hornet’s thigh, sinking deep into the flesh and almost piercing all the way through. Both go still, both holding weapons that have hit their mark, both wounded. For a moment, there's utter silence. 

The world seems to pause; the only sound is the faint, labored rasp of their breathing, sharp and harsh in the firelit chamber. And then— “Ha…” Hornet's laugh is a quiet, shaky sound, the noise low and bitter; a sharp contrast to the manic giggles of Lace. “You're not so… cocky now.” The needle twists slightly, eliciting a strangled gasp from the other.

Lace shudders faintly, her pale eyes widening, her voice faltering on her tongue, and all she can do is just… giggle. Soft, strained, and then louder, moving her free hand to grasp at the shaft of the needle, where it impales her silken chest. She was not a bug of flesh, she had no blood to bleed, but all the same, the wound burned with a pain she had not felt so intensely. She found that she liked it. “You’re the one… skewered, dear spider,” she reminds Hornet, and she twists her own pin in mimicry, albeit a bit rougher. More blood spills from the wound in Hornet’s leg, splattering on the heated metal beneath them.

That, she didn't expect. A sharp gasp escapes her, her free hand instinctively moving to clutch at her leg. The pain is blinding— a white-hot throb of agony. And the scent of her own blood is almost intoxicating. Hornet's eye twitches, biting down the snarl of pain that threatens to escape her throat. “I've felt worse.” The words are rough, breathless. But that strange sense of thrill is still there, bubbling beneath the pain.

“I could… end you here and now.” Lace twists the pin again, pressing it harder, pressing it deeper into the other’s flesh. It was an aching;y terrible pain, and yet it was mind-numbing all the same. She tilts her head a bit, more loose strands of silk falling before her face. “You would… never climb your way to the top, if I so decreed…” She continues, breathless.

Gods above and below.

At this distance, Hornet could smell the sweet purity of her silk; the most untainted she had ever seen. (How would such silk taste?) The scent was overwhelming, and it calls to something primal, something deep within her that craves, yearns to taste, to bite, to tear, to consume. Hornet suppresses that desire with a low hiss, her eyes narrowed. “You're full of talk, child.” The words are rough, her voice strained. “You could end me, yes… but you haven't.”

“Maybe…” Lace takes a deep breath, as the strands of silk keeping her chest close split further, the needle digging deeper inside her. “Maybe I like to play with my toys. Maybe I like to see how much it takes to break them.” She steps forward; to press her pin inside even deeper, even as Hornet’s needle splits her silk chest open wider. “Maybe I want you to suffer, spider.”

She’s insane.

For a moment, it feels like Hornet’s drowning. The sensation of that pin in her leg, the scent of Lace’s silk, her words, her laugh… it's overwhelming. Hornet's body quakes— her breathing ragged, her mouth twisted in a snarl. Her eyes dart all over the other bug's form, taking in the sight with a kind of feverish intensity. And she craves. In this moment, she's never wanted something more than she wants to taste this being in front of her.

The silence draws out for what feels like forever. And maybe forever, bleeding in the hands of this silk bug, would not be such a terrible reality. Lace breathes heavily, her eyes flickering along the weaver’s frame, like she’s debating. And then, finally, after another long period of silence, she stumbles back. Her pin yanked out of Hornet’s thigh, the needle slipping free from her chest. And she sways, beginning to giggle terribly once again.

Something close to arousal flickers inside of Hornet. And that sound… oh, that sound. She can't help the soft, shaky exhale that escapes her. Her blood burns, her mind clouded with a strange, primal urge that she can't quite understand. Her gaze is still locked on Lace, her chest heaving with every breath, every labored gasp. She can't stop picturing it: how that pure silk would feel beneath her teeth, how sweet the taste would be on her tongue—

“Let’s call it a draw for now, Spider.” Lace straightens up, moving her delicate hand to her chest, where Hornet’s needle had pierced her. She runs her fingers along the edges of the wound, and shudders, eyes flickering shut for just a brief moment as if she was relishing in the pain. Then, she opens her eyes again, and grins wildly. “I suppose you have some more climbing to do; to reach the top of the Citadel.”

The words take a moment to register in Hornet's mind, her thoughts fuzzy, her body aching. And then, finally, she processes the words. The thought of resuming her journey, the thought of moving, snaps her out of her daze. She lets out a sharp, shaky breath, pushing herself to stand upright with a slight wince. Her leg throbs— but she doesn't let it show, refusing to give Lace that satisfaction. She instead simply gives a short, stiff nod. “I do.”

Those thin, pale fingers continue fiddling at the fraying edges of silk. And if Hornet just tilted her head just right, she could see the glow of Lace's silken heart inside her, throbbing almost obscenely at a quick pace. It was a shakingly intimate sight, as if she had happened upon the other nude, and despite herself, Hornet cannot look away.

Lace takes a deep breath, her chest heaving a bit. “This isn't over, spider. Sooner or later, you'll meet your end; impaled upon my pin. And I will wear your blood like a gown~” She laughs, pale eyes flaring in something Hornet could now recognize as bloodlust. That smile, the hunger in the silk doll's eyes… it should be terrifying. It is terrifying, and yet… there's something strangely arousing about it. Hornet lets out another soft, low breath through her mask, her body tensing slightly. Her gaze remains unflinchingly on Lace’s chest, drawn to that glowing heart inside her— and this time, she does nothing to stop the images flashing through her mind.

After a moment of silence, Lace speaks once more; “It's rude to stare, you know.” Her voice is low, unguarded, and she resists the urge to dig her fingers into her own chest. She drops her hand down, and huffs. “Whatever. Continue your fruitless climb, weaver. I'll meet you at the top, either way.” And with that, Lace tucks her pin into its sheath, turning to leave.

Hornet exhales long, slow as she forces herself to finally look away. Lace was right: staring is rude. But gods above, how tempting was the other, even with all her arrogance… "I'll see you there," she murmurs, her voice hoarse, heavy with promise. And with that, she turns as well, limping away— though not before glancing back once. To watch that graceful fencer jump up and out of sight.

Each one seems to have the same routine: Iselda will usually awaken before everyone else, roll up her bedroll and change, then make some delicious breakfast. Hollow will usually be up by then, watching her with their mute silence. When Iselda finishes, she will wake Cornifer, and then the three will have breakfast. Cornifer is the chatterbox. He fills Iselda's calm quiet and Hollow's inability to speak with his own tales, and then usually he will head out for the day to work on mapping.

Sometimes, he'll stay, and he will fill Hollow's afternoons with lots of talking. Sometimes he will leave, and Hollow will be left alone with Iselda.

She was quiet, she kept to herself, and most of the time, she'll work on cleaning, cooking, or just manning the storefront alone. Rarely a customer will come in; but most of the time, they were left alone with her.

Days pass. The quiet becomes familiar. They fall into the mundane rhythm of the days. A quiet routine. Breakfast with the couple, days alone with Iselda— and days filled with Cornifer's endless chatter... Through it all, the Vessel will try to ignore the feeling of longing in their chest. They ignore it, because to want is like being hungry: and a Vessel should not feed. But it is there, a constant… ache, that flares with every look, every word, every touch.

Hollow learns the rhythm of the house; the creak of the floorboards, the way Iselda moves without sound, how her fingers trace the edge of a kitchen blade when she thinks no one sees. And each morning, they watch her again. Not just because she is beautiful— though that realization never fades— but because there is something truly enticing about her; so much so, that they know they need to be cautious with how long they look at both of them. They are careful now; careful not to stare too long, careful not to reach when Cornifer touches them again. (His warmth is still a shock every time.)

Time with Cornifer is... oddly warm, filled with a complex yearning. But solitude with Iselda… that is dangerous.

When he’s gone, and it’s just them and her in the quiet shop, their eyes betray them. They catch how light catches on her shell, glistening like steel. How she hums soft, low notes when washing dishes. How once, when a stray lumafly buzzed too close to her face, she caught it midair with two fingers and said nothing at all as she returned it to the lantern.

Hollow's wounds knit back together over time. Their void-black chitin slowly mends until nothing but patches of scars remain. Iselda was the one to rewrap their wounds day in and out, until they were no longer open, and then when they are fresh scars, she will gently apply a salve to them to help them fade. (Intimately warm. Too close, too close, as she stands in front of their sitting form, her slender fingers dipping into the jar, and smoothing across their chitin.) She never speaks when she does this.

The touch is light. Precise. Clinical. But it burns. Every time her fingers glide over their scarred chitin, spreading the cooling salve in slow circles, their breath catches in a way it should not. She stands so close, close enough to feel the warmth of her body, the faint scent of dried herbs and spices on her skin. They do not move. Do not speak. Do not breathe, sometimes: afraid that even a tremor will betray them.

 This ritual is agony and a gift intertwined.

She treats them like something worth mending. Their claws stay clenched at their sides, keeping their frame stiff as if to hide how deeply they feel. The Vessel does not deserve this tenderness. Does not deserve her hands on their broken shell. Yet when she pulls away, cold rushes in where warmth had been, leaving only silence, and longing and emotions that should have no names.

The new routine includes a new way to communicate.

A flat board with simple phrases carved onto it. As promised, Cornifer stained it and painted a topcoat to keep it safe. It was light and fragile in Hollow's hands, so they learned to be careful when using it. And as simple as it was, it opened up a whole new way to communicate.

[ YES. NO. STOP. GO. WANT. EAT. DRINK. HELP. DON'T KNOW. CORNIFER. ISELDA. HOLLOW. ]

Just a couple of phrases, but it made conversations easier. Faster than trying to write out sentences. (Which, if Hollow has a more complicated thing that needs to be verbalized, they will write it.) And the words could be used for more than the basics, combined in ways that could be learned. Pairing [ CORNIFER GO. YES. ] was a reply to Cornifer asking if he should head out for the day to map. Pairing [ HELP ISELDA EAT. ] meant that Hollow would be offering to aid her in cooking.

Somedays, they just hold the board close, fingers tracing the carved words. It is simple. Fragile. (Just like them.) But it works. For the first time, they are not just a silent shadow in the corner. They can say yes. Can ask for help. Can reach out— just a little— without suffering quietly.

They learn to arrange the words carefully, watching Cornifer’s face light up when they respond correctly. “You want to come mapping with me?” he’ll ask with a grin. And they’ll nod, fingers sliding along the board. [ HOLLOW GO CORNIFER YES. ] And he laughs every time.

With Iselda... it is quieter. She does not need many words to understand them, Hollow has found out. When she reaches for the salve and holds out her hand, they don’t need to speak. But they do, for the practice of it: just placing two claws on [ HELP ISELDA. ] and then pointing at their own scars. She nods once. No smile. No sound. But her fingers are gentler that day as she guides them on how to apply it to themselves. 

The first time Hollow fully leaves the shop with Cornifer, they are... overwhelmed. Dirtmouth was a quiet town, and even then, there were countless sights and smells and feelings they have never experienced. The small amount of bugs still around stare at them in horror, whispering behind the pairs' back. But Cornifer holds no worry nor fear. Just chatters excitedly about this and that as the pair head to Greenpath to collect some herbs for Iselda.

"And then, then, I found the most curious flower in this place called Fairglade!" Cornifer was chattering about some far off land as they sat for lunch, sharing dried rations that Iselda had carefully packed for them. "It smelt so sweet, but when I leaned in to get a bigger whiff— oh, it exploded in my face! I had pollen in my snout for weeks!" And he laughs. "Oh, Hollow, it was awful, I sneezed the whole time. Iselda put me out in the yard because of it, she couldn’t sleep a wink!"

Hollow sits across from him, their eyes fixed on his face as he speaks. Cornifer always seems so enthusiastic, so energetic. Even when he was talking for long periods of time; which they have learned is a thing that many bugs might find exhausting or tedious. But for him, he chatters like he does not need to breathe, eyes sparkling, body animated. Their gaze drifts over him; and at his words, if they could laugh, they have to hide a giggle.

No voice to cry suffering.

Hollow could not laugh or cry or make any noise. They could only communicate through paper, and their lovingly crafted board. But Cornifer never let that bother him; he would fill in Hollow's mute silence with his own voice. And Hollow has grown to like that a lot about him.

"—I believe exploding flowers are not for me, I say." Cornifer snorts, as he takes a large bite of his dried jerky, chewing thoughtfully. "I suppose... you as a knight, have seen a great deal of explodey things, huh?"

They nod. (They have seen a lot. Far too much.) As a Vessel, they never were supposed to react to anything. But somehow, when they were with Cornifer, they found themselves reacting. Their eyes would widen, their mouth quirks with a silent laugh, and they would duck their head away in embarrassment. Reacting, like they were something meant to feel. Silently, they pick up a twig, and write into the dirt. ‘Yes. Explodey things indeed.’

"Ah, well, let's not explode today, friend. Iselda will have my head if we don't come home safe!" Cornifer scrunches his face up, adjusting his spectacles. "Why, she would scold me for getting our new friend all injured again, and then what would we do then, hm? Both of us half-blown up? Why, she would make us share the bed! I hope you don't mind that I snore a bit!" And he laughs again.

Hollow stares at him. Mind reeling over the joke, over the image: sharing a bed with Cornifer. In a bed made for two, small and narrow— meant only for a husband and wife. And yet there it was; a sort-of fantasy, where Hollow was curled in the marital nest. Their claws twitch around the twig, and they begin to write; ‘I want…’ Then, they pause, scratching the phrase out and beginning again, slower. ‘I would not mind.’ They do not look at him as they say it. (Do not let him see how much they mean it.)

"Oh, friend, I'm glad you would not mind!" Cornifer smiles brightly. "I suppose we would have to squeeze in close, eh? You are impressively large, and I am impressively round!" To demonstrate, he sets a hand on his belly. "Well, Iselda is to blame. I was frail before we married. I kept forgetting to eat, and she came into my life and cooked me three meals a day. I've gotten a lot of meat on these bones since, hm? We'll have to really squeeze in to fit on my tiny bed. You know, Iselda and I barely fit there!"

Listening, Hollow’s clawed fingers tense further around the twig. Such a terribly wrong image floods their mind— warmth, closeness, the three of them crammed together in that little bed. (Impossible. But... they cannot stop imagining it.) Slowly, they move the twig with a tremble: ‘Yes. We all will fit, and sleep.’ They glance up at him— just for a second— with eyes full of quiet meaning. (Big enough to shield. Strong enough to hold. And if there were room… they would stay forever.)

"Oh friend, we'd have to get a bed twice as big for the three of us! I'd feel terrible if we got injured, and my poor dear slept on the floor alone. She wouldn't even dare to try and fit in if we were hurt though; she's old-fashioned, thinks a good healing involves sleeping on a proper bed." Cornifer shakes his head, smiling. "I love her for that. We've nursed plenty of bugs to full health over the years."

Ah. So Hollow was... not the first then. They look down for a moment. Of course not. They should not have expected that they were the first broken thing he saved. Of course he had helped others before. And the thought that they were not special flickers inside their mind.

(It hurt.)

"Now friend, come, eat. We must be strong for the walk home. Iselda wouldn't want us to be exhausted, hauling her load of spices." Cornifer smacks the bag besides him— full of jars of harvested herbs and plants and flowers. "She promised a good meal tonight." (Indeed she had. As they left that morning, she had called out in her normal, flat tone, "Now be good boys, and I'll make something reaaaal good tonight.") And so Hollow nods slowly, reaching for the dried rations.

But their thoughts are far from food. Thinking on his words: not the first. Just another injured soul Cornifer drags home. Iselda will cook. The table will be warm. And they— Hollow, the failed Vessel— will sit between them like a forgotten shadow. (Yet even shadows long to be seen.) They take a bite, swallow it down silently. And then they write back in the dirt, ‘I will eat.’ Not for the nourishment the food provides, but instead, for them.

"And eat we shall." Cornifer reaches out, and gently places a hand on their knee. There it is again; a soft, warm touch that feels like the blessing of the sun. That bright, warm smile, on his round, plump face. "You'll never go hungry again, Iselda will make sure of it."

They ache. The touch leaves them burning. They want to lean into him, to reach out and hold him tight. (But they are a Vessel, and they were not allowed to hunger, or crave.) So, they nod in agreement. ‘Yes.’ They think, with shaking hands, a knot forming in their throat. ‘Never will hunger. Never again.’

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Hollow and Cornifer travel from Greenpath back to the crossroads, where Cornifer has Hollow help him corral a small creature for fresh meat. The thing shrieks and attempts to attack them, but with a quick jab, Cornifer hits it clean between the eyes with a short nail, and spears the body on the tip, carrying it home, up the well.

They walk in silence at first, listening to the way Cornifer hums gently as they go. Yet for once, they cannot bring themselves to try and catch his attention, or even truly listen. Instead they brood; over words, the gentle hand on their knee, the warmth that filled the space between them. They brood over the knowledge that they had hoped so desperately, that in that tiny moment, Cornifer cared. That he meant his promise.

Cornifer carries the fresh meat high and proud when they arrive back in Dirtmouth, and they walk beside him, fingers twitching. Iselda is at their shop, waiting. Her face brightens faintly when she sees Cornifer, her expression turning to one of fondness when he kisses her cheek. "Oh? Is that the promised fresh meat?" she murmurs, taking the creature from him and inspecting it.

"Promised and delivered, dear." Cornifer beams at her, and she smiles; soft and barely there. (Not one for dramatic facial expressions, it seems.) She takes the hunted meat and lays it on the counter, working on splitting it open and removing the good cuts from the organs.

"Hollow, be a good dear and bring me some fresh water from the pump outside," Iselda requests, gesturing to the heavy clay jug by the door. And they nod silently, doing as they are told and taking the empty jar outside. The air is cool, the sky a dark grey. The quiet breeze ruffles their ragged cloak and the air smells faintly of rain. They fill the jar with water after a moment of trying to figure out the pump, and then carry it back over to the small store.

With each step, they watch the pair through the window— Iselda's slim frame moving efficiently around the counter, preparing the meal for the three. They pause at the glass, and they can only stare. Cornifer speaks to her animatedly. They cannot hear what the two are saying, but she laughs; fully laughs, expressing more emotion than Hollow has ever seen. Cornifer laughs too, and then she leans in and catches his lips in a kiss. Warm, heated and brief. He turns red when she pulls back, sheepishly stammering something. And Iselda laughs again.

They stare. They burn.

Iselda— so reserved, so quiet, so distant— laughing and kissing and smiling. With Cornifer. And all they can do is watch. They can't hear what he says, but it doesn't matter. The image of it is burned into their mind: the love in his eyes. The way he looks at her.

(It is everything they want. And yet, they knew that no one would look at them that way.)

Best not to stand and stare too long, they reason. Especially when the pair share another heated kiss. Iselda pulls back and Cornifer looks downright smitten, and then Hollow decides it was best to go inside now, before things between the pair escalate. The bell rings as they enter, and set the jug on the counter.

Iselda turns from her butchering, stating, "Oh, thank you, love. You can go ahead and sit for now. Dinner will be a bit."

Cornifer, all red-faced still, sits up. "Ah, or you can come with me to the basement! I need to get some things, and my usual tall person is busy!"

"I'm right here," Iselda sighs. "I could take a break from making your dinner."

"No no, Hollow can help!" Cornifer insists with a smile.

Hollow nods. Whatever the alternative is— which would most likely be watching the two of them, so clearly in love— they would rather help. So quickly, they follow him downstairs, away from the table where Cornifer and Iselda would no doubt kiss and talk in low, soft voices. Away from the table where they would be the third wheel, the outsider, the shadow on the wall. Down in the basement. At least there, they would be useful, they think as they clutch their board.

Cornifer hums to himself, jolly and happy, as they climb down into the lower room. It was dark, lit only by one lantern by the ladder, and cramped. Crates line the wall, old and forgotten by the previous inhabitants. The weevil moves around, mumbling to himself as he examines the labels, looking for something specific. And then he points; at the top of a precariously balanced pile of crates, a single box; smushed and old.

"There we are! My quills! Hollow, could you get those? And do be careful, that pile is not safe!"

They nod and take a step toward the horribly leaning pile of boxes. It looked… perilous, at best. But if it helped Cornifer— if it made them useful— then they'll do it. For now, they set aside their communication board. Gingerly, carefully, they begin to reach up to the smaller box, attempting to balance on the tip-toes and grab it. They're just a hair's length too short: that won't do.

"Just almost there, friend!" Cornifer slides in behind them, scratching his head. "Maybe I should give you a boost? You think you could climb on my shoulders?"

No. Hollow most certainly could not. They would crush him! They shake their head vehemently, silently refusing. (No. No. Not a chance.) They couldn't bear to hurt him. They knew they were too heavy. They would crush his soft, round form in seconds. Instead, their eyes skim the basement, looking for… something to stand on. Anything.

Not a thing in sight. But then, their gaze roams back to Cornifer. Well, he was round and plump, certainly heavy. But Hollow was strong; built to be powerful and unyielding. Lifting the weevil would prove no issue. But... to wrap their claws around his soft middle and lift him so easily... to be that close… for just a second… They picture it. Imagine it. (Their cold claws around his softness. His warmth against their hands. His heavy body in their arms. He was thick, but easy to hold. Easy to lift. Easy to clutch protectively in their arms. And he would be so close…) They shove the thought away as quickly as they can, face burning. No. No, that would be going too far.

Unfortunately for them; Cornifer seems to gain the same idea. He snaps his fingers, chirping, "Ah, you look strong! Lift me up, and I will grab it! I don't weigh much more than I think you can carry; sure, I'm plump, but it would only be a moment!" He adjusts his spectacles, nodding. "Yes, that will work fine, friend. Give me a boost!"

Hollow feels their breath hitch. A moment of having Cornifer in their arms. Being so close. His warmth, his weight, his softness. The way his body would feel pressed against their chest.

Gods above, they were going to die.

Slowly, they nod. They were strong. Cornifer wasn't that heavy. It would only be a moment. So their arms go around his soft middle and they lift him up, holding their breath. He was indeed warm. And this close to them, they could inhale his scent. He smelt like ink and paper and faintly like fancy soap; something Iselda must have made. And when Hollow holds him, he squishes lightly beneath their arms, pleasantly. A flash of a dangerous thought; sinking claws into soft hips and—

No no, Hollow. Stay focused.

"Lift me up, higher now. I can reach it if I'm higher!" Cornifer insists, arm outstretched to the box. They swallow and bite their lip, doing as he has instructed. Higher they hold him. Higher he reaches. And oh, he's so soft. As they feel his body against their own, they want to just keep lifting him up more and more. (They want to hold him and keep Cornifer close like this forever.) That's not what they're doing here, though. They're just helping. Just lifting him up, not trying to just touch him. Not savoring the closeness. Just lifting him. And they lift, higher and—

Cornifer's weight leans them both one way, another, swaying a bit, and then when he snatches the box, the pile in front of them sways even more, threatening to— It felt like slow motion. The heavy crates starting to tip over, to fall, about to hit Cornifer square in the face—! Their heart jumps to their throat. He was soft and sweet, he was breakable. If that pile hits him, it'll hurt him. He'd be crushed.

They need to save him.

Hollow grips Cornifer tighter in their arms, clutching him closer, and they spring away from the precariously balanced pile. They land with their knees bent, cushioning the impact and keeping him in their arms. Unfortunately, the motion disturbs the other crates around them, and soon an avalanche of boxes descend upon the pair. Cornifer lets out a surprised squeak as tumbling crates land right on Hollow, and they both collapse under the weight of it.

For a moment, there is silence.

And then when Hollow's eyes adjust to the darkness, they see they are— in a precarious position with Cornifer. He was laid flat on his back, protected from the boxes by Hollow's massive frame, but they were on top of him. Their hands planted flat on either side of his body, his legs parted and almost wrapped around their hips, which were flush against his pelvis. His spectacles were askew, and he looked dazed, blinking rapidly.

(Practically pinning him down. Pressed against his warmth. How inappropriate.)

They feel their breath catch. They can feel his round body under them. His heat, his weight, his softness. The way his legs were spread, wrapped around their own body. (No. Oh no. This shouldn't be so exciting.) This was just... accidental. An accident. They didn't mean to pin him down. It just... happened.

Heat creeps up their spine. Unfamiliar. The slow burn of want that had been slowly building inside their frame over the last few days ramps up to a blazing fire now. Their cold chitin hot with— no, that was unspeakable. They should not feel that— His legs around their waist, spread open, even by accident, was definitely doing something to them. Especially as he blinks, looking up with a slightly flustered expression. "Err... sorry friend. I made us fall, it seems." And he laughs; a soft, cute sound. They're so flustered they can barely think.

He's so calm! Acting like this isn't killing them on the inside. Like the way they're practically straddling him isn't making the knot in their throat tighten, isn't making their mouth dry, like the heat building in their body isn't threatening to snap. Legs resting on their hips, his soft body so perfect underneath them. His laugh so innocent: he has no idea the effect he is having. Hollow's body is reacting. Heat continues to flood throughout the void-chitin, and— do they even have the parts for... that? They could form a mouth, surely they could form something like— no, why were they even thinking about the logistics of doing that?

The silence falls around them again.

Cornifer stares at them, and for a long moment, neither says anything. They could... like Iselda did to him earlier, they could lean in and… (No, no no— the Vessel should not want, or crave, or hunger, but…) They're burning up. The urge to lean in, to lean down and touch him everywhere is almost overwhelming. The fire is building in their frame, the tightness in their throat is making it hard to think. And Cornifer is just... looking at them. They haven't moved. They can't move. Because Cornifer is just beneath them, laid out and delicious.

After another long stretch of silence, Cornifer swallows thickly, and says, tone slightly strained, "Erm, friend? Are you... going to get up?" Pinkness tinges his face, and he seems to be a tad bit flustered now at their compromising position. "Should we... call Iselda to help?"

Oh Gods, if Iselda saw them now; Hollow, pinning down her poor defenseless husband— The thought of her walking in the basement and seeing the sight of him under their body, straddling their hips is almost enough to make the flames inside them roar. But it's also a sobering thought. ‘Iselda cannot see.’ The idea of her finding them like so sends ice through their veins, and yet still their face is burning.

(How would Iselda react to the sight of them— so large, so dangerous— holding her husband down on the floor?)

They swallow and shake their head. No. They don't want Iselda to see this, see them like this. It's far too intimate. And they know they should get up, they know they really should. But the heat of his body and the softness of his form under them is making their breath go short. It feels too damn good.

"No Iselda then,” Cornifer confirms. Another beat of silence. Then, "Well, let's erm... get up then. She'll be waiting." His legs around Hollow's hips adjust, parting a little wider, to allow them to get up. Suddenly, they’re flush against him in a way that makes their breath hitch. (The heat. The pressure. The need crawling through their veins like a wildfire.) The thought keeps repeating in their head: this shouldn’t be happening.

They are the Hollow Knight— silent, empty, meant only for being unfeeling, for sealing the Infection. Not... this. Not desire. Not want. But when he shifts beneath them, so close, so warm, they tremble. And slowly, ever so slowly, their head dips down. Just an inch. (Just enough to feel his breath hitch against their mask.) Then claws dig into the dirt floor beside him, muscles coil, and with a shuddering force of will, they roll off. They land hard on their side, then push up fast— too fast— as if burned. After a moment of searching, they retrieve the fallen board that was cast off to the side in the collapse of the boxes.

[ HOLLOW HELP. CORNIFER GO. ]

They tap sharply on the board they clutched in one shaking hand. Dark eyes kept off to the side, to avoid locking gazes with him. (Please don’t look at me. Please don’t see what I almost did.)

Cornifer lays there a moment longer. His legs planted on the ground, still flat, laying back, breathing a little quicker. Flushed. Then he swallows and sits up, adjusting his askew spectacles, trying to appear more normal. "Right, uh... I'll clean this later. Let's go back to Iselda, so she doesn't worry too much?" There is something unspoken. Like... what happened must remain unsaid.

Hollow nods quickly. Almost too quickly. Their breath is still catching, sharp and shuddering. They're trembling. Their mind is still replaying it— his legs spread under them, the softness of his hips under their own, the heat of him against their body. They try to push the image away. Ignore that it ever happened. (But it will return. Again. And again. In dark and quiet moments, when that terrible loneliness creeps back… they will think of it. Of how he looked under them.)

The pair— changed for the better or worse— climb up the ladder to return to Iselda. She notices of course. She noticed immediately that something was off. Her eyes narrow, she watches them both quietly, but does not say anything.

Dinner is served. It was a warm cut of steak with bread, and of course, it tastes just as delicious as every night. But the air is charged with... something. The dinner passes in silence; an awkward one. Even Cornifer— normally so talkative— is quieter than usual.

The memory of the basement keeps flashing in Hollow’s mind. They cannot stop seeing it— hearing it. The image claws its way to the forefront, no matter how hard they try. The heat, the softness, the warmth. Every time they look at him, they feel it all over. They cannot help but wonder what he is thinking about. What he thought of, being pinned beneath them, in that dark and quiet basement.

When the bedrolls come out after dinner, Hollow thinks maybe it was time to give them back their bed. So they tap the board. [ ISELDA CORNIFER GO. ] And gesture to the bed.

Iselda gives them a puzzled look. "Are you sure you do not wish to keep the bed? Corny and I are fine on the floor."

They nod firmly. Tapping more insistently this time, [ HOLLOW STOP. ISELDA CORNIFER GO. ] They point again at the bed, then to themselves, then the floor. ‘Let them have it,’ they think quietly. ‘Let them be close in warmth and comfort where they belong.’

(The Vessel needs no softness. What they need is distance. From him. From what almost happened in the dark.)

Iselda does not argue. Simply shrugs, and sighs, "Alright, if you insist." And then she continues laying out the bedroll. She brings them an extra blanket and pillow as well. "If it is too uncomfortable, we can switch back," she states softly, smoothing the blanket down on the floor mat. "There is no shame in wanting."

(But a Vessel was not supposed to.)

Hollow shakes their head. They were not made to want, and they were not made to need. They are a living weapon, meant only for battle and for the containment of the Infection. Even with it vanished, their purpose was absolute. Even if they long for softness, even if a part of them still wants to crawl into that bed— to spread out and soak in all the warmth Cornifer emanates— they knew it was not meant to be.

They won't. They can't.

When they lay on the bedroll on the ground, and silence falls, filled with Cornifer's snores, they cannot help but notice how cold it was on the stone, even with the thin mattress. But the blankets smell like him and her, they note. He smelt like soaps and ink and parchment, while she smelt like spices and sugar and paint. They both laid in these bedrolls, like they once laid in the bed. But while the bed only contained faint traces, the blankets around them now held heavy, fresh scents.

Addicting.

Their claws dig into the fabric of the blankets. They could not stop inhaling all of it. Her gentle, warm scent— the herbs of the kitchen, the sweetness of candy. And his comforting, soft scent— the freshness of map-making, the dizzying ink. The faint smell of sweat and something almost spicy. The blankets are soft. They are warm. And the heat building in them is just too much. Their void-chitin is hot, and it takes an unbearable amount of tossing and turning to finally fall asleep.

For a moment, they simply lie there. They cannot remember the last time they got to sleep properly, nor when they last felt so rested. They can hear the weevil-man, Cornifer, snoring beneath them, and that strange sense of jealousy returns, stronger than ever.

When they dare look over the edge of the loft, Iselda is already up. She is silent, as she rolls up her bedroll, wearing nothing more than a loose sleepshirt. For some reason, although all bugs had modest shells, it felt inappropriate to look at her in the state of undress. They pull back from the edge, their black eyes wide. (She is an attractive female, even to beings as emotionless as a Vessel, and the sight was an accidental treat.) They pull the covers closer around them, feeling their face burn hot with embarrassment.

They should not be thinking these things. She is married, for one thing. And for another, they are a failure of a Vessel, a hollow monster.

Shifting sounds, rustling cloth. Iselda cleans up from last night, and then she changes into her dark dress once more, smoothing the front down before she begins breakfast. It is simpler this time. Six cracked eggs in a pan, that sizzle and fill the room with scent as she seasons them. Then the rest of the loaf is cut into six thin slices, that she toasts in the pan when the eggs are plated. And for a drink, she leaves with an empty pitcher for a moment, stepping over Cornifer's snoring form. Then returns— shop bell ringing— with the pitcher filled with crystal clear water, that she pours into three glasses.

Their mouth waters again at the scent of food cooking on the stove. Their stomach is not hungry, not yet, but the smell makes them crave eating anyway. They watch as Iselda works, moving silently and efficiently around the shop. The dress she wears does an excellent job of highlighting her curves, but they are not staring because of how her body looks… not at all. They are simply admiring her efficiency.

Attraction was a foreign thing to the Vessel. (No mind to think, no will to break, no voice to cry suffering; it all meant no emotion to feel, which included attraction.) While there was a rare bug or two who had shown obvious signs of flirting to the knight back in the White Palace, they were simply not interested in anything of the sort because they were not to have interest in anything.

So why now, watching Iselda do the simple act of spreading butter on toast, are they interested so intensely now?

They know they should not be looking at her in this way. She is married. The weevil-man is right there, sleeping: so trusting. And yet, they cannot stop. They are watching, staring at the curves of her body beneath the skirt of her dress, watching the easy movement of her hands, watching the way her antennae sway with every movement of her head. They want to touch her, to feel her body, to...

"Did anyone tell you it was rude to stare?"

Her voice addressed to them makes them flinch in the bed. Gods above, it was scary how easily she could tell they were awake and looking. She doesn't even glance at them, plating the toast besides the eggs. "If you are awake, then come eat. My husband will only wake if I tell him to, so I was letting the pair of you sleep in while I finished making breakfast. Come now, eat, and no more staring."

They feel their face burn again. It was embarrassing to be caught so easily. She noticed. She noticed their staring, the way they looked at her. (Did she notice the way they wanted to touch her?) Nevertheless, they obey. They slowly climb down out of the loft, their feet making no sound on the floorboards. They are silent as they sit at the counter, avoiding the woman's eyes from the sheer amount of shame that coils inside them.

Iselda does not scold them further. Rather, she moves to Cornifer's side, gently shaking him awake. He snorts, mumbling in surprise, and she hands his spectacles to him. Once he puts them on, he seems to wake up further.

"Oh! Good morning Iselda dear, and our new friend!" Cornifer hops to his feet, taking his place at the counter, as his wife cleans up his bedroll and blankets. "Suppose we should figure out your name?" He comments as he places one egg on his toast, then takes a bite. The delicious yolk drips down his round and plump chin.

They watch as Cornifer eats, and do not know how to respond to the question about their name. They know what they have been called: The Hollow Knight. But they cannot speak it. And so, they simply stare down at their plate of food, silently wishing for something— anything— that would let them communicate.

Iselda returns from folding the bedroll and takes her seat across from them, already breaking her toast with calm precision. “They’re not going to answer you that way," she says flatly. “They appear to be mute.”

"Right, my apologies!" Cornifer beams sheepishly between bites. "Well, I suppose we could try other ways! Do you know how to write? We’ve extra ink and quill downstairs in the basement! I can fetch it!" And before they can react, he's already hopping towards a trapdoor in the floor.

The Vessel looks to Iselda: unsure, afraid, still burning with shame from being caught staring. ‘...I am sorry…’ Not spoken aloud, but felt instead as a quiet pulse in their chest. And if she reads their apology, Iselda does not say anything to them. Rather she continues to quietly break her toast and put small cuts of the egg on top. Rather than bite into the yolk, she bursts it on the plate with her fork, and uses the bread to swipe it up, eating in a more clean way. When she gets some yolk on her fingers, she licks the appendage clean. Elegant and poised.

Their eyes catch the motion— small, unconscious, yet devastating. The way her tongue flicks out. The quiet sound of it. Their breath hitches, but not from injury; rather, from something far more dangerous. They look away immediately, gripping their fork too tightly. The metal bends slightly under clawed fingers. The Vessel stares at their untouched food, suddenly feeling nauseous down to their core. They are painfully aware of what they are: a hollow thing, built to contain an infection, and nothing more.

‘Wrong… unworthy… sinful…’

"You should eat before it gets cold." Her voice comes off as disinterested, bored. But there is a level of authority in it nonetheless. She takes another bite. Chewing quietly, before continuing. "Cold eggs are unpleasant. Please don't waste food."

They stiffen at her words, realizing something with a start— it was not a suggestion, it was an order. Staring at their food for too long, so Iselda had ordered them to eat. They are almost too stunned to respond, almost too stunned to listen. But their stomach grumbles, and their training kicks in. (Well-trained little Vessel they were.) They lift the knife and fork and begin to eat, mechanically cutting and taking slow bites of food. All the while, their eyes keep moving from their plate to Iselda.

The food is pleasant and warm. Simpler than the stew, but tasted delicious all the same. Eating it like Iselda did was indeed cleaner. It kept the yolk contained and from running along their chitin. But curiosity makes them slide the second whole egg onto the other slice of toast, and they eat that one like Cornifer did. The yolk was runny, messy, dripping down their jaw, but soaks into the bread in a delicious burst of salty flavor. When too much of it spills down their face, Iselda hands them a folded, clean rag before she returns to her own meal.

They continue to eat, their eyes still stealing glances of Iselda all the while. Watching her eat with such grace stirs something in them that they should not be feeling. (Envy. That is what it is.) They want what this woman has. They should not, but they do. She is beautiful, strong, kind, caring… and married, to a man they are actually growing quite fond of.

Speaking of…

Cornifer's round head pops out from the trap door, and he climbs up with a bottle of ink, some quills, and fresh paper. He lays them on the table besides Hollow's plate, uncorking the ink and setting a quill inside. Then flattening out a roll of blank paper. "Here we are, friend! A way to communicate!" And he beams brightly at the Vessel with a joyous smile, eyes sparkling behind his spectacles.

So kind to this stranger in his home.

They look at the quill and ink with a sense of awe. This is their chance to communicate— to finally let someone know who they are, what they are now feeling. Carefully, they lift the quill in one clawed hand, dipping it into the ink. Their movements are slow and deliberate, each stroke precise as they write across the paper:

I am... The Hollow Knight.

Well, they try. Their penmanship is shaky from disuse. And the quill feels entirely too small in their large claws. It looked like a child wrote it. And when Iselda and Cornifer lean in to look, taking the time to decipher their words, it feels all the more embarrassing. (They couldn't even write properly; they really were a failure.)

Cornifer clasps his hands together. "Wow! What a title! I don't suppose we could shorten that friend? Is Hollow a good alternative? Or, hmm, is that sounding alright?" He gives them a sheepish smile, adjusting the spectacles on his round face.

They pause at his words, looking at their misshapen writing with a sense of utter embarrassment. It looks horrible— shaky, crooked, and small. But the man does not care. He simply finds a nickname that will work for them, trying to make them feel at ease with his kindness, and it works. They slowly nod, hoping they convey their thought: ‘Hollow is fine.’

"Right, Hollow. Well. It is a joy to be able to help care for you, a real joy! And I will make sure we keep a steady supply of paper for as long as you need to stay here, should you wish to communicate!" And Cornifer beams at them like the sun itself.

Iselda sighs, setting her fork and knife down on her plate, and folding her hands across one another, resting her chin on them. "I suppose we could make a wooden board with common phrases. Yes. No. Help. Come here. Buzz off."

"Iselda dear, that is genius! I could fetch some dry wood from the pile!" Cornifer claps his hands together again, his smile even brighter.

The Vessel looks to Iselda in awe. They had not considered a board of phrases, even as a temporary measure. The words she comes up with make them want to laugh (do they know how to laugh?), but they do not let it show. Instead, they silently dip the quill in the ink again, and write something else— a question that had been burning on their mind since last night.

 Why are you helping me?

The couple lean in once more, to examine the question. And it is Cornifer who answers first; his voice soft but sure. "It is the right thing to do. We must help our fellow bug; to not do so would speak poorly of our character."

Iselda sits up a bit straighter, watching Hollow. "....I was not going to just leave you there. You already looked like you went through hell."

Their face almost flinched at her words. She is right, of course… they had most likely looked like a mess. A mangled corpse laying in the dirt, and she still chose to help them. No matter how they looked— how broken, how hollow— she still saved them, without hesitation. The thought fills them with a strange fluttering feeling in their chest… but they push it away. It is not a feeling they deserve to feel.

Cornifer reaches out, and his much smaller hand rests on their arm. Warm. Comforting. Such a round, silly shaped bug he was: far far weaker than Hollow, and yet he touched them like they were the one who was soft and fragile. "Whatever you went through, you are safe now. You can stay as long as you need. We are more than happy to help you, friend."

They stare quietly at his hand for a moment. They were this large, frightening monster, and yet he had shown them nothing but warmth and hospitality. They did not understand it. They did not deserve it. And they did not deserve the feelings it was stirring inside them, either. They were a Vessel, a hollow thing with no mind to think. And yet, they tentatively rest their own hand over his, their touch extremely gentle.

They were not worthy of this kindness. And yet...they wanted it. Craving. Desperate. Touch-starved.

Cornifer was very different from Iselda. While she was tall and slender and had the air of danger that most warriors carried, he was short and plump and seemed to have a light inside him that not many had anymore. (Jealousy. Want. Hollow was not only envious of Cornifer for his beautiful wife, but envious of Iselda for her joyous husband.)

A thousand years they had been alone, trapped in this endless dream with no end in sight. They had not seen anyone, not touched any other being; forced to watch the world forget them… and now, two kindhearted bugs showed them this strange kind of affection. The kind of affection a Vessel was not supposed to feel. (They should not be feeling this. They should not be feeling anything at all, but... they loved this feeling. The warmth, the touch, the sense of being cared for...)

Cornifer finally pulls his hand back. It takes all the fractured pride in Hollow to not desperately reach for it. "Well, breakfast was a fine treat as always, love. I'll go get some wood, and Hollow: you and I will come up with words to put on the board. I will stain and coat it too, so it will be nice and strong."

"How generous to use my stain and my coats," Iselda sighs, a hint of annoyance in her tone. But Cornifer does not notice as he hops to his feet and exits the building to go search the wood pile. So Iselda, with another sigh, stands up and begins to collect the empty dishes.

Hollow watches him go, silently feeling a sense of disappointment as Cornifer leaves. He had been so warm and kind, and the moment was over too fast. They look back to Iselda, who works quickly in cleaning up. There is still a nagging feeling in their chest, that same fluttering. (No— they should not be feeling these things. But they want to reach out again, to feel Cornifer's gentle hand in their own…)

They wish they could speak.

Iselda falls into her comfortable silence once more. It seems she was setting up the shop for the day. She takes the dishes and brings them to a soapy tray, soaking them before she wipes the counter off. Then she turns on the Lumafly lantern hanging from the ceiling, to bring more light into the shop. Outside it was dim, even as she uncovers the windows. 

Hollow watches her work again, the movement of her hands just as graceful and elegant as earlier. ‘She is beautiful,’ they think. ‘So very beautiful, mesmerizing.’ They should not be thinking this at all, but their mind keeps wandering back to it. That fluttering feeling. So they look away, trying to force it back, but it stubbornly persists.

(They want… something. But what?)

Cornifer returns to distract them soon enough. He lays a slab of dry wood on the counter, and chatters endlessly, occasionally prompting Hollow to write phrases down on paper so he can carve it on the board. He talks about maps, and his travels, and his family: four sisters and three brothers! And then talks about the cities he has seen, the journey here. Meanwhile, Iselda is quiet; leaning on the counter beside them, and painting intricate map markers.

Every word that Cornifer says draws their attention, his endless chattering endearing. It distracts them from the fact that Iselda is sitting so close to them, so close that they could reach out and touch her. It distracts them from that annoying fluttering in their chest, that strange feeling of wanting... Every word he speaks is interesting. His journey, his family, the places he explored, all sound fascinating… but there is one thing that piques their interest even more. They hesitantly reach a hand out, trying and succeeding to get Cornifer's attention by tapping one clawed finger on his shoulder. 

He looks at them with curious eyes, tilting his head in questioning. "Yes, friend?" They hesitate for a moment, the strange feeling of nervousness coursing through their hollow core. They should not be feeling anything, but here they are. They lift a hand to write something down, the quill trembling slightly in their grip.

Cornifer, may I ask you a question?

"Oh yes, of course, friend!" Cornifer beams brightly at them, and sets the carving tools down to give them his full attention. Iselda glances over too, her dark eyes watching the pair curiously. They pause, the fluttering in their chest suddenly feeling stronger under the gaze of the both of them. They focus their eyes on Cornifer, trying to get that feeling under control. (It is not helpful that, now that they have been watching the two since their arrival, they realize just how perfect of a couple they make.) They take a deep, shaky breath, and quietly write down the question.

How long have you and Iselda been together?

"Oh, curious about us now, are you?" And Cornifer laughs, hearty and joyous. He turns to admire his tall, beautiful wife with a bit of a dopey smile. "Why, we met a long time ago. So many years, it seems."

"Ten years, Corny." Iselda tells him, not looking up as her attention returns to the marker in her hands.

"Yes, ten years!" Cornifer laughs. "Why, I think I met her in some big city miles away from here; I was a young traveler, and she was, well, she was the most fearsome fighter, in a champion's arena! Nothing like the little playroom they have out in the Kingdom's Edge!"

Hollow feels a pang in their chest. Ten years of loving each other, spending time together. They wish that they could experience that with someone. But they are a broken thing, a failed Vessel. And there isn't a single being in this world that would love a being as shattered and empty as they were. So, they quietly listen to Cornifer's words, trying to fight back the feelings swirling in their chest.

The weevil-man continues. "I was there to map, as I always did. And why, I ended up scoring a ticket to the arena in a bet; it was funny, I didn't even like to bet, but someone told me to try it, so I did, and I won, and then I went to the arena and—" His expression shifts to a dreamy one, like he was there again. "Why, she was the most beautiful thing to watch. Covered in the blood of beasts and enemies alike. She was like a reaper of death, armed with a scythe; and she was all I could watch the entire time."

Iselda's face darkens with a blush, but she makes no other sign of being affected by the retelling.

"And let me tell you," Cornifer sighs, smiling brighter. "I spent a good chunk of geo to come back and watch the rest of the tournament that week. Just to keep seeing her. I filled up dozens of papers with sketches of her just slaughtering like a madwoman. A fearsome fighter, like none I've ever seen."

They listen, utterly still, as Cornifer speaks with such warmth— such love in his voice. They watch Iselda hide her face behind her work. A reaper of death. Beautiful. And he adored her. Hollow looks down at their own claws; blackened chitin that was stained with blood no one remembers. (They were made to fight, but not for glory nor love. Just to contain, to be a Vessel.) The ache returns, but they try to ignore it, as they write their next question slowly.

And did she know? That you watched? That you cared?

"I did," Iselda eventually interjects. Her even tone is smooth as she sets aside the marker to dry. "How could I not? He was the tiniest thing there; you were smaller back then, Corny."

"Indeed; I had hardly an appetite before meeting you and your cooking!" Cornifer laughs.

Iselda tilts her head, letting out a soft sigh. "Yes, I knew. I saw him, in the stands, with loads of paper around him. When I wasn't fighting, I wondered what he was doing. It annoyed me at first; I thought he was some critic meant to write papers about us."

They think of the picture it paints, of that small bug sitting there, sketching this warrior in the arena. Watching her in awe, so enrapt in her movements that he can barely do anything more than sketch her form. That familiar feeling of jealousy returns. (They are jealous of Cornifer. Jealous that he has the heart, the mind, the capacity to love this woman. And they are jealous of the fact that she loves him.) They try to push it away, as they write the next question.

So what did you do?

"I nearly killed him." She states plainly. Cornifer lets out a nervous laugh. He seems quite taken off guard by that abrupt answer. And that makes Hollow blink in surprise, not having anticipated this at all. They tilt their head, as if to ask, ‘Nearly...?’

"I approached him after a fight, put my weapon to his throat, and demanded he show me the papers." Iselda shrugs, resting her chin on her hand. "I figured if I was displeased, I would cut him to ribbons.”

"Thankfully—" Cornifer nervously adjusts his spectacles. "She was, erm, pleased."

"I liked the drawings," she replies coolly. "He made me look pretty."

"You are pretty—" He tries to say.

"And he made me look scary too. Scary, beautiful, all in one picture." Iselda hums. "I spared him. And he asked me in this tiny little voice if I wanted to get a drink. The audacity; he, a traveler, to ask a fighter like me was unheard of."

They listen, feeling a sense of unease mixed with amusement. The idea of such a strong, dangerous bug being interested in simple little sketches... It seemed almost absurd. And… that nervous voice Cornifer had, even now. He had probably been terrified, asking this fearsome creature to get a drink, and yet… They write again, quicker this time.

And you accepted?

"Of course. I nearly killed him; I felt bad. So we drank, and we drank, and he nearly drank me under the table." Iselda tilts her head. "And then I took him back to my bunk, and I ravaged him."

"D-darling—!" Cornifer now turns bright red, stuttering. "Perhaps those details are— best left unsaid?"

"They asked for the story, I do not intend to lie." She replies calmly.

Their quill slips from their grip, clattering onto the table as they freeze. Ravaged him. They stare at Cornifer— small, soft, round— and then to Iselda— tall, sharp, powerful— and suddenly the image floods their mind. (Her hands on him, his breathless voice, the heat of it all.) Their chest tightens with the intense longing. Raw. Desperate. Hungry.

A Vessel is not meant to want. Not meant to burn with the need for touch, for warmth, for love they were never made to have. Slowly, they push back from the table— claws gripping the edge, silent. No words are written on the page anymore.

Cornifer does not notice their plight— too embarrassed and stuttering and trying to find his own words. However, Iselda does. She glances at them, then quickly continues, "Afterwards, the next fight I had, I noticed that he wasn't there, I realized he was taking over my mind, and I nearly lost, because I kept looking for him."

"I had run out of expendable geo—" Cornifer explains, taking his spectacles off to clean them. "And, well, finished my mapping duties of the city. It was off to the next one."

"I was furious." Iselda continued, in a voice that held no fury. "I had men and women and bugs of all genders come and go in my life, for just a night. And yet he was the one who stained my thoughts. I was angry. I abandoned my final victory to hunt him down."

They listen, their black eyes fixed on Iselda. The mighty warrior, chasing after a small, round bug who had captured her thoughts without meaning to. They feel it— not just envy, not just cravings of warmth— a crack deep in their hollow chest. (This should not be affecting them so intensely; they are a Vessel. Empty. Meant only for sacrifice and containment.) They knew that a love like this: messy, passionate, and alive was for beings with hearts. They had no heart, inside their empty body. And yet… the quill is lifted into trembling claws once more, and they write.

"Did you ever think that he was too different from you?

"Of course. He’s all soft and frail, and I nearly broke him that first night, and the night I found him after." Iselda hums, as Cornifer splutters again. She continues, "But I liked that. Softness. I wanted him. I told him I was coming with him, whether he liked it or not. And he liked it, because he liked me. And off we went."

"Why, only a few months later, I asked her to be my bride, by a beautiful river. I made her a token from crystals I collected from the caves I explored." The flustered, shy energy melts away, and Cornifer smiles again, filled with love for his wife.

Iselda pulls a thin, nearly invisible chain from its place tucked in her dress. Hanging off the end was a glimmering jewel of blue. "And I agreed. I laid down my weapon, and settled down as his bride. Of course, if we came into any trouble along the journeys, I made sure to protect my husband."

"But I do pretty well for myself!" He insists. "She taught me a thing or two about evading!"

They listen, the crack in their chest splitting further, the ache spreading through their body. The way they described the proposal, the gift, her protecting him… It is beautiful, and it makes them feel sick. (They were a Vessel. They do not— can not— have these things. They were never meant to long, to want.) And yet, the aching in their chest tells them they are failing. They scratch down their next question almost hesitantly.

And the marriage? It is happy?

Perhaps a prying question, judging by the way Iselda's brow raises a tad. But Cornifer is open, as he gushes, "Never happier! I love traveling alongside her, and she is so smart and brave..."

"I do worry when he goes off," Iselda admits. "But I am happy to be his other. We have our system; it works. I enjoy life being quieter."

They watch them both exchange loving glances, and it rouses all these strange feelings inside them. (It burns like jealousy, and yet... it is different?) Cornifer is all praise, all love for this strong, beautiful woman who had chased and caught him. And she loves him back, in her own quiet way. They try to force the crack in their chest to close, but the feeling of wanting just gets stronger and stronger.

No mind to think. No will to break. No voice to cry suffering.

They can ignore the pain for now.

Is that all it had been? All they were meant to be? Hollow. Empty. Void of all but void itself. The ‘successful’ child of thousands of progeny that had been tossed into the Abyss to rot. It had seen the bodies, and had climbed over the broken shells. It was told that it was chosen for this purpose.

Purpose. The one it failed. The one it no longer had.

An empty Vessel with no purpose was not meant to continue, was it?

As The Hollow Knight stumbles from the temple, it feels nausea coiling inside it. But no mouth to cry, nothing to expel. And standing in front of it, with a needle ready? Its half sibling, cloaked in red. The gendered child? What was she doing here? Did she wish to eliminate the Vessel, for failing the one job it was made for?

No, no. It could not stay here. For something so hollow, panic and blinding fear fills it. No, it had to escape from this place. (No more chains to hold. No purpose.) Emotions that had been suppressed for so long came back to life. Anxiety, horror, and the desire to hide all rushed through its being. It could not even look at its half-sibling anymore: the terror swirling inside like a rushing wave. It stumbled backwards, trying to get away from the chains that were no longer holding it captive. Once empty eyes now filled with desperation: no, no, no it couldn't stay here. It needed to escape, and fast.

The gendered child stares at it with an unreadable expression: yet all it could see was its father. The image it needed to uphold, the purpose it was meant for. All of it; a failure. Would she strike them down, as The Ghost tried to? (No mouth to explain. No voice to plead. No way to communicate.) The nausea and dizziness increase, and its body feels weak. Frail. Panic overtaking rationale. Trying to keep its balance, but almost collapsing completely; trapped in its own panicked thoughts. The urgency to escape was almost palpable— its instinct for self-preservation kicking into high gear.

It had to leave. It had to run.

With no other option, the Hollow Knight turned and took off; its long legs carrying it out of the ruined chamber. She calls out to it, but it is distant: something its brain cannot decipher. All it can do is run: stumbling, trembling. When it falls, it claws through the dirt until it rises. When some stray beast slashes at it, it takes the attack and continues, ignoring how the pain blooms along its chitinous shell. (Why did it feel pain? Why did it feel nausea, anxiety, panic? It was meant to be empty. To be hollow.)

Failure. Failure. Father would be disappointed.

It crawls forward, its once pristine carapace now cracked and stained with void-like blood. Each breath is a shudder of unfamiliar sensation— pain, yes, but beneath it… something else. A quiet hum where silence was the only thing within its chest. It drags itself over broken stones, the weight of the world pressing against its back like a burden carved into its shell. All meaning slips through its mind as formless as smoke. A tremor runs through it; not from injury, but from grief it cannot name. The infection is gone— and so is their reason to be.

Not hollow.

The thought flickers, without restraint. Weak. Dangerous. Why does the world hurt?

Father. Mother. Purpose. Failure.

Eventually, the agony growls unbearable, and their body fails them. Collapsing into the dust of a forgotten path, they could not move. Emotions foreign to them continue to swirl, suffocate. Visions of the life and world that passed by them during their imprisonment were now tainted with feeling. (How Father would scorn them now. A failure. All they ever wanted to do when they were not supposed to want was earn his love.) And as they lay fading in the dirt road of an abandoned mineshaft, they think of how many siblings died to lead to this.

How many people have they disappointed?

The landscape starts to change, twisting and warping as if caught in the vortex of their troubled mind. Memories and emotions blend together, creating a chaotic onslaught of sensations that crash against their body. The air tastes of infection, cloying and sweet and eternal and soon enough, exhaustion overtakes them, and they black out.

A fitful, dreamless sleep.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

And then, they awaken. They were not on the dirt road anymore, but a bed entirely too small for them. It was tucked up and away from the rest of the small building— a loft bed— and as they shifted, they realized their wounds had been wrapped, and only the blanket gave them modesty. (Before, why would they care about that? All bugs were smooth and blank canvases of chitin. And yet, they could not push away the swirling self-consciousness inside them.) Still, being all wrapped up in this bed was one of the first pleasant sensations they have experienced since first reawakening. Soft, warm; surrounded by a faint, sweet smell they could not place.

Where were they? Who took them here?

They feel uneasy and vulnerable. And as they look around the room, they get a chance to scan, to analyze. They were a well-trained knight, so they knew how to read an environment for clues. The tiny loft bed they were in was home for two, because one side sinked down more than the other, indicating two bugs of different weights shared this space. A pause. A flicker beneath the hollow chest— an alien pressure. (So it was a marital bed they laid in? That thought sends a wave of hot embarrassment into them.) 

Only one word rises inside their mind: Intimate. The word comes without resistance, and with it— shame. Heat pulses through their chitin, and they pull the blanket tighter, as if it could hide not just their form, but also thought. They begin to slowly take in the details, their dark eyes scanning with trained precision, yet now clouded by something new: curiosity. Down below, the building they were in looked like a shop. A counter, shelves filled with maps and supplies. The tiniest kitchen shoved in the corner, and a dresser tucked underneath the bed. Such a small space for two bugs...

Why am I here? Who would rescue a failed Vessel?

No answer comes from the quiet loft. Only silence— and the soft creak of wood as the building shifts. Outside, the wind hums around the building, and inside… something stirs inside them. (No voice to cry suffering, no mouth to speak. They couldn't make a noise, couldn't call out or thank their saviors. Just a mute thing, silent and unsure.) The idea of being bound by their body, unable to express all the pain and emotion that began to grow inside them was terrifying.

The door opens suddenly. A small jingle of a bell, and instinct makes them duck back down, to pretend to sleep. But their dark eyes observe the newcomer. She was a weevil, they could see. (Judging by her long snout, and even longer antennae, tied up in a facsimile of a ponytail.) Their dark eyes are fixed on the weevil-woman, their senses taking in her every feature as she moves about the shop. She wore a dark dress that started just above her chest, and hung down to cover her front. The back was more exposed, hanging around her abdomen more so out of convenience, due to her larger backside.

Ah.

Heat was new to them. They pointedly looked away from there, ignoring the strange sensation that rises inside them and instead going back to her face. She looked weary; like an old warrior. And bored, as she lays parchment on the counter before moving to the kitchen. There, a pot boils, and when she lifts the lid to stir and sprinkle dried petals in, it creates the most delicious aroma that has their stomach growling. They did not need to eat. But the idea of food sounded... incredible. The smell alone makes their mouth, which does not exist, water. They grip the blanket tighter, torn between the need to stay hidden and the hunger that has awoken within the void. (No voice to cry suffering. No way to get her attention besides movement.)

Would they scare her? Plenty of bugs in the Pale Court in their heyday were fearful of their presence. But she seems a great deal braver than they, just at first glance. After all, someone brought them into the shop, and it must have been her. And given their size difference, she must be rather strong.

The weevil woman tastes the stew, and makes a satisfied hum. Then she covers the pot back up and moves behind the counter, pulling out three sets of bowls and glasses, and then a tall clay container. She uncorks it, and the scent of milk and honey is detected.

(Three meals… she expected others?) Their pulse, once slow and barely there, now quickens. Three bowls. Not one. Not two. Three. Their eyes trace the clay jug, the pleasant scent curling through the air like a promise of comfort. A memory stirs— not their own, perhaps?— of lullabies hummed over steaming cups in quiet halls, now forgotten.

The stew smells like safety. Like warmth. So slowly… so slowly… they sit up, letting the blanket fall just enough to show movement. Yet still, she remains focused on her task. The sweetened milk is poured into another small pot, and she switches out the soup pot for the milk pot on the burner. Warming it, she sprinkles in spices and drops a cinnamon stick into the awaiting creamy liquid. The whole house smelt like heaven; like hearty meals, the ones that they could only watch the rich devour in the White Palace. Laughter behind glass walls, meats and wine and warmth meant for others.

Never for them.

Back then, they paid no care to the potential flavors, the scents. Now... it only intensifies their hunger: each aroma is a tiny knife twisting in the empty chest where starvation gnaws away at them. Their fingers clench into fists. Not from anger, but from want. The weevil moves with quiet routine, unaware of the storm her kindness has awakened. (A Vessel built to contain the will of a forgotten god now trembling at the smell of cinnamon.) The woman next takes bread out from a cabinet. A fluffy loaf, half-eaten already, and she cuts off three generous slices before the rest is rewrapped in wax paper and put away.

There were two stools in the shop; one behind the counter, and another she pulled out from beside the stove. She sets it on the other side of the shop counter, and clears the surface of parchment and intricate looking map-markers. Then, she takes all three bowls in one hand, expertly clutched in her claw. She opens the stew's lid, and ladles three hearty servings; placing the two bowls in their normal spots in front of the stools, and then the other is set at the very edge of the counter, closest to the Vessel. The bread is set besides each bowl, and an empty cup is placed nearby too. Finally, she opens a jar, pulling out some dried vegetables that she begins to pick and peel, scattering them over the stew as a topping.

"I hope you're hungry," She says suddenly, her voice even and firm in the stillness of the house. She had a voice that seemed like it conveyed boredom in her activities, perhaps even disappointment. But her expression was gentle, calm. She didn't even look back to the Vessel as she worked on her peelings. "I made extra helpings, and Corny won't eat it all. So you better be a good patient and eat your fill."

They freeze: not from fear anymore, but shock. The voice cuts through the silence like a blade, and all they can think is ‘she knows I'm awake.’ Their breath hitches. ‘Hungry... yes... too hungry…’ The thought claws its way up from the dark inside them. ‘...but not food alone.’ They slowly— so slowly— swing their massive legs over the edge of the tiny bed, each movement careful, deliberate. Wood groans under their weight, and they bend their head down to fit through the loft bed’s opening, descending with unnatural grace for something so large.

When they approach the counter, they stop. The stool is laughably small, and their body casts a shadow like a stormcloud over her quiet shop. (No voice to thank her. No mouth to taste… But eyes…) Yes, their eyes lift to her face for one long moment, in a way they hope conveys how thankful they are, before drifting down. Hesitantly, they look to the bowl waiting upon the counter, taking a hold of it. Steam curls upward in soft spirals. The bowl is tiny in their claws. They barely fit in the shop standing, so they sit on the floor; long legs expertly folding up to allow themselves room.

No... traditional mouth, they realize. But if they focused, very carefully, the void chitin under their white mask can shiver and twitch, and mold into a facsimile of mandibles, fit for drinking down the stew. And when they tilt the bowl up, to begin drinking, the flavor hits their newly formed tongue for the first time and explodes along the fresh tastebuds. Intense, like nothing they have ever experienced before. Warm, and filling.

They drink the stew greedily, their entire body shivering from the rush of taste and nourishment. Their empty stomach— which has known nothing for so long— finally feels full. Their long, clawed hands are trembling, and the broth spills down their chin. It is the opposite of elegant, nothing that would have been allowed in the White Palace. Yet they cannot stop, and they drink it down in seconds with a hunger like no other. How improper of a knight they were, guzzling down a well-cooked meal made so carefully for them? Best slow down despite how... amazing it tasted.

Food… How had they lived so long without this? How had they lived so long without flavor?

The woman does not comment on their apparent starvation. Rather, she simply ladles another hearty serving when they set the bowl down. Does not comment on the rivulets of broth spilling down their face. They pause, their clawed hands gripping the now refilled bowl. The second serving sits steaming before them, still small in their grasp, but heavy with meaning.

‘Too fast... ungraceful... not proper.’ The thought comes: perhaps they should show discipline, truly act like the knight they should be. But the warmth spreads from their mouth, down their throat, curling inside their chest. Not just heat, but something deeper. Sensation they could not name. For the first time— deep inside that hollow chest where nothing was ever meant to be— something blooms. Small. Fragile. Terrifying. Their shell shivers again beneath the mask, and they lift a claw to wipe broth from their chin. Clumsy. Like a child learning to eat. Their eyes flicker back up to the weevil woman, watching her quietly as she begins to eat her own meal with calm precision.

No judgment in her eyes— only patience.

"I'm glad you like it." The woman sighs heavily, leaning forward as she rests her head on one hand, looking out at the door. Like she was waiting for something. "It's hard to find fresh meat anywhere in this town. I had to go into the Crossroads and actually hunt something. What a bore. Well, I suppose it all worked out; I nearly tripped over you on the way back. I had to leave one of the carcasses behind to be able to carry you up the shaft."

‘She hunted for food… and left precious meat behind... to carry me?’ The thought makes them freeze, bowl halfway to their newly formed mandibles. The truth crashes over them: not just that she fed them, but that she gave up something valuable to save a broken thing. Their grip tightens slightly, and their black eyes lift, not to her face, but to the space beside her where the third bowl sits. Full. Uneaten. ‘Waiting.’

They follow her gaze to the door. Not just waiting for nightfall, but waiting for someone. A sibling? A lover? Another warrior like her? And here they are— a stranger in her home, guzzling down a meal that she could feed the other. They set the bowl aside, leaving the second serving untouched now as more shame floods them. A silent statement: ‘I will take no more than you can spare.’ Their voiceless form trembles, and they try to bow their head in what they hope comes across as apologetic.

"Oh don't go all guilty on me." The way she reads them is an immense surprise. "I can always hunt more later. Eat; Corny will only eat a bowl, and I've already snacked a bunch on the way up here." She insistently pushes the bowl closer. "You need it; if you want those wounds to close up. Something really did a number on you, huh?”

(No voice to cry suffering, an unreadable shell of bug, and yet she pins the nail on the head easily. She was perceptive— or have they become so open now, now that emotion and sensation floods their frame?)

Her words echo in their head as they eye the bowl once more, before hesitantly lifting it to their mouth. Not so frantic this time, more cautious. The woman's blunt, almost brusque approach is something strange and new. She does not speak around the issue, does not pretend the situation doesn’t exist. She saw them, a broken Vessel, and she feeds them as if her act of mercy was something they deserved.

The pot behind them at the stove whistles, and the woman stands, her dress unwrinkling and falling flat once more against her front. She approaches the stove, lifting the pot off the fire, which she snuffs out with a cap. Then she brings the simmering pot over to the counter, where she pours the sweetened milk into all three empty cups. It smelt heavenly, like desserts they never got to try, and it was warm; which was welcome against the cold that threatened to seep inside them. The pot is set aside, and she hums, "It's very hot, so don't burn yourself."

After a moment’s pause, they lift the cup with a trembling hand, claws around it. As it nears their makeshift mouth, they focus on blowing some air on the hot liquid so that they can finally take a sip. And it tastes like everything they never knew they needed. Sweet, warm all the way down their throat and settling heavy into their belly. The sense of fullness was strange, the hunger tempered down for now. And after a few gulps, they set the cup back down, taking a deep breath.

The woman sips her own cup quietly, eyes never leaving the door. But when she sits up a little straighter, it seems who she was waiting for has arrived.

The door swings open, and a short, round weevil enters the shop, humming a happy tune to himself. His long antennae were hanging behind his back, and he carried a massive sack of scrolls. On his long snout, he wore a pair of spectacles. Upon entering, he waves happily to the woman, chirping, "Greetings, my love! Dinner smells lovely, did you spend all day on this?" He throws the sack to the ground by the door, hurrying to sit in the stool before her; not noticing the newcomer in their home.

The woman sighs again, sipping down her warm drink. "No, I had to improvise. We were out of meat again, and I had to hunt in the crossroads."

"Oh, well it smells amazing still!" And he takes a spoon, beginning to help himself to his dinner.

A couple. Sudden emotion floods them as they watch the weevil eat so happily, watching the way the woman's eyes soften when does. A couple. A home. A life. And here they sit, like an intruder, hiding in the shadows beside them, trying to still the tremor in their hands as they clutch the cup tighter; and they long to live a life like this, just for once.

The man takes a few more spoonfuls of his stew, chewing thoughtfully, before he looks around and— he drops his spoon, and gives a surprised gasp! "Oh, dearest love, you didn't tell me we had company!! Oh, such bad manners I have, my friend!"

"You didn't notice," she states plainly, her tone disinterested.

"Oh right, silly me, I wouldn't notice a vengefly if I wasn't actively looking!" The man adjusts his spectacles, then holds a hand out to the Vessel. "I apologise, my friend! My name is Cornifer, it's a pleasure to meet you!"

Their black eyes widen as the weevil notices their presence. For a moment, they simply stare, frozen until he holds out his hand in greeting. An invitation; not disgust or anything negative towards them. They hesitantly grip his hand in their larger, clawed one, shaking with great care, careful not to hurt his soft palm. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ 

Their thoughts mimic him internally, but they could not speak. (No voice to cry suffering.) And so they wordlessly shake the man's hand.

They feel the woman watching them. Waiting. "They cannot speak," The woman tells the man after the handshake, as she sips her drink. "They are mute." Again, right on the head, she was correct. How did she know so much about them with just a look?

Cornifer nods in acknowledgment, letting go of their hand, and adjusting his spectacles again. "Right, right! Well, silly me, I apologise once more if my greeting was rude! Erm, uh, this is my wife, Iselda!" And he gestures to the woman sitting besides them.

Iselda nods her head once, her dark eyes watching the Vessel. "Yes. We met."

They nod their head in greeting to her, watching as the two exchange glances to one another. The weevil-man's easy demeanor contrasts sharply with her own quiet personality. They seemed to be an odd pair, but they fit together anyway. A couple, just like the countless others that used to laugh and feast in the White Palace. The only difference between then and now is that these two treat them kindly. As if they were not a failed Vessel, a broken creature. As if they were… a person.

Cornifer takes his spoon again, and he fills the silence between bites with chatter. "You look a lot like the little one that ran around here, buying my maps. Best customer I ever had, though they never said a word. Silent thing, they were. I wonder where they ran off to..."

Was he talking about the little Ghost? The one who broke open the cage, who fought against them, who sacrificed themselves to— Sorrow, guilt, pain: it all comes flooding into the taller bug once more. Regret. They grip the cup so hard that it trembles violently in their palms. A deep ache opens inside them, and they slowly turn their gaze to the counter, falling upon their empty bowl.

Another serving is silently given to them. This time, the slice of bread is placed within reach. Iselda moves with the practiced quiet of a warrior. Meanwhile, the chattering Cornifer seemed to have not an ounce of any similar training. Curious. The meeting and subsequent union of these two was definitely a topic that they uncharacteristically found themselves interested in. But for now, Cornifer continues to chatter, and Iselda silently watches him, face unreadable. They eat their second helping, and they watch as the weevil-man babbles. He is very talkative, and Iselda is very quiet. And they, a quiet creature themselves, find it somewhat fascinating.

A thought stirs within them. If the two of them are married— husband and wife— that means that they must love each other. The thought brings with it a strange sense of envy. To love another; what would it be like? The only love that they had ever known was the love of its father, fleeting. A mistake. But this was a different kind of love. One shared between two souls, coming from different lives, joining in marital union. And they had never known that type of love.

For who could love an empty husk that could never love back?

Cornifer finishes his soup quick enough, and the bread and the milk are both drained too. He gives a long yawn, stretching out, and wearily eyes the loft bed. So comfortable, built for a bug his size, and yet… "Iselda, are the bedrolls still in the drawer? I suppose we can fit ourselves in front of the door, so our guest can take the bed."

"They are in the top one, Corny." Iselda replies, dipping a piece of her bread into her soup. The way she eats is slow, careful. At her words, Cornifer walks past them, searching through the drawers beneath the loft bed. Iselda has already busied herself with collecting dirty dishes into a tray, setting them by the stove for later washings. They work in tandem; a pair.

The weevil's words stir the Vessel from their thoughts. They look to the bed— comfortable and surely what the two are used to, but the man still offers it to them. Warmth spreads through their limbs at the offer; knowing that it would be so soft there. So comfortable, something they had not gotten many chances at all to experience. But that feeling of guilt returns, and it gnaws at their stomach. Their thoughts linger on the pair, and the realization comes that they cannot just take another's bed, even if it is offered to them so freely. The polite thing to do would be to take the floor themselves, so this couple could retain the comfort of their marital bed.

Their gaze moves back to watch the couple work, feeling the strange stirrings of jealousy. They want that— the companionship, the easy banter of two people who love each other and work together so easily. They continue watching as the weevil pair finish setting up their bedrolls. The floor looks hard and cold in contrast to the loft above them, and although they also did not want to lay down there, they knew that they cannot let themselves be so selfish. So instead, the Vessel slowly reaches out a hand, tapping the man’s shoulder to get his attention.

Cornifer turns from the two bedrolls to them, his long nose twitching curiously. "Hm? Oh, yes, what is it, my friend? Do you have a name? Suppose you couldn't tell us— maybe we can get you some ink and paper, if you can write? Oh, forgive me, I'm rambling once more. Yes, what is it you need?"

They pause at his eagerness. They were not used to someone treating them so kindly. Their eyes dart to his wife, standing by the stove, before returning to the weevil before them. Although they were mute, they knew they could attempt to communicate what they wanted to say. They slowly pointed a clawed hand at the loft bed, then shook their head. ‘You keep it.’

Never quite good at charades, Cornifer's brow furrowed. He turns to look at the loft bed. Then back to the Vessel. Then, asking, in a worried tone, "Is it not comfortable enough? We can give you more blankets and pillows, my friend!"

They feel a surge of frustration— no, not at the weevil, but at themselves. This man is kind; he and his wife fed them dinner, offering the Vessel their bed, their comfortable bed, where a real living, feeling being could rest. They let out soundless sigh, and gesture again. Pointing to themselves, the bed, then the floor. ‘I will not sleep on the bed, I will sleep on the floor.’

"Yes, yes, we will be sleeping there on the ground, no worries!" And Cornifer smiles brightly. Oh, the poor man. He wasn't getting it at all. But Iselda appears behind him; taller than him by a good few feet, and she rests her slender hands on his shoulder.

"Corny, I believe they are offering to take the floor, so we can have the bed." Iselda hums, picking some lint off her husband's shoulder. Then she looks back up at the Vessel. "Which, we will respectfully decline. You are still injured. At the very least, while you heal, you need a proper bed. We will be fine; it is not the first time we have slept on the ground." Her tone is flat, and yet firm all the same. And Cornifer, now understanding, nods in agreement with her words!

Their heart sinks with defeat. The pair refuses them. Of course they do— this is their home, and they have no say here. On top of all that, that sense of jealousy still lingers. (They want what this pair had. A warm home. A loving spouse. Two beings who work together, who care for each other.) They look away, unable to meet the gaze of the woman. The ache returns to their chest, and this time it does not let go. ‘...alright…’

Of course, neither hear their internal admission of defeat, but Iselda reads their body language scarily well, so she pushes Cornifer lightly. "Go get some water from the pump to soak the dishes. I'll help our guest to bed." Cornifer chirps an affirmative, and hurries out of the shop with a ringing bell signaling his departure. The pair left alone once again, she gestures up to the loft. "Right, off to bed with you. You will need all the rest you can get. No arguing." The woman is watching them, waiting.

They obey. They slowly climb back into the lofted bed, the wood creaking and groaning at their weight. The bed is soft— softer than anything they have felt before. They silently pull up the covers over their frame, lying down. The sheets are like a cloud, and their eyes almost flutter shut automatically. This feels... good. Sleepiness comes surprisingly easy, when you are full of warm broth and milk.

Even as they teeter along the edge of a dreamless sleep, they faintly hear the bell ring, the sound of water sloshing, then quiet that is broken by deep snores— Cornifer. The noise should be unsettling, for all its unfamiliarity. But despite it all, the Vessel sleeps well and comfortably for the first time ever in their life.

The gilded cage had no bindings, no ropes; nothing to hold her still if she were to throw her body against the bars and snarl in her anger to escape. But instead, it glowed with a runic bindings; a spell meant to keep pale beings trapped, a spell meant to keep her under lock and key. It was carried by an entire group of these strange bugs, clad in strange white clothing and singing in a choir.

There had been forty when they arrived, and by the time she was forced into the cage, there were ten.

At first, she responded with her instincts; with rage. She had lashed out the moment the first bars closed— not with any weapon, but with her body. A black streak slamming into the glowing lattice like a storm against glass. The impact shuddered through her shell, sharp pain flaring in her shoulder, but she welcomed it. Pain was real. Pain meant she wasn’t numb. 

She threw herself again and again, hissing through clenched mandibles as white runes pulsed along the bars, repelling her with quiet authority. Her needle— gone. Taken before she could wrap fingers around its hilt. They’d disarmed her swiftly, silently; these Choir Bugs were not mindless thralls but disciplined enforcers.

When rage did not break the metal, her fury became voiced.

“You think this will hold me forever?” Hornet called out in a violent hissing to those carrying her aloft— loud enough that even their synchronized humming faltered for half a breath “I killed thirty of your kind! I’ll kill every single one of you for the audacity to come to my home?! And now you dare drag me along like a caged animal?!”

She paused only to steady herself on one knee inside that cursed golden box. “Know this: every mile you carry me is another mile closer to your demise.” Her voice never rose beyond its noble calm now; yet each word rang like a certain and sure funerary bell. She could see they were mortal, she knew they were— and soon enough, mistakes would bloom, and she would have her escape.

But days passed beneath foreign stars. And still they marched.

Time continues to stretch; she loses track of it, focused more on the minute changes amongst the choir bugs than anything else. Ten had become eight after an encounter with a horrid creature that burrows beneath the dunes, and eight becomes seven after one succumbs to an unknown illness; collapsing in the sand and buried by their companions. And on they go. Traveling deeper into the Wastelands, farther than even Hornet has ever been.

The flame of fury inside her cooled into coals and ash: still hot enough to burn if fanned properly, but no longer wild enough to consume all of her at once. In quieter moments between stops— when their procession rested atop wind-battered ridges overlooking fields of rolling sands— Hornet sat cross-legged upon silk-soft padding torn from within layers of cloak. A tiny mercy: even here she clung fiercely to tactile comfort, gently stroking stray threads against the sensitive, unscarred parts of her fingers. The rhythm is almost familiar…

It reminded her of being coiled and bundled in silk, in the arms of a mother whose face she could not even remember. Of the soft garb of the white palace, as a glowing pair of hands adjusted and tied it when she forgot how. Of laying in piles with other bees in the sweet-scented rooms after exhausting days spent training beneath the Queen’s eyes.

Then a sharper thought intruded.

Tiso. His laughter echoing through Colosseum sands after claiming a rare victory over her. God Tamer, cradling her head in her lap and gently stroking red chitin claws across the stark-white of Hornet’s mask. They were still there— all those soft things in Hallownest’s without her. And what if neither could feel safe knowing what had become of their warrior? A pulse flickered low in her chest— not fear, for such emotion rarely mastered her. But concern? Ah yes: that tender wound ever-present since accepting love twice instead of burying her heart in the sand with all her other passed lovers.

“Fools,” she murmured now; not harshly but fondly, as though speaking directly into those figures within her memory. “You’ll both do something reckless looking for me…” Then she straightened up, a new resolve forming behind an impassive gaze as her fingers curled slowly around the phantom hilt of her nail; missing from her side. Her breathing deepened deliberately; muscles relaxing in fractions, but still her mind remained sharpened. She ends up meditating a lot; to keep herself from going mad from their endless chanting and droning, retreating to the safety of her mind when stimulus becomes rare and infrequent.

And in the rare moments she has roused from the steady focus, she is a keen watcher of these choir bugs. Observe patterns in resting. Count paces along the sandy dunes. Note pitch variation among choir chants (at least three tones suggest command structure hidden within harmony itself). Map the terrain by wind direction and scent trails left by prey animals fleeing ahead. Wait until they grow complacent thinking their prisoner subdued— and then remind them why they have made a grave mistake.

Time continues to stretch.

The monotony becomes a metronome: the rhythmic chanting of the choir bugs, the constant march, the endless landscape of dunes. She's acutely aware that each second brings her further from Hallownest, but time itself seems to lose meaning here, as though even the stars are tired of rising each night. Her mind drifts back often to Tiso and God Tamer often— imagining their reactions when they discover her missing. Anger most likely, followed by their inevitable hunt to bring her back. They're as stubborn and loyal as they are fierce. They won't let this stand. And that thought both worries and soothes her.

Stubborn Tiso— he would charge right into the Wastelands with little concern for needed materials. He would charge forth and forth, and either rescue her, or die trying; which was the more likely scenario. Despite his proven skill, he was mortal, and he was reckless, and impulsive.

Wise God Tamer— she would be the one to pack. To collect everything needed, tied to the back of her Beast, and lead the charge. Always a leader, always a commander, it was no wonder she was the Queen of the Colosseum. It was no wonder they called her God Tamer. She certainly had tamed the pale beast in Hornet's chest that chased domination.

Despite the situation, her lips almost twitched into a smile at the memory of her lovers. Tiso's reckless courage and God Tamer's tactical mind. They would search: of course they would. But the Wasteland was a vast, unforgiving place. It was a race against time, and the elements, and unknown enemies. But still they would come: it was in their nature. Hornet let out a quiet breath, the sound lost beneath the endless drone of the Choir's song.

It was a small comfort, but comfort nonetheless, in this foreign hell.

When the worst of the monotony threatens to take her mind, Hornet retreats deeper, deeper into the memories to try and escape from it. Deeper, remembering things she kept tucked safely away, so that no being could ever steal it from her. Closing her eyes, retreating behind the veil of her own mind as the Choir’s drone threatens to flatten thought into numbness. The memories come forth easily, like silk unraveling from a spool. Tiso and Tamer, both in her nest. The urges to protect, to guard, to claim her mates in ways that should scare her, but doesn't. She was a pale being, with an urge to rule that was primal more than mental. And yet, neither mate showed fear to those sides of her; rather, they both welcomed it.

She pulls those moments closer— the scent of Tiso’s chitin when fevered with need, pine-spice and addicting. The way he’d whimper against the bed, small sounds torn from deep within as she loomed over him, needle discarded for a dance far more intimate. Her grip firm around his wrists. Her voice low and husky with want. "You are mine."

And he would answer— not with defiance but surrender: "Always."

Tiso often fell prey to her strength, she thinks. Shaking and begging, so easy to claim, to bite, to consume if she so desired. It wasn’t cruelty that moved her then. It was devotion, sharpened by instinct deeper than anything else: a pale being’s hunger for control warring against a heart too long isolated to crave more than solitude. And yet, finally allowed to devour within safe walls. Tamer would hold tight on her chains and leash, and tell Hornet exactly what to do, in a voice that could bend the will of the Gods themselves. God Tamer— calm-eyed ruler of beasts and bugs alike— who could look into Hornet’s wildest glare and not flinch but smile, knowing exactly how far to push before pulling back. Who would wrap a hand around Hornet's throat not to choke but to guide— to say "Enough" or "Again" or simply whisper “Mine” in return, threading her dominance through the weaver’s submission like only a true sovereign can.

Hornet remembers nights in Hallownest where wind rattled against the tents surrounding the Colosseum, while thunder rolled beneath their joined bodies— an echo not just of passion but belonging. A single breath escapes her now inside this glowing cage: one sharp inhale as if snapping back from drowning in the memories that were so much more pleasant than her current predicament. Her claws flex slowly against her knee. They think this prison weakens her mind? That the endless nothingness will break what fire still burns inside her core?

No.

Let them carry their burden further into the Wastes. Let them believe she is tamed because she sits still. But every chant they sing feeds her into her memory instead of despair. And her memories continue to build her strength upwards, and strength… well-trained hands don’t forget how to hunt.

Not now. And not ever.

Hornet is not sure when it happens.

Time has long become something meaningless to her. She does not need to eat nor sleep, and so she spends her time caged hunched over, silent and staring at the endless expanse of the changing landscapes before them. The sandy dunes have become rocky outcrops, and soon, caverns they pass through— a large one that tunnels beneath a ravine and up again. And then, they approach a massive Kingdom so large and grand, Hornet thinks it might be an illusion.

Something tiny, something glowing— a lumafly? No, no, it was too delicate, too fragile. It floats down from the greying sky, like a light in the darkness, and lands carefully on the cage surrounding her. There's a flash of light, something bright and blinding.

And the runes dispel.

Hornet blinks against the abrupt light. For one brief, disoriented second, she wonders if a stray blow has finally caught her. Then— no, she is unharmed. And she is also untethered. The golden cage, still carried aloft by a few Choir Bugs, has become no more than mere metal: cold and silent without the pale glow that once bound her. She leans forward suddenly, peering closer to try and catch another glimpse at the tiny glowing creature. But now, it is gone. Where had it gone? In its absence, she instinctively pulls for her silk again— something that had only burned her with the rune's sigils. But this time.... threads of silk begin to emerge from her carapace, whipping around her body, almost like an uncontrollable spell.

No, it was uncontrollable. She couldn't stop it now that she had summoned it. The threads expel from her frame, through the bars of her cage, wrapping the bridge beneath her and the choir bugs, tightening, pulling. The stone shatters, the bridge crumbles beneath them, and time almost seems to slow as the entire group falls; endless darkness as they fall deeper into the chasm below the bridge. Hornet can only stare, trapped in the metal cage, as light vanishes, as she falls—

—And still the silk pours from her like breath torn from a dying lung, wild and unshaped by lack of control. It coils around her cage in frantic spirals, slams into the walls of the chasm, catching— not on purpose, but with instinct. A final thread hooks onto a jagged outcrop buried in shadow just before the cage plummets further into oblivion. She swings once— hard— crashing into stone with a ringing clang that echoes through stone and shell alike. Dust rains down. Somewhere below, faint and distant: cracks of impact. No screams.

The Choir Bugs did not survive the fall.

Hornet sits suspended in darkness, cage swaying gently like a pendulum held hanging. She does not move at first. Her chest rises quickly beneath her cloak: not from fear or exertion, but realization. It wasn’t just the runes that were gone. The pressure inside— the constant hum of resistance against magic meant to suppress pale blood— it’s lifted. She can feel it now: deep within her core where power coils tight as spooled silk; something has shifted. Opened. And she is no longer bound by anyone’s cage.

Stillness settles over her again, but this time it is different. Not resignation. Anticipation. One claw reaches out slowly, deliberately brushing along  the main strand of fresh silk clinging to the cage's bars. The only thing holding her up from oblivion. She thinks briefly about extending it, trying to create a safety tether to pull herself up to escape, and—

The thread trembles. Something touches it. And then, a snap; it is cut, and the cage continues its plummet down below, hitting the walls and edges of the cavern that rapidly switch from grey to green. And when the cage hits the mossy ground, miles beneath the bridge, it snaps open, her body goes flying out. There’s a deep, hollow crack as Hornet’s skull meets unyielding stone and her world goes black: her body crumpling like a sack onto soft moss and damp rock.

For a time, she was not Hornet. She was not the daughter of three queens, nor sentinel of Hallownest, nor mate to two fierce souls who waited in vain for her return. She is nothing but echo and absence.

The impact doesn’t kill her.

It wants to. But soon enough— sensation returns in fragments.

First: touch. Moss, thick and spongy beneath her side, cool against heated chitin. There’s a tickle at her neck where dirt has seeped in beneath the red fabric of her cloak. She twitches— a small spasm— and her entire frame feels oversensitive and heated with pain.

Second: sound. Dripping water… far away at first… then closer… then layered with something else. Soft humming again? No— not the choir bugs this time. These are deeper notes vibrating through earth itself, pulsing gently beneath her like a slow heartbeat under her shell.

Third: smell. Wet stone, fresh grass, and decay mixed with bloom. Faintly— so faintly— the scent of nectar from bees long gone home to their hive… Or perhaps she was imagining it? She could swear she could smell cherries and pine-spice again, but as soon as she latches onto it, it's gone.

And finally: thought. She groans low inside her shell as awareness sharpens into pain— and pain into clarity. Her fingers twitch before curling slowly into fists against mossy ground. One leg drags slightly when she tries to move it; possibly sprained during impact or cage-spinning descent, but no shattered limbs? A miracle for such a fall— or perhaps just another sign that pale blood refuses death so easily. She pushes herself up on trembling arms until she kneels there on hands and knees among green shadows cast by towering plants and cave above. A lone figure unfurling like dawn-blooming flowers; rare and short-lived. The broken cage lies scattered beside her. Her breath steadies.

“Tiso,” She murmurs softly into the cool, crisp air. “God Tamer… I am still alive.” And though they cannot hear… she knew if they could, they would be the ones to push her further. Deliberately slow, Hornet reaches out one claw towards fresh droplets gathering at a leaf-end overhead. Plucks them free mid-fall just before they roll off and strike moss. Then, pours them down her throat without hesitation. Her eyes stay fixed ahead— to tunnels winding just before her; filled with lush greenery reminiscent of Greenpath.

Standing, her gaze roaming around her, Hornet locates her needle. It had fallen and landed into the dirt, sitting upright as if waiting for her to wield it once more. And when she picks it up, she's surprised by how much heavier it feels than she remembers. Had her time caged really sapped so much strength from her? She felt no more ready than she did as a youth, crawling through Deepnest on unsteady paws.

With sore, trembling legs, she takes some steps forward, then a few more. And finally, straightening up, she begins walking forth, entering the deep green pathway before her. She would find out why they had taken her here. She knew if she were to just leave, they would simply come looking again; perhaps even target her mates. No, Hornet knew she had to solve the mystery here, and squash out the possibility of any of those choir bugs chasing her down, in search of—

A terrible agony suddenly ripples through her frame, and she stumbles, nearly falling over. Rolling waves of it eat at her body, and all she can do is stand and bear it, barely able to walk. The pain comes not as a strike, but almost as an unraveling: a deep, systemic tearing beneath chitin and sinew, as if her very body is rejecting the shape it’s held for centuries. Hornet gasps— though her kind do not breathe to live— and doubles over, one hand clutching her chest where the ache burns hottest. Her needle drags in the moss behind her.

It’s too much to stay upright.

She drops to one knee, then the other, trembling like a frayed thread about to snap. Every inch of her shell thrums with an alien pressure: her limbs twitch involuntarily, joints lock and unlock without command. The world pulses around her in waves of white and black. She can hear; not just the distant hums now but voices. Not words, but impressions: soft weeping woven into vine-rustling… laughter tangled in water-dripping… something singing from behind every leaf. Memories bursting in her head, replaying like a symphony, no, a cacophony of noise.

Slowly, with agonizing force, she lifts herself back up using the needle-point as a brace against the soil until she stands again, face tilted forward. Tears pooling unseen within her dark eyes. The pain recedes after a few moments, and in its wake, a realization. It wasn't just her needle that seemed heavier.

The world itself is heavier. The air is heavier to breathe. The smells are heavier in her nostrils. Every sense is heightened beyond comfort: the scent of stone, the weight of her own body beneath her shell. The faint sound of dripping water is magnified into a roar. She has to focus on her steps, on keeping her body steady. She never noticed how sharp her nail felt against her chitin before.

This will be a long trek; but she continues on.

The green, mossy forest is home to many creatures that crawl and nibble on the foliage. One of them looks so soft and cuddly that Hornet would love to bury her face into its fur, if not for the spines that protrude from its back. A shame. She cuts down any that block her path with some effort— the nail continuing to feel foreign in her grasp. Along the way, she finds a collection of flying critters playing with her tool pouch, and after dispatching of them, she affixes it back in its hidden place beneath her red cloak.

She continues her ascent, climbing higher and higher to rise from the chasm she has fallen into. Cutting vines out of the way, hopping over gaps in the path with some minor difficulty. As she enters a seemingly man-made structure, one of those flying beasts that was nesting inside seems to have tripled in size. Hornet is ashamed to admit it takes her a bit to cut it down like its kin: the corpse clumping to the ground in a shower of green blood. She walks past it, locating a rope that she ascends.

And when she reaches the top, the pain returns again; worse than before. Whatever is tearing her apart seems to have morphed into something else. Not pain, but heat; a white-hot burn pulsing under chitin until her whole body feels like the molten core of a forge. Hornet is barely able to keep her feet steady this time, stumbling forward like a newborn stag, her knees almost giving out once again as she collapses into soft moss. She bites the cry back in her maw and shuts her eyes tight against the onslaught.

Calm yourself, Hornet. You can do this, you’ve lived through worse.

Breathing, slow and steady, trying to just endure through it, but… Suddenly, there is a rustling before her. And when Hornet's head snaps up, she can faintly see, through the haze of the pain in her body, someone standing a distance away, wielding a staff of some kind. Hornet forces herself upright— muscles screaming their protest— and raises her needle despite trembling arms, the point wavering as much as her breath. The weapon feels like stone now, dragging her arm down with each passing second. 

“Stay back,” She tries to say, but no sound comes out at first. Her voice has gone raw from disuse and strain. And then, there’s the pain again. An agony unlike anything she’s ever felt before today rips through her frame. It felt more than a simple sensation but rather a forced transformation; deep within shell and blood, as if something old is being reforged inside her without warning or permission. Her vision tunnels. The world blurs into streaks of green and gold, then fractures entirely. Her knees give way. She doesn’t feel the moss catch her this time— the fall silent and slow, as consciousness flickers once… twice…

And goes dark beneath strange eyes watching.

The blackness does not keep her for very long. Sensation returns in waves, just like before. Touch and Sound and Sight and all.

She is made aware of a tapping, incessant tapping against her head before anything else. Someone is whacking her with the end of a staff. And then sound returns; she hears an old, withered voice, poking her just as bothersome as the staff. "Up, up with you girl! Up! I just cleaned up here, I won't have you dying on my floor! Up!"

The figure was the last thing to come into view. An old, hunched over thing, wrapped in a torn brown cloak, and pale eyes that peer down at her with annoyance. "Ah, awake at last? You best be minding your strength, traveler. Let’s not waste it on an old nobody like me, eheheh."

For a moment, all Hornet can do is stare back at that old face shrouded in darkness; disorientation, confusion, and pain battling against one another in her clouded head. Up. The command is familiar enough that she listens, despite the way her limbs protest. She pushes herself up into a kneel, but it's not without effort. It takes what little focus she has not to double over and shout; not when the pain inside is still white-hot and sharp. Instead, she grinds out a quiet hiss through gritted teeth. "Not... weak."

"I didn't say you were! Now, up up, all the way girl." The staff comes up under her chin, and taps for her to rise further. And Hornet, for some damn reason, listens to the call of it. She clumsily locates her needle besides her, before she stands fully on unsteady feet, breathing a low sight of relief as the pain begins to ebb away.

"I... apologize, madam. My journey here was one most unkind; I still seem to be wary of most bugs here," Hornet mumbles, sheathing her nail behind her.

"So you're another pilgrim, hm? Come across the Wastes to go find the gilded top of this land, climb the great path?" The old bug leans against her staff, snorting. "You look a little clean and rich for a pilgrim. Rather tall too."

"I am no pilgrim. My name is Hornet; I was brought to this land with no choice of my own." Hornet tilts her head at the old woman, trying to assess her. The type of bug she was could be anything, but judging by the hunch on her back, Hornet wanted to lean towards... no, no that would be presumptuous. "I was taken here by force, captured by strange bugs wielding bells and clad in veils."

"Oho, how curious! The bugs of the Citadel up top; cloaked in veils of service for their faith. Though if you ask me, I think they might be perhaps slaves to something at the summit," The old bug begins to shuffle over to the side of the path, crouching down and pulling a stray weed out of the cracks in the structure.

Hornet watches her quietly. "Then I suppose, I will have to find their Citadel. If the bugs who took me would go through the Wastes to find me and bring me here, I intend to find out why.”

Her words seem to make the old lady laugh. "Ohoo, ferocious, intimidating! You got not an ounce of a pilgrims' spirit on you, no. You bear the soul of a hunter, girl~!" The old lady laughs again. "Welcome then, fierce traveler, to Pharloom! Our holy, yet haunted land. I'm sure a girl like you will have a lot of fun here!" Her face tightens, and she waves for Hornet to come closer; which she does. "Before you depart," the withered bug says. "Permit this old crone to give you a warning. Best keep that weapon of yours drawn. This kingdom is held fast by a curse; one that makes the paths wild and dangerous, and even though plenty come through in search of the Citadel, not a soul has ever returned to speak of their findings."

The old lady's words are filled with a solemn weight that even Hornet's weary body cannot ignore. The pain has eased enough for her to think more clearly now, though her limbs continue to feel heavy with exhaustion. Still, her mind sharpens with wary curiosity at the warning: a curse that makes the paths wild and dangerous. The idea would be absurd under any other circumstances. But after everything Hornet has witnessed and endured since she was taken into the Wastes... She finds she's not even surprised. With a nod, she begins on her way, heading towards the exit, already trying to plan her next steps.

"And one more thing..." The old lady's voice cuts through her thoughts.

Again, Hornet pauses. She turns her head without thinking, curious despite herself. "Yes?"

"Lots of beautiful women up ahead too; make sure you keep your wits about you, lest you fall into their siren song!" The old bug sighs, almost dreamily. "I was a lesbian once. Why, if I had half the strength I did back then, I would be out there clashing blades with a powerful woman, and if she cut me down? I'd thank her for it." The old crone then laughs. "Anyways, have fun!"

That draws a huff of surprise from Hornet, her face heating despite herself. An embarrassed flush washes across her cheeks before she can quell it, and for a moment, for the first time in days, the tension leaves her body completely. "Of all things..." she mutters, the corner of her mouth twitching. It's an effort to keep the amusement from her voice, to keep her tone flat. "I'll... keep that in mind, lady."

The old bug gives her a wink, and waves her off, and Hornet, as she turns on her heel and steps out into the light again, thinks that this is an absurd way to start this task laid out before her.

Surely, it cannot get any worse.

The thought brought equal parts excitement and nervousness. What would Monomon expect? How structured would their routine be? But for now, there was time to simply exist here peacefully... home indeed. When he finds the will to rise and change, his hands hover over the old hood, hanging on the chair by the desk. The new one lay folded neatly on the desk from yesterday, clean and soft. The choice between old and new felt strangely symbolic: like deciding whether to carry his past self forward or embrace what lay ahead.

The worn hood had served him faithfully through countless travels; its familiarity comforting in a way no other material item could replicate. Yet the new one— pristine blue, embroidered with her insignia— represented acceptance into something greater. A visible sign that he was now part of Archives’ life rather than just passing through it. And after a brief hesitation (one last glance at his faithful old hood), Quirrel reached for the newer garment; careful not to wrinkle it as he lifted towards his head. And he ties it into place.

Finally prepared to meet the day, properly adorned for whatever awaited.

Forgoing breakfast was a choice to get out and work on time; but opening the door reveals a small breakfast cart outside. On it was a kettle with freshly brewed tea, some delightfully fluffy muffins, still warm and crispy strips of meat, and fresh eggs with golden yolks. A small handwritten note sits beside it all.

Dearest Quirrel,

Please enjoy your breakfast and come join me outside when you are finished. No rush, my dear; a good scholar is well-fed and healthy.

♡ Monomon

The sight of the cart so meticulously prepared and left waiting for him was almost touching in its thoughtfulness. The tea still steaming faintly, muffins clearly baked recently enough to retain their warmth… every detail screamed care rather than obligation. And then there was note; those words "Dearest Quirrel" paired with heart at end making his chest tighten all over again despite himself. She hadn’t just provided a meal… she’d ensured it would be ready when he emerged, had given reassurance about pace so he wouldn't feel pressured to rush through eating just to meet her expectations.

Sitting down cross-legged beside the cart (forgoing chair nearby because eager excitement was thrumming through his veins), Quirrel poured himself a cup of tea first before tackling the rest spread out before him; taking time savor each bite as she requested while listening quietly to Archives' gentle hum. By the time breakfast is finished, and Quirrel is nicely full, he's about ready to lay back down and take a nice nap. But, duty calls, and he cannot skip the first day! So out into the main rooms of the Archives, past all those glowing green containers, and out the front door.

Monomon is floating a distance away, holding a pad of paper and quill with one set of tendrils, and another pair gently poking at a quivering bubble of gasses. In the gentle light, she looked ethereal. The morning light caught her form beautifully—her richly blue robes shimmering slightly against the green-tinged glow of the flora around them. The way tendrils moved with such delicate precision, one set focused on documentation while another interacted almost playfully with the bubble. Surely, it was a side of her that didn’t often surface in formal settings. For someone who had been so composed, so calm and relaxed during evaluation yesterday, she now seemed entirely at ease here— immersed in work. A scholar genuinely enjoying the process rather than just going through motions for duty’s sake.  

Quirrel hesitated briefly at threshold before stepping fully outside; sudden awareness hitting that this might be the first time observing Monomon actually working up close. No structured interview parameters guiding interaction ‘What do I even say?’ He thinks, with a moment of panic. Nothing comes out of him.

Like before, she seems to be the one to initiate the speaking; for she turns around when she hears his steps against the dirt, and she hums a soft greeting, gesturing for him to come close. "Mind lending a hand, dear Quirrel? I fear I am a bit of a slow scribe." The request so casually extended caught him off guard. She wanted his help? On the first day no less? The implication that she trusted him enough to assist in her own research sent a jolt of both surprise and quiet pride through him.

Nodding quickly (almost eagerly), Quirrel approached without hesitation, stepping carefully toward where she hovered near the bubble. He could already see notes filled out; likely observations about gas behavior given how intently tendrils had been prodding it earlier. The notepad and quill are passed to him, and he barely has time to adjust them in his hands before she begins to speak.

"The outside of the bubbles remain firm and solid. Light touches and even some squeezing keeps their form intact, yet agitates the gasses inside. No sign of disruption from the internal layer, but pressing hard enough on the outer shell will puncture, and the bubble will then proceed to explode—" Monomon’s words are quick; refined rambles of a genius. The rapid-fire explanations poured out in a stream of scientific terminology and observations; each sentence building upon previous as she detailed bubble’s properties with alarming clarity. There was no hesitation, no pausing for breath; just pure, distilled knowledge flowing directly from mind to mouth.

Quirrel struggled slightly to keep pace scribbling everything down accurately; her speed making it difficult to ensure all details captured correctly without missing critical aspects along the way. But he pressed on anyway, determined not to disappoint despite the challenge presented by her brisk delivery style. And she keeps talking. And talking. And talking in her melodic voice that is almost a distraction in of itself. She continues on and on and Quirrel is running out of space and—

The bubble explodes in a loud burst of hissing gasses; and she pauses. The abrupt pop! of the bubble startled Quirrel: so sudden after prolonged focus on her words. The sound cut through air like a tiny firework before dissipating into quiet again.

"Oh, there it goes!" Monomon begins to giggle, turning to the pill bug. "Got all that?" The airy noise was unexpected. A light, almost childlike reaction from someone usually so composed— making the entire incident feel less like a clinical observation but more like a playful discovery instead!  

Her question about whether he’d captured all notes snapped Quirrel back to reality though; glancing down at the notepad as he confirmed pages were nearly full (and possibly running out completely soon unless another sheet was procured). But even then… had everything been recorded correctly amidst her rapid-fire delivery? He wasn’t entirely sure, and thought to himself, ‘Did I miss anything important?’

"Quirrel?" Monomon tilts her head. Awaiting a verbal response. And the gentle nudge of her voice snapped him fully out of his internal review. She was waiting for actual confirmation, not just silent nodding or him just passing over the notes.

"Y-Yes!" Quirrel answered quickly, lifting his head slightly to meet where he assumed eyes would be behind her mask. "I got… most everything down." (Most, because honestly? Some details might've blurred together during the latter half when she'd really picked up the pace...) A beat passed where he considered asking her to clarify any points but he hesitated; not wanting to seem incapable of handling straightforward documentation tasks.

"Marvelous!" Monomon takes the pad from him; her squishy, cool tendrils brushing his fingers before she brings it up to her face and examines the words. "Lovely... just lovely. You did far better than anyone else ever has." A tendril reaches out and affectionately ruffles his head again, pausing to admire his new hood. "You are the best choice I could have made, dear Quirrel."

The praise was so genuine and unrestrained compared to usual academic comments, and it was almost overwhelming. Coming from her, it carried weight that made his chest swell with a mixture of pride and disbelief. And then there was touch again… the cool press of the tendril against his hood. Each gesture felt like another small confirmation— Yes, you belong here; yes, I chose you. Quirrel found himself staring up at her in quiet awe for a moment before managing to murmur, “T-Thank you…" It seemed an inadequate response to such high regard but all words failed him just now under the weight of gratitude building within.

Monomon giggles once more, and she begins her delicately floated path back inside. And as they walk, she begins to speak again. "So, my dear, I will have various tasks for you to study independently. Outside of those, I will occasionally request your aid in both direct tasks, as well as transcribing as I work. I trust you to work when you please, and take breaks as needed." They enter the Archives, and she settles herself in front of a massive table, already neatly arranged with her work. "On occasion, I will ask you to tidy here and there. Some light maintenance when you have the time. And I will not permit you to work entire weeks; you are to take two days off, in any sequence or order. You must take at least one solid meal a day, as well. You will not neglect your body in pursuit of studies. Am I clear? Any questions?"

The list of expectations were so carefully structured yet flexible, and it left him impressed. She wasn't dictating a rigid schedule but instead providing a framework from which he could manage his own time while also ensuring his wellbeing didn’t get sidelined for academia’s sake. The insistence on breaks and meals? That was a level of care few mentors would bother to enforce, especially not ones as esteemed as Monomon. It spoke volumes about how seriously she took the role of nurturing an apprentice rather than just treating him as disposable labor. Quirrel found himself nodding silently first before voice caught up. "C-Clear," he confirmed. "No questions." (Because honestly? The setup seemed ideal from where he stood.)

"Excellent." Monomon hums as she hovers a tendril over papers here and there, before she selects a folder from the pile and offers it to him. "Here you are. You will be creating thesis papers on these topics, and creating a draft for a book. I will be approving the documents you submit, and offer feedback, but this will be entirely your project, my dear."

The folder weighed heavier than its physical size would suggest— filled not just with assignments but the weight of trust being placed upon him. A thesis project, a book draft; all his own initiative from start to finish. It was daunting, yes, but also exhilarating in a way few opportunities ever had been for Quirrel before. To have creative control over such significant works under guidance rather than being forced to conform to some haughty scholar’s ideas? The thought alone made fingers twitch slightly around the edges of the folder as he accepted it carefully.

"Th-Thank you," Quirrel managed again, words still feeling insufficient in capturing the gratitude swelling within him now that first true task laid fully at his feet. Curiosity overtakes politeness, and he opens the folder right there. Inside, there were extensive notes, references to existing books. But the overall topic was clear. An extensive, in-depth collection on all the medicinal, culinary, and otherwise usages of flora across Hallownest. A strange, overlooked topic; but one of utmost importance. And Quirrel was silently buzzing with ideas of what to do for such an amazing starting point!

Monomon tilts her head, her white mask studying him. "....You are quiet,” She comments, resting her tendrils on her desk. “You spoke well before; am I to expect our work to be done in silence? I will not oppose it, it is just... different from my first impression of you."

The spoken observation made him pause: had he really been that talkative during evaluation? Or had her earlier warmth simply encouraged more openness than usual from him? Now faced with actual work, the natural quietude of scholar mode seemed to be reasserting itself. He wasn’t silent out of disinterest or discomfort; rather, it was concentration already settling in as his mind processed the scope of the project before them. But her note about the difference from how she initially viewed him gave him a brief pang of panic.

Had she expected a livelier apprentice perhaps?  

Quirrel was indeed a talker. A massive one! Sometimes he could never shut up. But the anxiety of living up to expectations, the immense amount of material before him… he supposed that did make him a touch quieter? "N-No," Quirrel clarified quickly, his fingers clutching the folder tighter. "I just… need to focus when reading material." (Not avoidance, just immersion.)

"I apologize. I can leave you alone." Her soft voice— so kind, so beautiful. Actually sorry for her perceived slight, and the apology itself was gentle and immediate; almost disarming in its politeness. She bows her head lightly, and then looks back up to him, gaze trained to him.  And he watches him silently. Not demanding nor insistent. Just... there. Because she wasn’t just offering space; she was asking permission to withdraw rather than assuming he’d prefer solitude.

‘She must think I'm a completely different person,’ Quirrel thinks, and the thought unsettled him more than expected because the current, quiet version he was acting as felt strangely unlike himself. And still now, he realizes that he has fallen into that silence once more. No, he had so much to say, so many thoughts racing to expand upon and share that people had often told him he talked too much! Yet perhaps, Monomon was someone he could share every thought with, without judgement.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable— not with her presence filling space so effortlessly. She didn’t press or fill gaps; she simply existed beside him, radiating patience rather than expectation. And that… made the emotional dam inside him crack slightly. If anyone could tolerate his occasional wordy rambles without irritation (or worse— mockery), wouldn't it be someone who had already shown such openness toward him? A deep breath in… then: "Actually," he began hesitantly. "I do have thoughts."

Understatement of the century…

"Share them, my darling." And isn't the pet name setting a fire to his very being? The term of endearment hit him like a warm gust, stirring up that buried romantic sentiment again despite his best efforts to keep it at bay. But he pushed past flustered reaction because she’d invited conversation now… and he couldn’t squander the opportunity in favor of chasing a foolish set of emotions. No, best keep this... professional, yet friendly.

So Quirrel spoke.

Not just in measured academic terms either; the words tumbled out as they often did when passionate about the subject— expanding upon the initial observations the folder provided with rapid-fire connections to existing knowledge, hypothetical applications for undiscovered plants, even tangents on how culinary uses might influence cultural practices across Hallownest’s regions. He barely noticed himself gesturing occasionally (a habit usually reserved for private study moments where he spoke to himself), nor how his animated tone became more pronounced with each new thought spurred by the previous one; entirely lost in flow discussion for the first time since arriving here. And she listens. By the Gods, she listens.

And so it goes.

Settling in takes no time at all. No, Quirrel sleeps and feels so well-rested, that all the premature aches and pain leave his body. It is aided by the hot baths he can take now; and he does, once every other night. Hygiene is important after all! Those soapstones get a lot of good use; and the lotions have his shell glimmering and smooth.

Breakfast is provided by Monomon at the same time everyday. A cart of a filling meal that changes, keeping the variety exciting. Sometimes it is toast and grilled slices of meat with freshly cut fruit. Other times it is a stack of sweetened pancakes with syrups. Fresh tea every time, in the fanciest glasses he has ever seen. And the mornings are slow: she is often outside, and he dictates her words there. Then they work collaboratively for the early afternoon; often taking lunch together. Simple meals, more snacks than anything, filled with stimulating conversation. And then from there, often splitting for independent work from afternoon to evening.

Here, she might bring him tea deliveries, which became small rituals. Her tendrils slipping through his door unannounced but never intrusive, simply leaving cup and saucer on his desk before retreating silently unless he signaled desire company for brief respite. Or he might interrupt her for a shared dinner now and then, which weren’t mandatory at all. More like an open invitation both could choose to accept or decline based on mood and energy levels. And when they did share evening meals together (often at tables stacked high with books she was organizing), conversation flowed effortlessly as if picking up threads from earlier discussions without needing recap.

Strangely intimate, how well their schedules mesh.

The rhythm of days settled into something almost instinctive; a comfortable cadence between them that required no forced adjustments. They pursued individual tasks yet still found ways to cross paths naturally. ‘How does this feel so… easy?’ The thought crossed his mind more than once during the first month especially, because, honestly? He'd expected a strenuous apprenticeship full of rigid expectations rather than this organic partnership evolving around mutual respect (and perhaps budding fondness that Quirrel would never speak aloud…)

Before Quirrel knew it, the winter air had ceased blowing, and the chill melted away into spring showers. He wakes up to the steady drizzle of rain each day, and their outside endeavors migrate to the greenhouse in the back. And it is here that Quirrel's studies truly begin to blossom. The greenhouse became his new sanctuary— a glass-enclosed world where the steady drum of rain against the roof created a soothing backdrop. Here, under careful observation and controlled environments, plants thrived in ways they might not outdoors during seasonal shifts. Documenting growth cycles, harvesting samples for testing medicinal/culinary applications: he cultivates all sorts of plants. Each day, he studies their properties, and tests their uses personally (with precautions usually) to study physiological effects firsthand. If he gets mildly poisoned: minute enough never be life-threatening but still unpleasant? Well, all for the love of academia! Those occasional poisonings brought unexpected perks as well.

Monomon’s attentive fussing. She would take care of him, and bring him anything he could need right to him in bed while he recovers. She’d appear without fail with nourishing meals or herbal remedies prepared specifically to counteract side effects, and her presence alone made every recovery period feel less miserable than it otherwise would’ve been. Plus, it certainly tickles the romantic inside him.

Spring blossoms fully by the end of his fourth month there. And Quirrel has never felt so at home.

Of course Monomon is a fun delight to study privately. She is never angry, never rude or crass. So polite and kind, and so... touchy. Ruffling his hood, placing her tendrils on his shoulders to steer him, and he gets to feel the coolness of her tendrils when she hands him items. More than once, Quirrel has imagined her as the flirtatious love interests of his trashy romance novels he reads on his days off, hidden from shame behind the curtain. The parallels between reality and those secret novels became harder to ignore with each passing day— especially when Monomon’s habitual affectionate gestures lined up too perfectly with tropes he’d only ever encountered in fiction.

A tendril brushing his side as she slips past him inside the greenhouse… that was something straight out of "Blossoming Devotion." Her quiet laughter at something he'd said during lunch… classic scene from "Beneath the Pale Sky." Even the way she sometimes lingered near the doorway after bringing meals, like she was hesitant to leave even though duties called her elsewhere… It felt like a lifted page right from one of the more popular stories on the bookshelves of the City.  

Of course, Quirrel couldn't convince himself of any hidden meaning that may lay behind her behavior. To assume romantic intent where there might simply be natural kindness seemed presumptuous, especially given the difference in their statuses. Of course, the writer of these books must not have met anyone like Monomon. Some hidden daft bug in the City, writing under a pseudonym. (What kind of name is B. B. Last?) But still, he can enjoy them in secret; bushing in the dim candlelight, giggling as he imagines himself as the shy, bookish love interests, indulging fantasies where he played the protagonist himself.

Curled up with a novel during rare free moments, candlelight casting flickering shadows across room, Quirrel would let imagination run wild: picturing Monomon (or rather her fictional counterpart) noticing him despite social disparities, perhaps even indulging him on romantic ideals that he’d never dare voice aloud in real life. It was harmless escapism— something to look forward to after long days of research or particularly tedious transcribing sessions. And if those daydreams occasionally bled into waking hours? Well… no one needed to know that either.

By the time Spring was in full force, Quirrel realized that he'd been working underneath her for five or six months. The realization hits one morning as he trims weeds off a plant. Months had passed, and the thought settled over him quietly while pruning. It felt surreal how time had flowed without abrupt transitions or dramatic markers: just gradual shifts from winter to spring, each day blending seamlessly into the next.

Monomon sits nearby, her tendrils prodding and poking one of the blooming flowers. "What a lovely specimen," she coos, stroking the petals. "So blue... so beautiful." Her soft praise for the flower drew his attention; voice carrying that same reverence she often held for most fascinating discoveries (be they botanical, chemical or otherwise). The way the tendrils moved with such care around delicate florals spoke volumes about her ability to appreciate beauty in the smallest details… And he feels warmth steadily spread across him: comfortable, and content.

"Quirrel, dear— Come, bring some of that mint. It will do wonders to your tea." Monomon's free tendrils gently stir hers and his glasses, still steaming hot and fresh. "And share your thoughts this morning, darling." The invitation, both to join her and voice his morning thoughts, was as natural now as breathing. She’d long since made it clear she enjoyed these casual exchanges. And the way each day began with shared tea and quiet conversation had become one of his favorite parts of routine.

Gathering a sprig of mint, Quirrel carried it over carefully before crushing the leaves and adding it into both their cups (a habit he'd picked up from watching how she prepared hers). Settling beside the table where she sat, he exhaled slowly— the scent rising from steaming liquid mixing pleasantly with the garden's floral aroma around them.

Monomon stirs their cups again, watching how the leaves mix into the pale liquid, as a faint coolness rises from the tea. She brings the cup to her face, mask tilting up slightly; just enough to pour the cup into a hidden mouth. The sight of her drinking— mask adjusting subtly to accommodate intake— still held quiet fascination for him despite having witnessed it countless times by now. There was something almost sacred about the motion; a glimpse into private aspects of existence usually kept behind polished exterior.

Quirrel took a sip from own tea, the mint’s refreshing bite cutting through the warmth perfectly. For a moment, they simply sat there in comfortable silence; two scholars enjoying simple pleasure shared beverages amidst blooming plants. And then, Monomon prompts again. "What have you been up to, dear? I noticed the other night, when I brought you dinner, you had some... fascinating books left on your desk."

The knowing question paired with a reference to those books made his fingers tighten slightly around teacup. He hadn’t realized she’d seen them, let alone noticed specifics enough to recall details from a passing glance. ‘Does she know what they are about?’ The thought sent a brief spike of panic through him; if by some chance she had discovered the nature of his private reading material (especially given titles like "Love Beneath the Study"), would she find it ridiculous? Pathetic even?

"Ah… y-yes," Quirrel managed after clearing his throat. "Just… recreational reading." A vague answer at best, but all he could manage without incriminating himself further.

"Recreational." Monomon says it with a lilt to her tone. Teasing in a gentle, subtle way. She sets her teacup down, turning it to align the design with the saucer. Then she folds her tendrils neatly across her lap. "....I admit, I enjoy some light reading in my free time. Have you read anything by… T. Josef?"

The name T. Josef was one author Quirrel had seen in the bookshops, but never dared to pick up; the covers were more than too… spicy for even his tastes. He’d indeed spotted them before but never entertained purchasing due to the possible reputation he might gain. The memory sent his mind scrambling for a plausible response that wouldn’t reveal the depth of his own reading habits. That teasing in her voice also didn't help; it suggested she might already suspect more about him than he'd like acknowledged aloud…

"N-No," Quirrel spoke slowly and carefully. "I’ve seen works by them, but…" (But the painted covers looked scandalous even from across the shop.) "...they weren't quite to my taste."

"A shame. Should you change your mind, my private library is in the stairwell, down the hall from your room. I’ve got plenty of books for... recreational reading." Monomon giggles a bit, tapping a tendril to her mask. "Perhaps we can read together sometime. Recreationally."

Implications that lit a fire in his core. The giggle— light and almost playful— combined with how she says that sent his thoughts spiraling in directions he knew better than to entertain. The suggestion of shared reading time (especially from her personal, private collection) carried weight that made his pulse stutter despite best efforts to remain composed. ‘Recreationally…’ The word echoed in mind, conjuring images far more intimate than what she likely meant; not that he'd ever dare voice such assumptions aloud. After all, Monomon was a refined scholar and Quirrel was a gentleman. Best not assume anything.... Uncouth. Surely she simply meant enjoying literature together as colleagues would... right?

"Th-That sounds lovely," he replied finally, hands trembling just slightly around his cup.

Scholars exchanged glances; some hopeful that perhaps her "decision" simply wasn't announced yet. Others resigned to believing they had collectively failed some unspoken test. A few even stood abruptly as if to chase after her… only for no one actually to move toward the exit.

Had she really just left without naming anyone?  

Quirrel’s grip on his book tightened again involuntarily. If this was truly it… then what now? Would they all be sent away empty-handed? Or would there be further instructions coming from someone else about next steps?

There is a long period of silence. And then, slowly, one by one, the scholars file themselves out. Tired of waiting, tired of being patient. Some slam their tomes on the table and stomp away. Others carefully return them to their spots, and slink off sadly. The exodus was quiet at first: just the occasional shuffle of feet or rustle of fabric as scholars began gathering their things. But gradually, irritation and exhaustion turned movements into sharper gestures: books slammed down, chairs pushed back with unnecessary force. Soon enough, only a handful remained— those too stubborn or too numb to leave yet. The once-bright energy of hopeful competition had drained entirely from the space… replaced by something hollow and defeated.

Quirrel stayed seated longer than most; not out of defiance but because he simply didn’t know where else to go. His book still rested in his lap; the same one Monomon herself had marked up years ago. Now it felt like both a treasure and an irony. She’d praised him, called him smart, but it hadn’t mattered in the end.

A few more minutes passed before even he could ignore how emptying-out around him signaled that waiting any longer wouldn't change anything. And when Quirrel himself stands up to leave, and when he walks out, book clutched mindlessly in hand, he is stopped by a Kingsmould. Silent, emotionless, it blocks his path, and the abrupt halt— courtesy of the Kingsmould’s impassive form— sent a jolt through him. The soldier didn’t speak, didn’t even meet his eyes; just stood there like an unyielding wall and simply gestured for him to go the other way. Not towards the exit, no, but deeper into the palace?

For a heartbeat, Quirrel wondered if he’d misunderstood; but no, the gesture was clear. Not that way; this way. Toward the palace's interior rather than its exit. ‘Why?’ The question burned in his mind as he hesitated under the Kingsmould's stoic stare. Had Quirrel done something wrong specifically? Or was this some standard procedure for all applicants leaving?

After another tense second (during which refusing to comply felt unwise given how heavily guarded royal spaces were), Quirrel nodded stiffly and turned on heel toward where indicated; book still clutched tightly against himself as he went. The hallways lead deeper into the mysterious recesses . Past some open rooms, where servants work on cleaning. Past others, where they remain empty. And past a large window, which overlooks a courtyard.

For a moment, Quirrel can see a figure down in the garden. Someone who seemed to glow, adorned in white robes, face hidden by the leaves of the tree they sat under. But they are round in the belly, holding a small bundle in their pale arms. The fleeting glimpse of them— heavy with eggs, cradling something precious— stirred a pang of curiosity within him. Before Quirrel can stare longer, the Kingsmould at his back steps close, indicating for him to continue. Whoever they were, their presence seemed oddly out-of-place amidst Hallownest’s usual stoicism… especially given how casually they lounged under that tree. There was no time to dwell on it now; protocol demanded forward movement. With one last glance toward the window (committing details to memory just in case), Quirrel quickened his pace slightly, following when directed down these increasingly opulent halls that led somewhere new. The uncertainty gnawed at him even as he walked obediently along... because surely being separated from others meant something specific awaited him?

Where are they taking me?

And then, they enter another room. A small one, filled with shelves of ingredients and vials, smelling almost acrid with how many scents fill the room. But he can pick out one that seems to flow above it all; florals and fresh rain. And Monomon stands in one corner of the room, her many tendrils spreading out to collect this and that ingredient, filling a basket carried by a poor, struggling servant.

The stark contrast between the sterile, alchemical air of the room and Monomon’s unmistakable aroma hit him immediately— like stepping into a garden during a storm. The servant beside her looked nearly overwhelmed by having to keep up with her swift movements as she gathered ingredients with practiced efficiency. For someone who had just concluded an evaluation session moments ago, she seemed utterly absorbed in this new task, as if selecting apprentices hadn’t been emotionally taxing at all.  

Had she even considered any of them seriously? Or was this simply another routine chore for her?

The thought bit sharply— but he pushed it aside upon realizing that despite everything, he was still here. Still being led toward something. The Kingsmould halted near the door again; clearly signaling Quirrel should enter fully rather than linger on the threshold like some hesitant visitor. And when he does, Monomon's attention turns to him.

"Dear Quirrel," She says, and she says it so softly, so gentle, it was like greeting a friend. She spoke to him like he was someone she’d known for years, not a stranger who’d just stumbled through an evaluation. And the tenderness in her voice— so unlike the clinical atmosphere of the room or even the formality of their earlier interview— caught him off guard all over again. 

It sends heat through his frame, and he has to remind himself to remain professional. Monomon continues, "I am restocking some things, and then we will be on our way to the Archives. Do you need anything? Perhaps some special requests? Or perhaps, do you have any questions?"

On our way? To the Archives?

The implications hit slowly but surely: this wasn’t some dismissive follow-up meeting. She had chosen him after all. His fingers twitched against the book's cover still held in hand— the one bearing her own annotations— as reality settled over him fully now. Special requests? Asking, as if she genuinely cared about his comfort or needs before heading out as if this were some kind of partnership rather than her picking up a subordinate. Questions?

"N-No," Quirrel managed quickly. "I don't require anything." (Liar; half his brain was already listing potential questions about vessels and research logistics on how to study them... but asking seemed premature.)

"Alright then, my dear." And Monomon reaches a tendril out and gently, she ruffles his hood, like an affectionate headpat. "I won't be long. I have your room prepped already, and if you need anything else, we will send for it.”

The ruffle of his hood— so casual, so affectionate— sent his pulse skyrocketing all over again. It was such an intimate gesture that it left him momentarily speechless; no one had ever treated him with this kind of gentle familiarity before. And then came the revelation: she’d already prepared a room for him. Not some generic guest quarters either… but something tailored specifically to accommodate her new apprentice. 

‘She really did choose me…’

The thought lodged itself stubbornly in mind now, refusing to be ignored any longer despite earlier doubts. "Th-Thank you," he stammers, face flushing. "That's... very thoughtful." An understatement; it bordered on overwhelming generosity compared to what other mentors might’ve offered. And as Monomon returned attention toward gathering ingredients with the servant still scrambling behind her, Quirrel found himself standing there awkwardly once more— unsure whether he should help somehow or just wait quietly until they were ready to depart for Archives proper.

And yet.... no matter what, the thought was still there above all. He had been chosen. He had caught her attention. He had been the one to impress her. A terrifying and yet exhilarating thought.

The journey from the White Palace takes them through the Capital of Hallownest. A blossoming place of eternal rain, grand structures, and noble bugs of great wealth and knowledge. And within that, tucked into alleys and darkness, were the small, humble abodes of the lesser folk.

Quirrel makes his visit home quick; to pack up what little belongings he had in anticipation of this permanent move. His landlord, an elderly beetle, waves off his geo for the month's rent, and tells him to be safe and study hard, before sending him with an old, handmade quilt. The landlord’s kindness— giving up rent and even gifting him something without hesitation— highlighted just how significant this entire experience truly was. For someone of modest means to part with both time and resources for Quirrel's sake spoke volumes about their regard for him.  

He folded the quilt carefully into his pack alongside other essentials, pausing only briefly in his small room to take one last look around before stepping back out into City's drizzle-laced streets. The rain felt different now; not just background noise but a companion on journey toward new life as Monomon's apprentice. Every droplet that touched chitin seemed weighted with meaning… like Hallownest itself acknowledged a shift occurring within its boundaries.

No going back after this.

The thought carried no regret though— only quiet resolve as he turned away from familiar paths toward grander structures where she waited beyond gates leading deeper still into the kingdom's heart. The cart carrying Monomon's books and ingredients had plenty of space for Quirrel's modest collection of items. And a tarp covers the entire thing, keeping it all nice and dry.

The small entourage continues on to Fog Canyon.

It was a blessedly magical place that Quirrel had only gotten chances to read about. The misty caverns were filled with a fog, and flora that glimmered. Acid pools simmer here and there, and bubbles filled with gasses float about the air. Like a place from a magical story, rather than a true location. The cart, drawn by a Kingsmould, wheels noisily across the dirt and rocks. And nestled deep inside, built in the center island of an acid lake, was the Archives.

It was a glorious building with a green glow, and surrounded by large plants reminiscent of Greenpath. It is out here the Kingsmould leaves the cart, bowing to the floating Monomon before going back the way they came. "Leave it outside, I will get it later, dear Quirrel," Monomon says, voice soft and calm as she waves a tendril. She delicately floats inside the grand entrance. "Come, I will show you around."

A dream come true.

The Archives loomed before him like a vision given form: its emerald light pulsing softly through the fog, plants thriving unnaturally lush around its base despite being surrounded by acid. Every detail matched descriptions he’d read… yet seeing it in person made those words feel woefully inadequate. And Monomon’s invitation to follow her inside carried an almost surreal weight. This wasn’t just any tour; this was her domain— the place where she had worked for who-knows-how-long, where countless studies and discoveries undoubtedly lay buried within shelves upon shelves of knowledge.

Quirrel stepped over the threshold after her, his footsteps eerily quiet on polished floors compared cart's earlier clatter. He couldn't help but stare wide-eyed at towering bookcases stretching toward high ceilings lost partially in the persistent fog that creeped into the rooms. ‘This is real... I'm actually here,’ he thinks in awe.

Record tablets and tomes on shelves. Preservation containers filled with glowing green fluids. Ambery bronze structures and fixtures. Desks and boards filled with neat parchments and quills. This place was filled with all sorts of wonder. The entire building was built to be grand and large. Obviously, to accommodate her size, for she was tall, from head to tendril tip, and floated gracefully in this place she was familiarized with. They walk deeper into the building, which smelt chemical-like in the best way, and reach a hallway. At one end were two adjacent doors. At the other, a stairwell.

One of her glowing tendrils gestures to the stairs. "My room is up there. If you ever need a thing, dear Quirrel, never hesitate to come and ask. Any hour, no worry. I hardly sleep at consistent times." And then, she points to the other end with the doors. "And that is your bedroom and bathroom. Feel free to take today to move in, get settled. We will begin our work tomorrow morning.” She turns to him, her white mask focused on his face, and she asks in that silky soft tone. "Do you require anything at the moment, dear?" 

The kindness in her offer— come at any hour— felt staggering coming from someone of her stature. Most figures wouldn’t even tolerate being disturbed for trivial matters, let alone encourage it openly, yet here she was, extending such generosity without hesitation. And the accommodations themselves were beyond anything he could’ve expected: not just a room but an entire wind seemingly designated solely for him. The thought that this space had been prepared in advance, down to the bathroom’s inclusion, made his chest tighten with gratitude.

"N-No," he answered quickly. "I don't need anything right now." (Not physically anyway; mentally? Emotionally? His mind was already racing with anticipation over tomorrow's work.) A beat passed where he simply stood there under weight of all these new possibilities unfolding before him… until practicality nudged him toward the next step: settling into provided quarters properly.

"Then I will leave you be. I have already stocked your kitchen with essentials; and should you need anything else, simply leave me a list here." Her tendril moves to touch the door to the hallway, where a wooden box sits attached to the inside. "I will have it brought to you as soon as possible." And then she reaches out, gently ruffling his hood again. "Welcome home, dearest Quirrel." Monomon coos, and then she floats slowly to her stairs, disappearing from sight.

The ruffle— again— sent warmth flooding through him despite himself. And the words that followed: welcome home. They lingered in the air like something sacred, settling over shoulders heavier than any formal title ever could. He watched her ascend until she vanished up the staircase; only then did the reality of solitude truly sink in. No more cart noises or the bustle of the City… just the quiet hum that the Archives provided around him now as sole occupant within designated space. With cautious steps (as if walking on eggshells), Quirrel approached his bedroom door first; peering inside to confirm it really was his own before stepping fully across the threshold and shutting it gently behind himself.

Home.

It was twice the size of his small bedroom before. Maybe three times larger. It had a small kitchen the second you stepped in, with a stove, an icebox, some counter space and cabinets. Past that was a small dining table that was set by a large window, overlooking the gorgeous outside world of flora and the sizzling lake. There was an empty desk against a large bookshelf separating the living area from the bedroom. And the sleeping area had a massive bed set into the wall to create a cozy nook for slumber, with a dark curtain hung just outside to cover it, and a small shelf along the inside. To complete the room, a large mirror hung upon the wall beside the bed.

Each detail of the room unfolded like a revelation; more spacious, more thoughtful, and infinitely more personal than anything he’d ever had before. The kitchen alone was better equipped than his entire previous apartment combined. The desk and shelf were clearly intended for study. Even down to curtained bed nook offering privacy amidst such openness. The window’s view? The acid lake shimmering beyond vibrant greenery under Archives' glow added a layer of serenity rarely found anywhere else in Hallownest, let alone somewhere meant specifically as someone's home.

A slow exhale escaped him as he turned in place taking it all in once more. This wasn't just assigned quarters... This felt crafted with care toward the occupant's comfort (and perhaps academic needs too). And that realization left him momentarily speechless. She really went out of her way… And as Quirrel takes in more and more, noticing this and that new thing, he takes notice of every little addition.

And seated on the desk and bed separately were two small boxes, clearly intended to be welcoming gifts.

Inside the one on the desk was a new set of study materials, as well as a blank journal, bound and sturdy. And to complete the gift, some fresh candles and a holder for the late night studies. The desk box’s contents gleamed under ambient light— each item unmistakably high-quality. New quills untouched and crisp, ink bottles sealed tightly to preserve potency; parchment so smooth it seemed untouched by any previous use. But the journal stood out most among them all… its leather binding soft yet durable enough withstand frequent handling. The thought that this blank volume was meant solely for his own notes made something warm unfurl in his chest. ‘She provided materials just for me…’ Quirrel thinks, chest warm with the thought. The trust implied behind the gesture wasn’t lost on him either: she hadn't waited to see if he'd prove worthy first before supplying tools necessary for research.

Inside the box on the bed was something more personal. Some soft pajamas, and a simple pair of long tunics. A warm cloak for winter. And a brand new hood; it was strangely similar to the one he wore, but softer. A gorgeous blue, matching her own robes in color. And sewn into the hidden edge of it was a small stitching of her insignia. The personal nature of these gifts hit him harder than desk’s practical items had. The pajamas were clearly chosen for comfort: simple yet well-made. The cloak promised warmth against the occasional chill; but it was hood that truly stole his breath away. 

Blue— her signature color of clothing. Not just similar to her robes… but matching. And with insignia subtly stitched into its lining? This wasn't merely a gift, this was a mark of recognition, belonging even. Claiming, he as her apprentice.

Fingers traced edge fabric where emblem lay hidden from casual view; as if meant only he'd ever find it there. A private acknowledgement that despite him being new to any sort of job like this, he still belonged here now too. It was... intensely too much almost. The dumb romantic part of his brain could almost imagine it like the trashy romance books he guiltily liked to read; the scholar and his mentor, stolen away to a private retreat, where silent studies leads to soft moments shared, which then leads to tender touches and then—

Heat floods his face at the idea!

The mental image, so absurdly cliché compared reality yet somehow still vivid enough to make his pulse race, sent a fresh wave of embarrassment crashing over him. It was the kind of foolish fantasy one buried deep within private reading hours, never daring to voice aloud because how could something so sentimental possibly reflect real life? And yet here he stood… in space provided specifically for him by a woman who had just given gifts that screamed care and consideration.

The parallels were too stark to ignore now that the brain had gone there… leaving him flustered beyond words. ‘This isn’t some storybook! She’s simply being professional... probably.’ Quirrel tried to rationalize it away desperately; but denial only made heat spread further across chitin until the cool air of the room felt suddenly stifling.

Best to move on.

The bathroom was large too, when he entered. A lavatory, a sink, and a sunken tub as big as the new bed he got; massive enough to fit four bugs maybe. And it had a fancy plumbing system; judging by the labeled levers on the wall. Cold and hot water, at the touch of a button? How impeccably modern and high class! The bathroom’s opulence was almost overwhelming: the plumbing system alone more advanced than anything he’d ever encountered outside royal domains. The tub could’ve comfortably accommodated a small gathering; the labeled levers promised ease of use rather than trial-and-error adjustments typical lesser facilities.

There was also a shelf filled with essentials. Clean washcloths, fresh soapstones, and various lotions and salves, all neatly labeled. Meticulously organized with supplies that seemed tailored toward maintaining hygiene and comfort. Nothing cheap or generic here— every item clearly chosen for quality over cost. Quirrel found himself staring at soapstones in particular; their scents faint but pleasant (lavender, mint), suggesting they weren't just utilitarian but also meant to provide subtle enjoyment during routines like washing up after long days of study. She really thought everything through…

He spends more time there than he would admit. Just picking up each thing to sniff and marvel at. One jar in particular is scentless, clear, and when he sticks his finger in, strangely slick and smooth. What on earth could this be....? Closing it, he finds no label upon the sides or top, until he turns it upside down. Marked clearly was the words "Personal Lubricant" in her neat script.

The realization hit him like a bucket of cold water— his finger still coated with the slick substance as he read those two words in Monomon’s unmistakable handwriting. Personal lubricant… meaning for personal, intimate use. Which meant… well… His entire body locked up, brain short-circuiting between shock and sudden hyper-awareness of implications surrounding such an item being provided here at all. Was this standard for apprentices? Or had she specifically included it because she anticipated certain needs might arise given shared living space? Either way, the thought sent his mind spiraling into increasingly mortified scenarios where that jar could ever be relevant to him personally.

Certainly, sins of the flesh were no foreign or taboo, and Quirrel was... no stranger to them either. (He was a teenage bug once!) But still, to think that such a higher being like herself would... think of him needing something like this… Well, it certainly doesn't help him forget the trashy romance tropes from earlier.  Rather, it only fueled earlier romanticized notions further despite his best efforts to suppress them. The cognitive dissonance was nearly comical— how could someone so esteemed, so above such mundane concerns, have even considered this? And yet… here it was. Placed neatly among other necessities like nothing out of the ordinary. If she’d accounted for something as intimate as this, then what else had she planned or anticipated regarding their dynamic together? The line between professional mentorship and something more personal blurred dangerously in light of these discoveries today.

‘She probably just thinks ahead about all possible scenarios…’ Quirrel tried to convince himself again, but even that explanation felt flimsy now under the weight of evidence suggesting deliberate thoughtfulness beyond bare minimum provisions. ‘Get it together Quirrel! You are not ruining this with your terrible, unwanted fantasies! How immoral! How unprofessional!’ And he quickly shoved the jar in the deepest, darkest corner of the bathroom to forget about its terrible existence, and tried his best to just forget he even saw it. He was not going to need that of all things!

Best to move in.

The cart from before was inside now when he goes back out to check. All of her items unloaded, leaving his neat and untouched. He doesn't have much to move in, in the grand scheme of things. His small collection of study tomes and books. (The trashy novels hidden behind the larger ones!) His small amount of clothing. Some personal artifacts. The new quilt. And a few spices he had splurged a paycheck or two to get himself as a treat.

The process of unpacking was quick: his possessions fitting easily into the spacious new quarters without clutter. Books found their place on shelves, clothes hung in the wardrobe (which had ample room to spare), spices were tucked neatly into kitchen cabinets alongside her provided supplies. The contrast between his modest belongings and this grand space couldn't have been more apparent…

Yet somehow, it didn’t feel overwhelming anymore now that he'd settled somewhat. This truly was his home now: no longer temporary lodging but somewhere meant to last indefinitely. As the final item— the quilt— was draped over his bed where it could be reached easily during colder nights... Quirrel took a step back and surveyed everything again with a growing sense of contentment settling within chest.

Home.

He never truly felt it anywhere else. Not as a grub growing up. Not in the City, not in his humble bedroom. But here, in this place built for someone more deserving than him, surely? He felt it.

Home.

The word echoed in his mind with undeniable certainty; no hesitation, no doubt creeping in to undermine it. This was home not because of size or grandeur… but because for the first time in his life, someone had looked at him and said you belong here. No conditions attached; no tests left to pass after initial evaluation. Just acceptance so absolute that even surroundings seemed to embrace him rather than merely house.

A shaky breath escaped as the weight of realization fully sank bones, making knees feel oddly weak under sudden emotional tide crashing over usual guarded demeanor. The events of the day had left him drained. And although he should get a head start, perhaps get some study supplies ready, he felt the weary drowsiness begin to sink in. And the bed looked so comfortable.... and his new pajamas were so soft…

The temptation of bed’s cozy nook became impossible to resist as fatigue dragged at limbs. Even thinking about organizing anything for tomorrow felt like a monumental task now— too much effort when warm blankets and plush pajamas beckoned so enticingly. With only half-hearted resistance, Quirrel gave in… shedding outer layers quickly before donning new sleepwear, the soft fabric against chitin sending another wave of comfort through him. He barely made it under covers before exhaustion pulled him under entirely; mind still vaguely aware that morning would come soon enough, but for now? Rest was all that mattered.

The aching that radiated along his entire body almost was the next. He groans as he comes too, slowly. Oh gods, his head is pounding. When his eyes open, his vision is blurry, his ears are ringing, and something feels wrong. His armour stripped off his body, he was bare beneath a thin sheet. And bandages were wrapped around his wounds, which throb angrily. With a hiss of pain, he pushes himself up. His fingers touch the wound at his temple— and then he freezes.

Someone's here. He can feel their presence, watching him.

There is a faint singing beside him; a low melodic voice that felt like a private concert, just for him. And it was filled with longing; almost as if the song itself was searching for something, or someone. And the source was a tall— impressively tall— bug, with a golden shell, long black limbs, and a beautifully white mask; sitting beside him a distance away. She wears golden rings around her thin wrists, and is sketching onto paper; intricate images that remind him of Tamer’s skill as an artist.

“Ushkado rah… Kah lai-lai-lai-laiii… Ushka-ah mieshka rai-yah… Kah lai-lai-laiii…”

Tiso lies still, heart pounding in his chest. The voice reminds him so much of Hornet’s— haunting, deep, familiar— but not quite hers. He forces himself to sit up slowly, ignoring the pain spiking through his skull. His eyes lock onto her golden shell… the white mask… the way she moves like a shadow given form. "...Who are you?" he croaks. Not a demand this time. A rasp of disbelief.  "...Are you—?"

Her head turns to him, and she speaks so sharply, it almost shocks the pain out of his head. "Poshanka!” She stands— wow, she is so damn tall— and then steps closer, crouching low to meet his eye level. She was a massively impressive bug: a paper wasp, perhaps? “This is the way warriors will greet another in my land. And your weapons and armor showcase your fighting spirit. Though you are wounded, I can see the fire in you. Who are you?”

P— Poshanka?  

Tiso blinks at her, still dazed— and then something clicks. A greeting. A warrior’s salute. He tries to push himself up further, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Then… then poshanka to you too," he mutters hoarsely, mimicking the sharp tone as best he can. "Tiso. Champion of Hallownest." He glances around quickly, nervous now. "...Where’s my gear? My shield? My tokens? Where did you put them…?"

"They are drying. For I found you half-drowned in a tunnel, bleeding from the head." The golden bug points to where his items were strung up, still drip-drying. And when his head tilts over to confirm, he finally gets a proper look at where they were. They are in a... massive structure. The walls were enormous bells, larger than anything he's seen. Smaller ones littered the ground, pushed aside to create walkways. Where the pair of them were, was a small gap in the wall, where one of the grander bells must have been before.

Upon locating his gear, his anxiety eases. His armor, his weapons, his tokens: all untouched and right there, drying where he can see it. A wave of relief washes over him, and he can feel tension ebbing out of him. The pain in his head lessens, too, and his eyes travel up to her tall form again, eyes narrowing. "You pulled me out," he mutters. "You brought me here and patched me up. Why?"

"Bah, it is right to care for our fellow bug. To leave you there speaks poorly of my spirit, and my tribe are people who aid when needed." She hums. "You are foreign to this land. Hallownest is a name I have not heard of before. Well, names are freely given, and as you are given me yours, Warrior Tiso, I give mine." And she stands up, all glorious height, and bows deeply. "I am Shakra, Wielding Rings."

Tiso looks up at her— up, and up, and up— at this towering goddess who saved him from dying in the dark. She is beautiful, tall and elegant and sharp like a warrior should be. His eyes go a touch wide, stunned by the sight of such a perfect being bowing to him. "You... saved my life," he says, still in disbelief. "Shakra, then. Warrior and Wielder of Rings… I owe you a debt."

"Bah!!" Shakra says it so sharply, he can only jump, and she crouches again. "Debts are useless. To pay it forward is the best repayment. Save your fellow bug, when they need it. And so, tell me, Warrior Tiso of Hallownest, what has brought you to the haunted land of Pharloom?"

Tiso takes a deep breath, still feeling more than a little stunned to have someone so goddamn gorgeous towering over him. He falters, brain struggling to find an answer. "I'm... not sure, to be honest," he says slowly. "I'm stranded here, far from my own land, looking for..." As memory returns, he goes silent, staring at the ground. "...my lost mate."

"Your mate." Shakra turns the word in her mouth. "Ah, in my tribe, we know of mates and lovers. We are not exclusive with our love, however, and many of my people hold multiple mates. Should even one be lost, the entire tribe would go into uproar, to find them. To locate a lost lover is a most sorrowful task." She bows her head in sadness. "I apologize that your mate has been lost. If I am to see them, I will surely tell them of your arrival.”

Tiso’s eyes widen; this strange, tall bug talking about the openness of her tribe’s romantic life so casually almost has him shocked speechless, but he bites that emotion back. This place certainly was a culture shock. Yet, the topic itself— mates, lovers, multiple of them even— it just makes him miss Hornet all over again. And when she offers to take time out of her day to tell Hornet if she ran across her? For a moment, he's overwhelmed. "You… You would do that?" he says hoarsely. "You would really help like that?”

"Yes. While I cannot stray from my own task of locating my mentor, if I am to find your mate along the way, I will seek to reunite the two of you." Shakra nods in affirmation. And that… that makes Tiso relax just that much more.

"Then... your help will be most appreciated," he murmurs, sitting up a little straighter. His eyes lock onto hers; not with challenge, but something rarer. Respect. "You search for your mentor. I search for my mate. Both lost in this damn kingdom." He gestures to the faintly ringing bells around them, the endless spread of them. "Seems fate dropped me right in your path then." A faint smirk tugs at his lips.

“Tell me of this mate of yours, Warrior Tiso.” Shakra rests a hand on her chin. Sharp eyes focused so intensely on him, it made him shiver. He suddenly felt self-conscious about his bare state…

“Err…” Tiso clears his throat, then his voice drops low. “She’s got a hell of a personality. If you see her— red cloak, sharp tongue, even sharper nail— don’t fight her.” A beat. "...She’s got more skill than anyone I’ve ever met."

"Red cloak, sharp tongue?" And Shakra begins to laugh. A loud, proud noise, that rings against the bells around them. The sound of it has him staring up in utter confusion; and then she asks, "Your mate, does she stick her head into bells and slam her nail into them? Does she touch every soft thing in sight?"

Tiso’s eyes go wide as her question registers. "Yes," he says at once, "Yes, that's... that's her." He stands suddenly, ignoring the pain in his head. His heart is pounding now. "Wait— wait, you've seen her? You've seen her?"

"I have! She is a fierce warrior, and so strange. The first time we met, she spent a good long time gawking at me like she had never seen a bug my size. She blushes when she talks, and she likes to bury herself beneath the weight of the bells on the ground.” Shakra stands to mirror him, her height having her look down upon him. “Yes. I have seen this mate of yours. Hornet, is the name?"

"Hornet," Tiso confirms, and his entire body sags with a deep, shuddering sigh of relief. The weight of worry lifts off him like a wave of water— she's safe. She's alive, with all her strangeness, and that fierce spark in her eyes, and here's this strange bug not only saying that she’s alive, but telling him she's okay. A shuddering breath, and then he takes a few slow, careful steps closer, staring up at her like a man possessed. "Where did you last see her?"

"I saw her entering the Citadel. A place above us, where all pilgrims in this land travel to. She has tasked herself with solving the mystery of why she was brought here, before she is to return home. She told me once, if she just left, there is nothing stopping more of the strange bugs in white from chasing. She worried for the safety of her mates at home, so she was determined to solve everything here.” Shakra tilts her head, closing her eyes. “She has saved many bugs these last few weeks." 

Tiso’s fists clench. "She... stayed?" The words come out quieter than he expects. There's a warmth in his chest: fierce and sudden pride cutting through the fear like a blade. Of course she didn't run. Of course she didn't flee. Hornet doesn't hide from danger, she stares it down. And if there’s a threat that could follow her home... she’ll burn the whole damn world before letting any of it perpetuate, let alone reach Tamer and their eggs waiting back in Hallownest.

The ant turns away slightly, rubbing his face— not to hide emotion (he’d never, not anymore), but to control it. "...Then I’m going to the Citadel." His voice is steel again now. Cold. Determined. "Once I find her… we're ending this nonsense for good."

"I admire your fire, but you are still injured. Rest, awhile longer.” Shakra places one hand upon his shoulder, claws clutching him firmly. “This city here is Bellhart. The people here are few, but good. Your mate returns often, so should you wait, she will surely come." Shakra nods, words firm. "Her mate is better alive than injured, yes?”

Tiso opens his mouth and closes it, swallowing back the protest on his tongue. She's right. As much as it kills him, she's right. He knows Hornet, and she'd never forgive him if he went after her while injured. She'd never forgive herself if he got hurt even more, chasing after her. He's not a fool. Hornet taught him better than that.” "...Fine," he mutters, jaw clenching. "But I'm not waiting long. The minute I can stand, I'm heading for the Citadel.”

"I do not blame you, Warrior Tiso. You have a fire in you. I like it." Shakra moves her hand to his chin, tilting his face up to admire him. Her tone is a soft hum; like a secret song, just for him. "If you were not mated, I surely would have pursued you from the moment we had met. And Hornet too. Alas, I am not so lucky, am I?"

Tiso’s eyes widened further. For the second time in minutes, he's taken aback— not a single smart or witty retort leaves him. She's tall, beautiful, powerful, elegant, perfect in all ways, and she would seriously want to chase after a grumpy little thing like him? "You… You would have…” His cheeks turn warm, and with a scowl, he bats away her hand. “You're mad," he grumbles. "You're out of your damn mind."

"Ah, but I am not. From what little I know of you, I can already say with confidence that Hornet and you make a good pair; a good set of mates. I would have been blessed to participate." Shakra laughs heartily and places her hands on her hips. Her long, gorgeous antennae twitch, in interest. "Rest, you are safe in Bellhart. When you are hungry, dress, and go down these steps. I have paid the couriers to give you a meal when you feel ready for it."

Tiso, still flustered and warm, turns his gaze to the ground, trying to hide how she was affecting him. "...You paid for food too?” He shakes his head, muttering under his breath. ‘Damn fool of a bug… saving my life, patching me up, feeding me…’ The thoughts race inside his mind, like a snowstorm’s flurry. ‘And claiming she’d want to... join us?’ A sharp exhale. Not from annoyance, almost amusement.

"Fine," he says aloud, lying back down. "I’ll rest. But only because it serves my purpose." Kinda cheesy, but Tiso’s sure this strange warrior wouldn’t judge him for it. He closes his eyes, sighing a little. Then, a bit shyly, murmurs, "But when I see Hornet... I’m telling her you wanted in."

"I'm sure she will become as red as her cloak! She seems incapable of speaking to women, after all~" Shakra laughs again, picking up one of her maps and tucking it under her arm. And then she jumps off the perch, and vanishes.

Tiso stares up at the ceiling, face still warm. He can't even remember the last time he felt this way: flustered in the presence of another powerful warrior. And it's all because of this beautiful woman, with those dark eyes… He'd be lying if he said he wasn't thinking about what a night with her would look like… He scrunches his eyes shut, forcing the thoughts away. “Damnit," he mutters with a groan. "Why the hell is it the tall ones…?” And he covers his face, taking a deep breath, and tries to relax.

His breath caught. Her name alone carried weight— every scholar worth their salt knew who she was: brilliant beyond measure, her research shaping entire disciplines. Her voice was rumored to hold an otherworldly resonance that could captivate even the most stone-faced warriors. An invitation? To meet with her? This wasn't just luck... this was an opportunity incarnate. One that he spent no time at all prepping to head there at once.

The journey had been made by many— a small group gathered from across kingdoms under similar notice. Scholars (some already published) and the aspiring in-training, artisans specializing in alchemical instruments, all other hopefuls seeking recognition. All crowding, all standing outside with their claws clutching scrolls of their summons. Shuffling about in their robes and cloaks, antennae all around twitching in fear, anxiety, and anticipation. A towering figure clad in pale armor stood guard by massive gilded doors— their mask unreadable, but posture rigid enough to make even seasoned travelers second-guess stepping forward without permission. How impressively terrifying.

The gates to the grand, massive palace open for these scholars, and Kingsmould lead them in: wordless, silent, and void of reaction. The collective group dare not speak, not even in whispers amongst themselves. Too intimidated by the Palace, by the awe of the home of the Pale King, and his wife, the White Lady. As it were, the people of Hallownest knew little of the details surrounding his power, of his grandeur— but enough to worship and respect him as he deserves. They knew enough to treat his court with the same reverence as he.

The group is not ushered into the main throne room— no, that was for meeting with the King, and so rarely does the King take visitors these days. No, they are ushered into a large side room, with shelves of books and empty tables. No one sits or relaxes; they all stand stiff and straight, some holding scrolls, others holding bags, and some none at all. The air was faintly sweet; an alluring scent that seemed to encourage you into a dreamless sleep— almost.

Quirrel stood near the back of the group, his hands clasped tightly behind him to hide their slight tremble. The opulence around him was staggering: every polished surface gleamed under soft, ethereal lighting, and every shelf groaned under meticulously arranged tomes that looked as if they had been steadied by royal hands themselves. The scent lingering in the air only deepened his nerves. It wasn't unpleasant— if anything, it carried an almost hypnotic warmth— but combined with the overwhelming pressure of being in such a sacred space, it made his thoughts feel heavy. He forced himself to focus on breathing evenly instead of fidgeting like some nervous hatchling fresh out of its shell.

Around him were others far more experienced than he: a few murmurs had already begun between them before they'd crossed into this chamber (whispered debates about theories or practical applications), but now? Silence reigned supreme. As time passes, they remain standing in the stillness, with no one coming into this grand library to speak with them. Anxiety grows, nervousness filling the air, and eventually, the silence becomes whispers. Speaking amongst themselves, in pairs and groups. Two in front of Quirrel begin to speak as well.

"What is that smell? I can't breathe without tasting it."

"Smells like someone's nesting."

"A nest?"

"Yes, you oaf. A nest— haven't you ever had a mate before?"

The whispering continues. Quirrel's antennae twitched at the hushed conversation directly before him, his focus momentarily torn between maintaining composure or listening in. Though, he did not want to seem like an eavesdropper. The mention of "nest" made something click in his mind. He'd read about it before— in some obscure biological texts on insect courtship behaviors. Some species did build intricate nests for their mates, releasing pheromones or scents that were... comforting? Attractive? It varied by species. And while he himself had yet to court or be courted in a serious manner, he knew enough of the social aspect of it to not be as naive as one of the bugs standing in front of him. Now that he had a word to put to it, the air did in fact have the aroma of nesting.

But this wasn't just any scent— it was refined. Controlled. Almost artificially sweetened compared to natural instincts he's read about. Perfect to the extremes. Was that intentional? Had someone perfected replicating such smells within palace walls? A part of him wanted to interject with theories (because really, who wouldn’t), but another part reminded him sharply that now is not the time for academic rambling! So instead… he stayed quiet, absorbing every word without giving away too much interest beyond polite attention. Though internally, curiosity burned like the brightest flames.

The doors to the room open, and the rush of silence that follows is near-deafening. Followed by a Kingsmould that absolutely dwarfs him, a tiny bug in a froufy looking suit appears, and he clears his throat. "Honored scholars and guests, Madam Monomon is running a bit late today; she was held up in the Royal Gardens due to an... incident. She appreciates your patience, and will be here shortly!" The bug squeaks.

One of the elder scholars in the crowd scoffs. "We have important topics to research, studies to fulfill; have you no respect for our time?" He asks, voice scathing. A few murmurs of agreement pipes up.

The tiny bug looks unphased. "The door is there, if you do not desire to wait!" He huffs, and then he turns and leaves, the door slamming behind him.

The tension in the room skyrocketed after that exchange. The elder scholar's sharp criticism— while not entirely unjust— had come off as petulant, almost entitled. And the tiny bug’s dismissive response had only fueled irritation among some attendees. Quirrel winced internally at the scene unfolding around him. He understood why they were frustrated (time was precious for scholars), but outright snapping at a palace attendant? That wasn’t just rude; it could be dangerous if taken poorly by those with more influence.  

A few muttered complaints continued— "Unprofessional," "Disrespectful to Her Majesty's staff…", “The nerve of some bugs!”— while others simply crossed their arms and waited, resigned to what seemed like inevitable delays. And some did take the advice. The elder scholar, followed by three or four others, marched their way to the door, heads held high, and vanish on the other side. And about 10 minutes later, two more leave, murmuring to one another about impatience.

Time stretches. About 30 minutes into the delay, three more have left through those doors. The numbers dwindled steadily, each departure leaving the room quieter— more hollow. The initial group of perhaps sixty or more had now shrunk to barely forty souls still standing in anticipation. Quirrel remained where he was, unmoving despite the growing restlessness around him. He knew what those who left were thinking: that their time was too valuable to waste waiting on someone who might not even show up for them today.

But… he couldn't bring himself to walk away yet. Not when this was his first, and possibly only chance at meeting Monomon directly! What if she did arrive soon? What if they missed her entirely by leaving early? The thought made his stomach twist with regret already just imagining it happening. Besides... surely a delay like this meant something important must have occurred in the Royal Gardens? And after another ten minutes, the doors open again; but no one is leaving, no.

Someone enters.

Her presence is a procession of an approach. The air itself seemed to still the moment she entered— as if Hallownest itself paused in reverence. The room becomes alight with a glow, the soft luminescence radiating from her form casting gentle reflections on every surface: painting the room in hues of silver and blue. She floats delicately into the room, gleaming like a moonbeam, delicate as a song. Her long tendrils hover just slightly above the marbled floors, and she wore a long, luxurious blue robe that trails behind her. Upon her face was a white mask, with four eye holes; two large ones, and two smaller ones. And when she enters, the room becomes encased in the scent of florals, and fresh rain. She was ethereal. She was magnificent.

And she was Monomon, the Teacher.

Quirrel’s breath hitched. Every word he’d ever read about Monomon paled compared to seeing her now— this wasn’t just a scholar or teacher; this was someone beyond ordinary comprehension. Her mask gave nothing away (as masks rarely did), but even so, there was an undeniable presence about her: an authority that didn't need shouting or grandeur to be felt. She moved with quiet grace, tendrils drifting like weightless ribbons behind each step until she reached the center of the room... then stopped. A beat passed where no one dared make a sound— not even breathing too loudly risked disrupting whatever aura surrounded Her Majesty at that very second. And Quirrel? He barely remembered how lungs worked.

When Monomon finally spoke, it was an echoing song, a melody that drifted and filled their heads; soft and yet sure. Powerful as thunder, and yet delicate as mist. "Hello, dear scholars. I must apologize for my lateness." Her mask turns, gaze sweeping over every bug in attendance. "I have had some difficulties in my studies, and had much to clean up in anticipation of my assistant's arrival." Her eyes, although covered, linger on every single face. And when she gets to Quirrel, he can feel it. Like a warmth, spreading up his spine. "And by the time I had arrived, my presence was deeply needed in the Gardens. I do hope you will accept my apologies, dear scholars," She continues, bowing her head in respect.

The warmth of her attention when it settled upon him felt almost tangible, like the brush of sunlight through stained glass. It wasn’t just that she looked at him; it was as if she truly saw him in a way few ever had. And he suddenly wished his robes weren’t so plain, or his posture not slightly hunched from nerves. But there was no changing that now.

The rest of the scholars murmured polite responses to her apology: some still visibly annoyed but unwilling to show outright rudeness toward someone like Monomon. A few even bowed their heads back with the same respect, but none with more sincerity than Quirrel did without thinking. A small motion, one easily missed by most present, except perhaps for Her Majesty herself? If those masked eyes lingered on any particular face longer than others— well, only time would tell.

The doors close behind her, and she floats carefully over to stand before the bookshelves behind her. Her robes glimmered with her movement; like a thousand stars have been caught in the very fabric itself. "I see so many bright minds here, so many people to speak with and learn with..." Monomon sighs softly. "But I cannot accept everyone. No, not now... But, I hope to select the soul that will work best in my Archives.... so I ask a task of you." One of her tendrils extend to the bookshelf. "Please select one of these tomes... the one you find most important. And I will study every one of your answers in order to select my apprentice.”

A ripple of quiet murmurs passed through the group at her words— some hopeful, some already calculating which books might impress most. A few even subtly shuffled closer to the shelves as if proximity alone could grant them an advantage. Quirrel remained still for a moment, absorbing the weight of what she'd just said. This wasn’t simply an interview; this was a test; to see not just knowledge but personal judgement. The ability to recognize significance where others might overlook it. And given his love of reading, he felt strangely well-prepared for something like this. With careful steps— not wanting to seem overly eager yet equally unwilling to lag behind— he moved toward one section of shelves. This area was dedicated primarily to academic texts on alchemy and philosophy rather than practical field guides or historical records, and he felt that might come off as useful.

With a wave of her tendril, and her soft voice, Monomon says, "Please, take your time. I will wait, as you have waited on me. No rush, no worries; pick the one that speaks to you."

And despite that, the scholars rush the shelves. Some quickly seized control of the few ladders around to try and climb high, to find the best books and tomes there. Quirrel is nearly run over in the rush; he's rounder, plumper than most, and therefore, not as quick. The sudden surge forward was almost comical in its desperation— scholars elbowing past each other, scrambling for the books like starving bugs at a feast. The sheer lack of decorum (considering they were standing before Monomon, no less!) would’ve been amusing if Quirrel hadn’t nearly been trampled himself! He stumbled back slightly, catching himself against one shelf as others bolted ahead with single-minded urgency. A few even reached up to yank books down without bothering to read titles first— just grabbing whatever looked weighty or prestigious.

‘Typical academic behavior…’ he thought wryly, all that study just undone by sheer competitiveness when it mattered most. Shaking off the near-death experience, he took a breath and refocused on his own search— not letting their frantic energy dictate his pace. After all… rushing might lead him to pick something hastily based only on appearances rather than genuine significance. And besides… Monomon had said there was no rush.

Time passes.

Some pick quickly, and sit at one of the empty chairs to double check and pour over the books. Others second-guess themselves, and return for a second selection. And some take their time, thumbing each name to find the one that looked best. Quirrel was one of them— far more than most around him, who seemed either too confident or too anxious to try again. He moved methodically along the shelves, scanning titles with careful consideration.

Alchemical recipes? Too narrow in scope for an apprentice position unless she specialized solely in that field... Philosophical debates on ethics? Important but perhaps overly abstract without practical applications. A few particularly rare volumes caught his eye— first editions signed by notable researchers— but even those felt like they were chosen because they were impressive rather than because he truly believed they held inherent value beyond their status. No… he needed something else. His fingers brushed over another section of books: ones dealing not just with theory but application— the kind scholars used daily when actually working within Archives or labs. These weren't "flashy" titles meant for show; these were tools used by professionals.

Eventually, his fingers found the edge of something that was... okay. A fine selection, he thinks; something about the flora and fauna of Hallownest. Simple, but efficient, and important to study! But as he pulls it out— a great hefty thing— he drops it. Cursing softly, he bends down to pick it up and… Quirrel sees the edge of a black, dusty book, shoved underneath one of the many shelves. He can barely make out the title, it's so worn; but he can see the word, clear as day—

VESSELS.

The word struck him like a physical force: so unexpected that for a moment, he simply stared at the book’s spine. Vessels? Not nature nor mechanical, not philosophy or alchemy, but something entirely different. Something obscure, something old enough to have faded from common knowledge. And yet, undeniably significant in its own right if it warranted being studied closely enough to gain such an aged look. A flicker of curiosity burned through him, overriding any earlier hesitation about switching selections. Without thinking much beyond ‘I need to see this,’ Quirrel carefully slid his first choice back into place and reached for the dusty volume instead.

The weight of it in his hands felt heavier than anticipated—like it carried more than just pages. It was a smaller book than most, but so worn, that the pages look like they might disintegrate by touch. It had a latch that locked, but the metal was broken, and thus, the book was able to be opened. And the script inside was worn, difficult to read, but he could see signs of new ink; someone had marked this book up like it was a common library book. Notes in the margins, underlines and circles. And the smell... it smelt like smoke, ash, and yet, nothing at all.

The contradiction in the scent— something that smelled like destruction yet emptiness— was unsettling. It clung to his fingers as he carefully turned the first brittle page, each movement deliberate to avoid tearing it. The notes inside were extensive. Not just idle scribbles but thorough annotations from someone who had clearly poured hours (days? months?) into studying this text. The handwriting varied slightly in places: some sections neater than others, suggesting multiple phases of study over time. And despite how worn-down everything looked… there was an intensity here. A passion for knowledge that went beyond academic curiosity and bordered on something almost desperate. Who would’ve marked up a book like this so thoroughly? And why one about vessels specifically?

What even was a vessel...?

Someone pushes past Quirrel rudely, grasping his first choice and huffing, "Boy, don't block the books!" Before they turn on their heel and return to the tables with the other scholars, sitting with a small group and beginning to read through their book. The abrupt shove nearly sent Quirrel stumbling again, but he caught himself quickly— too absorbed in the book to fully react beyond a brief scowl at the scholar’s rudeness.

Vessel… What was it? The word alone didn’t immediately conjure any clear definition. He had studied biology, chemistry, history, yet nothing sprang to mind about "vessels" as a distinct category of study beyond vague associations (like containers for liquids or biological structures). But this book suggested it was something more... specialized. And given how meticulously annotated it was… someone must have considered vessels incredibly important enough to warrant such thorough research.

Setting aside irritation over being pushed around, Quirrel focused back on deciphering portions of text through smudged ink and faded script. If he could piece together even a general idea of what these notes were about... maybe then its significance would make sense. Quirrel didn't even realize when he wandered back to the tables and chairs. Didn't even register sitting down. But eventually, he hears her speak again.

Monomon.

"It appears everyone has selected a book." The teacher's voice was so soft, so musical. She gently places two tendrils— hands?— together, clapping them once. "Now then, one by one, I will call you by name, and you will speak to me for... about five minutes about your selection. I will listen, then you may return to your seat.  Please, continue reading as we do so."

The murmurs begin again, especially after she calls a name, and a shambling old scholar stands. The first scholar approaches with deliberate, measured steps— clearly someone used to formal presentations. His book was large and leather-bound, its title unmistakably prestigious: "Theoretical Analysis of Soul." Quirrel listened only half-attentively as the man launched into an explanation of his choice; how it laid out foundational principles essential for understanding advanced soul theory. It was impressive… in a very academic way.

‘But did she truly care about reciting dry theories? Or would she prefer something more applied?’ He wondered silently while glancing back down at his own weathered tome.

Around him, others kept reading their selections or exchanged quiet observations when names weren’t being called yet... all waiting their turn under that same scrutinizing presence, all waiting for their chance to speak, for Monomon to listen. And listen she does. She says not a word, focused on the scholar before her. And when the time is up— time she must be keeping in her brilliant mind— she offers a tendril, shakes the hand of the one before her. When they return to their seat, she calls another.

And another.

Some don't shake her hand: either nervous or disgusted by her non-bug-like appearance. Plenty ramble about their choice, others stutter. Quirrel watched the spectrum of reactions with growing fascination, how differently each scholar responded to her. The handshakes (or lack thereof) spoke volumes about their comfort levels, while their presentations revealed just as much about their priorities.

Some of the choices themselves are odd. Cooking 101? The Art of Improv? Copulation and Reproduction? (That one is picked by a blushing fool of a scholar, and earns some snickers here and there. These selections were baffling choices for an apprenticeship under a researcher like Monomon, though he supposed even mundane subjects could have academic merit if approached seriously enough.

But reproduction? Really?

He couldn’t help but stifle a small huff at that one; both amused and slightly embarrassed on behalf of whoever had chosen it. Though honestly, given how stiffly they delivered their explanation between stammers, they clearly hadn’t expected such reactions either.

A few more names passed before his own would be called (he hoped). Each presentation lasted exactly five minutes without fail— not a second longer or shorter despite varying degrees of eloquence from speakers... proving she truly was keeping strict time internally somehow. How does she do that…?

"Quirrel."

Her name on his tongue is... truly magical. She calls, and he follows; his body responding before his mind catches up. She awaits for him at her spot by the bookcases, and when he approaches, she is... magnificently large. The moment he stood before her, the sheer scale of Monomon became impossible to ignore— not just in physical presence but in everything. The way light caught on her form, how stillness radiated from her despite the quiet energy around them… it was overwhelming.

And so beautiful, Quirrel forgets to speak: just standing there, dumbly, with his face flushed.

His own traitorous body was failing him; face burning so intensely he could feel heat creeping up under his chitin. His mouth opened slightly as if words might magically appear, but nothing came out. ‘Think! Say something coherent!’ he mentally berated himself. ‘You’ve studied for years— you can talk about a book like this!’

Monomon tilts her head to one side, then she brings a tendril up to her mask, and she giggles. "You've selected a very interesting book," She says, whisper soft. The sound of her laughter— soft and melodic— sent a jolt through him. It wasn’t mocking; it was genuine, almost… delighted? Her tendril moves to touch the cover, dusty and worn, and brushes it clean. Signed, underneath the title, was the author's name, in bold letters. 

MONOMON.

The revelation hits him like a damn boulder: this book wasn’t just about vessels. It had been written by Monomon herself. Her own research? Her personal annotations?! A wave of realization crashed over him at once— the reason for its condition, why someone had marked it up so thoroughly… because it likely hadn't been meant to leave her hands in the first place! This must have been an old draft or reference copy from years ago that she'd since abandoned among shelves.

His fingers tightened slightly around the book’s edges, suddenly hyper-aware of how significant this artifact truly was. To hold something written by her, something she had clearly poured effort into studying, felt like an honor beyond measure. And now she was looking at him, waiting for him to speak about it while he stood there still reeling from both her presence and this discovery.

‘Get it together!’ he chided internally, forcing himself to focus on answering properly rather than gawking like some awestruck hatchling. "Y-Yes," he managed finally, fingers trembling around the delicately worn book. "It's... your work?"

"It is." Monomon pulls her tendril back, all flexible and long (and Quirrel tries to think only professional thoughts about that) as she hums. "I was looking for that one for a while now. I suppose his Majesty had uses for it, so it left my care. I was wanting to copy it to a fresher book, too. That one is about ready to fall into pieces." As if on cue, the book crackles in his tight grip, and a small split appears on the leather cover. The sound made his heart lurch— both from panic (oh no, he was damaging it!) and a strange pang of sadness.

This book had clearly endured much already; now even holding it seemed like risking its total collapse. Yet despite her obvious fondness for the text, Monomon didn’t seem upset at all. If anything, she remained as serene as ever, watching him with quiet amusement. Was that another giggle? He swore he heard one— but perhaps he imagined it amidst his own flustered state.

"Ah—! S-Sorry!" he blurted out instinctively, "I-I'll be careful!”

"It is alright, dear Quirrel." The endearment— dear Quirrel— and the way she addressed him as a friend sent his thoughts spiraling. He was no longer just another applicant; he was someone acknowledged directly by her, spoken to warmly… and that alone made this entire interaction feel surreal. (And gods, he will never forget how his name sounds on her tongue.) Monomon lowers her tendril from her face, clasping two together once more. "Go on then; why did you select this book, my scholarly friend?"

‘She’s asking about my reason, so focus,’ the pill bug reminded himself, forcing his attention back onto the question rather than getting lost in how she phrased things. "Well," he began cautiously, "I... wasn’t immediately familiar with what ‘vessels’ referred to in research terms. But upon finding it here… I noticed your annotations were so thorough." A beat passed where he weighed whether admitting ignorance would seem unprofessional, but honesty seemed safer than bluffing.

Monomon nods in acknowledgement, remaining silent for him to continue. And encouraged by her patient silence, Quirrel continued; his words gaining a bit more steadiness as he spoke. "It wasn’t just the notes themselves… It was how they evolved. Some sections had multiple layers of revision, like you studied this topic over years, refining your understanding each time." He hesitated briefly before adding, "And given that it’s your own work… I assumed vessels must be something deeply significant to warrant such sustained research." ‘That much should be obvious,’ he thought dryly, but better safe than presumptuous.

"Oh yes," She interjects, nodding sagely. "His Majesty wanted nothing but the best research for this topic. I consider it a masterpiece, among most of my works." Then she pauses, laughing softly. "Oops, I am talking too much! I shouldn't be wasting your minutes, go on dear Quirrel." Her self-awareness— admitting she was rambling despite her being the one interviewing him— was unexpectedly charming. Most figures of authority wouldn’t dare interrupt their own process to apologize for chatting too much, let alone address applicants with such gentle terms.

She really isn’t like other scholars.

Quirrel swallowed lightly before pressing forward again, now more confident given her openness. "Right… well," he said, "Given how central vessels must be to Hallownest’s research if they warranted royal oversight... I assumed it had applications beyond just theory. Maybe biological? Or perhaps related to some form of containment?"

The glow of her body brightens in response to his statement— Agreement? Anger? The subtle brightening was intriguing, and he wondered ultimately whether it signaled approval or deeper interest. It was hard to tell, with her face covered, but she shows no signs of stopping him. Just nods once more, and leans in a little to hear him better. And the fact that she leaned in slightly to listen more intently spoke volumes about her engagement. It emboldened him further, knowing his theories weren’t being dismissed outright. So he pushed ahead cautiously.

"Vessels… they could be some sort of physical containers for souls," he mused aloud. "Or maybe constructs meant to hold or channel power? Some ancient rituals from pre-Kingdom texts mention containing objects used in ceremonies— but those are vague at best." A pause. "Unless... you were studying for something far more specific?"

Monomon giggles again, and she leans in closer, gesturing for Quirrel to do so as well. The invitation to step in— an unspoken gesture of shared intimacy during their conversation— made his pulse jump. This wasn’t just a formal interview anymore; it felt like a private exchange between two scholars, despite the audience around them. Carefully (and trying not to seem too eager), Quirrel mirrored her movement, bending slightly forward until he was close enough that if she spoke quietly… only he would hear.

The scent of rain and flowers grew stronger with proximity— subtle yet impossible to ignore up close. And now? Now her masked face was mere inches from his own. "You are a bright mind, Quirrel," She whispers, her voice thrumming through his veins like a shot of adrenaline. She gently rests a tendril on the book, and it brushes his fingers lightly— soft, squishy, and sending heat through his body. "You see what others may not. You are very odd, and very smart." And then she straightens up, chirping, "And that's time, it was a pleasure to meet you, dear Quirrel." She offers that beautiful tendril for him to shake.

‘Think normal, professional thoughts, Quirrel!’

The compliment— delivered in that whisper-thrum of hers— hit him like a physical blow. Bright mind. Odd, but smart. No one had ever described him quite like that before, and coming from her, it carried weight beyond flattery. Then came the sudden shift back to formality: the cheerful farewell, the outstretched tendril for a handshake signaling their time was up. His brain scrambled to match her energy, scrambling for composure even as his fingers tingled where she’d brushed against them seconds ago.

Professional! Professional thoughts!

The tendril remains outstretched, expectantly. And it was.... wow, wow, is it hot in here? Right, she wants a handshake. The realization struck him like cold water; she was waiting for him to shake her tendril. A simple, standard gesture of farewell, and yet his hands felt oddly clumsy now under the pressure of actually doing it. ‘Don’t overthink it! Just… take her hand— or equivalent— and squeeze lightly. Like with anyone else!’  

"Th-Thank you," Quirrel managed. "It was... an honor." (Honor? That sounded so stuck-up, but what else could he say?!) With careful movement, and hoping she wouldn’t notice how stiff he was, Quirrel reached out and gently clasped the offered tendril between both of his hands. It really was squishy; soft in a way that belied its strength and warm despite everything else about Hallownest being perpetually cool. The feeling of it in his fingers sends flooding heat to his face, and he shakes it far longer than necessary, marveling at the sensation. But when she giggles— light and unmistakably amused— and flexes it in his palms, he realizes the time he held on was inappropriately long.

Snapping him back to reality, his grip loosened immediately, as if burned by the sudden awareness of how long he’d been holding onto it. ‘Oh gods, she thinks I’m strange now for sure!’ Panic flared internally even as externally he forced himself to release her gracefully, withdrawing his hands with what he hoped looked like casual politeness rather than frantic retreat. Clearing his throat as if that could undo anything, Quirrel stepped back slightly: the motion small but deliberate in signaling their interaction was truly over now.

"Ah... yes," he added lamely. "Pleasure meeting you too…” And Quirrel returns to the chair he had before, book in hand. The walk back to his seat felt longer than it should have; each step weighed down by self-recrimination. Every detail of the past few minutes replayed in his head with merciless clarity— The way he’d frozen up initially, his rambling about vessels without fully understanding them, and worst of all, that handshake. How could he not have realized how awkwardly prolonged it was until she literally had to nudge him out of it?!

What a failure. What a horrible way to end that! He must have looked like a fool, a creep, an ignorant idiot!  

Now seated again, Quirrel slumped slightly, cradling the book against his chest like a shield from further embarrassment. He didn’t even glance at its pages; staring blankly ahead instead while mentally berating himself for what might’ve been a critical misstep in impressing her. She probably already moved on mentally after such an odd display…

Time continues. The rest of the scholars get their five minutes, and no one seems to embarrass themselves like Quirrel did. Some even walk away looking proud, like they knew they had this in the bag! Others look even worse than before, nervous and shaking. Some of them even abandon their tomes and leave, shaking like a leaf. And eventually, the last one goes and speaks, and then, they all sit in anticipation.

Monomon stands before them, her tendrils together, humming softly. "Interesting... very interesting..." She whispers, floating in place. Lost in thought. The room settled into a heavy silence, every remaining scholar holding their breath as they watched Monomon’s slow, contemplative movements. The hum of her voice— though barely audible— carried an unnerving weight given how high the stakes were. Some scholars fidgeted in their seats; others sat perfectly still, unwilling to risk even a single misplaced motion disrupting whatever decision-making process she was undergoing. Quirrel himself remained statue-still… not daring to so much as blink too loudly lest it draw attention back to him after his earlier display.

She didn’t seem upset, but that wasn’t necessarily reassuring either. Time stretched agonizingly long under the weight of collective anticipation. Eventually, Monomon nods, with a finality that seems to sweep over the entire room. And she turns, floating back over to the grand doors, pausing at the entrance to give the scholars a final wave. "Thank you all for coming, my decision is made."