i'm always in this twilight.

he did not understood what it was that caused him to remain so rooted to the very spot he stood beneath the curved alcoves, to remain under her watch as that which he hunted trailed further and further from his hunt and from his grasp; it were not as though he were in some situation where he was in fight or flight, but rather found himself momentarily unable to think of any other thing. his eyes, almost reptilian in nature, were drawn to the flame she carried in her hands as though she were a walking torch, haunting the hallowed halls and stopping him from doing what it was he wanted to do. for maximus celtigar had smelled blood, and every part of his body had urged him to follow it like a madman, and feed. "you agree." it was meant to sound more like a question, but it came out more the statement; he was inwardly surprised that she was willing to pretend she did not see what she had no doubt seen.

his mind seemed split, between continuing to try and chase down his prey like a wolf in the night - or to be tempted with something, someone else. why else had she stood herself before him, as though she were the source of light he would naturally turn to as the gods designed nature to do so the sun? he much preferred what happened under the cover the night, true night; no hints of the moon, no hints of the stars, much akin to nights such as this. "why?" what did she want? what was in it for her?

the lord of the waynwood owed him a debt, a debt that grew larger and larger with each passing moon and a debt that seemed to find itself in the coins of others over decks of cards, or over bars in taverns and private parties. the man did not behave as though he were a lord, at least not when he had allowed the drink to plague his mind. he did not appreciate being made to wait, being left to count his coins as he awaited more; a date had been set, and it had been broken. he did not do reminders, or extensions - only collections. "and if not obedience, what will you be willing to give me in exchange for your agreement?" he asked, remaining stood where he was; he wanted her to walk towards him, and to show him her true features much more clearly. at this distance he could tell she was a beauty, but that had never been enough to truly throw him off his course, there was something more which seemed to draw him to her as though he were a moth to a flame.

his state, stumbling back toward his chambers in the darkest hours of the night barely able to stand was a clear sign of weakness, maximus celtigar had waited for; the drunken and the inebriated were always the easiest to finish. he was so close to doing what needed to be done, what he wanted to be done, and yet here she came; traversing across him with a candlelight that cast clearly upon his face. he did not like to be seen on his way, but rather preferred to leave small signage; never murder, but enough to make one wish it had just been. no longer could he find himself willing to hunt the lord waynwood, not when something else that appeared far more desirable and filling had crossed his path, as though the fates and the gods themselves had rewarded him for his strength. for his honour.

and as transfixed and intrigued as maximus celtigar was by her, he was also angry. quietly simmering, with a blackened heart, in knowing that someone had seen him - someone he did not know enough. it was his bloodlust that had allowed him to become sloppy, even for a few seconds - he should have remained on the other side of the corner, and waited. made sure. instead he grew impatient, like a hound on the scent; and had been caught by the one with the whip. he fought his urges to command her to walk to him and allow him to properly look at her - instead, he moved. suddenly, like a restless animal, and moved closer into her light to look upon her.

his gaze lingered openly now, stripped of the politeness most men wrapped themselves in when they looked too long. she felt it move over her features, deliberate and assessing, as if he were trying to decide what shape she truly took. lillith was accustomed to being looked at. courts were full of eyes, and she had long ago learned how to stand quietly enough to become part of the room until someone inevitably approached her. but this was different. there was no performance in it, no feigned admiration. it was the attention of a creature deciding whether something before it was fragile or dangerous. the realization should have unsettled her. instead, her heart gave another steady thrum against her ribs, a quiet awareness of being seen that made her fingers tighten slightly around the candle’s handle before she loosened them again.

“well, you assume silence must be bartered,” she said after a moment, her voice soft but clear in the hollow quiet of the corridor. “most men do. they think in debts and balances, as though the world were only a ledger waiting to be settled.” her gaze drifted briefly toward the distant turn where her father had disappeared, then returned to him, steady and thoughtful. “but not every decision is made with exchanges in mind. sometimes one simply chooses what story they would rather see unfold.”

she studied him openly, too, now that the candlelight touched his face fully, noting the severity carved into his features, the cold patience in the set of his mouth. there was something feral in him still, barely leashed, like the sea during a storm that had not quite kissed the shore yet. she could see how easily that violence might have followed her father down the hall. the thought did not frighten her. if anything, it almost deepened her understanding of the man standing before her. “you were very close to collecting your debt tonight,” she murmured, though not in accusation. “close enough that most men would have ignored the inconvenience of a witness.”

her mismatched eyes lifted back to his, calm and faintly curious. “but you didn’t.” a small pause followed, the kind that stretched just long enough to become deliberate. “that tells me something about you, my lord.”

the question he posed about her wandering the halls drew the faintest shift in her expression, something softer threading through the strange composure she carried so naturally. “the castle changes at night,” she said quietly. “during the day the halls belong to courtiers and servants and noise. but when the torches burn low, all that remains is stone and shadow.” her fingers adjusted slightly around the candle, steadying the wavering flame as it danced in the draft. “i like seeing what’s left when people think no one is watching. and… i was ensuring my father finally made it back to his chambers.” there was no embarrassment in the admission, only quiet practicality. his habits were no secret to her, and while lillith waynwood was often called strange, she was not heartless. her father was still the pillar upon which her house stood, despite its instability.

her gaze lingered on him again, thoughtful now rather than distant as she tilted her head slightly, raven curls shifting with the movement. the candlelight caught along the curve of her cheek, painting her features in warm gold against the cool dark of the corridor. “tonight, it seems the halls wished me to see you.” the faintest curve touched her mouth, subtle enough it might have been imagined before it disappeared again. “i must admit… you are rather more intriguing than the man you were chasing.”

axell’s gaze lingered on her as she closed the distance, the faintest tightening at the corner of his eyes betraying interest more than threat. he didn’t move to meet her right away. he let her take that ground, let her choose how near she wished to stand. power wasn’t always in the advance. sometimes it was in allowing the other to step into your shadow.

“if trees could speak. he said at last, a low huff of a laugh escaping him, “i’m sure they’d have more secrets than anyone would ever want them to know.” his eyes flicked briefly to the trunks around them, dark and ancient, before returning to her as he entertained such a strange fucking thought. if trees could speak and knew things then there would be a lot of trees he would have to go cut down. they would have seen to much of what he's done out here.

he shifted his weight, boots quiet on the damp earth. “and no, i didn’t think you came out here to be safe. only a fool thinks these woods offer safety.” his voice roughened slightly. “i talk of dangers because i’ve lived among them. i know what stalks these paths because, once, i was part of it.”

the admission wasn’t prideful. it was simply fact. a past worn like old scars beneath armor. the time he spent with the mountain men was worth it as he could use it to tear them apart one by one.

her nearness didn’t unsettle him, but it did sharpen his attention. bold, or unafraid of the rumors that clung to his name like smoke. he took a single step closer in return, just enough to make the space between them charged, not crowded. he wondered if she was naive, stupid or simply didnt care. whatever it was he was fine to let it play out.

“maybe the things out here haven’t come for you because you don’t move like prey like others might” he mused “or maybe they are waiting for the right moment. or maybe you have just been lucky. a roll of the dice that mind land wrong one time" he said. "all it takes is for one time"

at her question, his mouth curved again. thin, knowing. “looking for trouble?” he repeated softly. “trouble finds me whether i look for it or not. today, i was making sure it didn’t find you first.”

when he spoke of luck turning, of dice landing wrong, her expression remained composed, but the air around her seemed to tighten. wary now, though she did not step back. she scanned the ground, bending down to pluck a flower and placing it in her pouch, grounding herself. “i don’t gamble,” she said evenly. “and i don’t rely on luck.” her eyes drifted briefly to the tree line, to the spaces between trunks where shadows gathered thickest. “if something is waiting for the right moment, it will grow tired. i am very patient.”

his last words lingered longer than the rest. making sure it didn’t find you first. that earned him a different look. one that measured the man before her. “that assumes i need you to stand between me and it,” she said, calm as ever, though there was a thin edge beneath it now. “or that you would recognize trouble before i did.” her gaze flicked to him again, intent and searching. “you said you were part of what stalks these paths. predators often work together. one the distractor, one the striker. how do i know you aren’t simply guiding it closer?”

the stillness after she spoke was almost reverent. lord maximus celtigar did not answer at once — did not move, even — but regarded her as one might a mirror that had chosen to speak back. he had expected fear, or the breathless nerves of some court-bred girl too curious for her own good, but there was none of that here. lillith waynwood stood before him like a question carved into marble, serene and sharp, her voice lilting with a music that did not match the words she spoke. she was not afraid of him. and that, somehow, was the most dangerous thing of all - he could not fully accept it, almost in disbelief as his reptilian orbs fixated upon her features.

he had expected someone harder—older, perhaps, a woman with a soldier’s jaw and the same granite chill that clung to the vale. but when she was presented to him, when the introductions were made, he found his composure tilt. he had expected lord waynwood’s daughter to bear the austerity of her bloodline—broad-shouldered, grave-eyed, carved in frost. instead, what stood before him was something far softer, and ruinously unexpected. that was waynwood’s girl? she looked less like the vale and more like a secret meant to be kept.

his gaze lingered a moment too long before he caught himself, turning it into disdain. gods, what business had she looking like that?

he let his silence stretch, the kind that unsettled lesser people, until even the whisper of the torches began to sound loud. he thought of her father, stumbling away in his drunken ignorance, the gold he owed resting in ledgers that did not forgive lateness. a man like lord waynwood thought himself above reminders — thought kinship with the vale’s rulers meant debts could be postponed, smoothed over with pleasantries and promises. maximus had no patience for that kind of nobility. he preferred the language of blood and coin, both of which he spoke fluently.

“because your father,” he said at last, his voice low and measured, “seems to think claw isle forgets what it is owed.” his gaze flicked to her hand, pale against the stone wall, then back to her eyes. “and i, lady waynwood, am not so forgetful.” the rhythm of his words was calm, but beneath it ran a thread of quiet venom, something uncoiled and watchful.

he took a slow step forward, the sound of his boots soft against the flagstones. the air between them seemed to narrow, not with heat but with pressure, the kind that made breathing feel deliberate. “your father borrowed from me,” he continued, tone smooth as the still surface of a tidepool before it breaks. “a generous sum. far more than his standing warranted, if i am honest. but the vale has been generous to me before — its courtiers would rather place their trust in claw isle than in domeric stone.” the corner of his mouth twitched at that, something that might have been amusement but was not kind. “trust comes at a price, lady waynwood, and i am not a man who grants extensions easily.”

he studied her expression for any flicker of emotion, any sign she understood the weight of what her father had done. she did not flinch, did not glance away. it was like speaking to a statue that had learned the art of blinking. she did not move, only watched him with that unnerving stillness, her head tilted just enough to catch the light on her cheek. for the briefest instant, he felt something like hesitation — the strange recognition of another creature that belonged more to shadow than court. it passed quickly.

“still,” he murmured, his voice falsely softening in the way a blade dulls after the first cut, or the way an animal lowers itself into the grass before it goes to pounce and to claw, “i am not a being without mercy.” his hand fell back to his side, the air easing slightly though the tension remained coiled between them. “if your drunkard father cannot keep his promises, i will grant him a few more days. a rare kindness.” he paused, his gaze fixing on her as though anchoring the words to her very breath. “but only if you say nothing of this.” he took another step forward, close enough now that she could see the threadwork of his cloak, the faint scent of brine and iron that followed him like a curse.

her gaze followed his briefly as it flicked down the hall, toward the place her father had gone, then returned to him without hurry. “i wondered,” she admitted, her voice carrying a quiet, unsettling warmth, “whether it was blood or coin that drew you after him. the latter is less romantic, but far more practical.” the faintest curve touched her mouth, not quite a smile. “and practicality suits hunters better than desperation.”

lillith observed him with the same quiet patience she afforded all dangerous things, her gaze lingering on the pale fall of his hair, the sea-slick cast of his bearing, the unmistakable stamp of valyrian blood that no borrowed hall or courteous tone could quite disguise. there was salt in him, she thought, and iron, the sort of heritage that did not belong among the vale’s stone and snow. for a moment she wondered if he were only another wandering scion of old fire, misplaced and sharpening himself on foreign walls. then the name surfaced, unbidden but certain, fitting itself to him like a blade to its sheath. celtigar. claw isle. the weight of coin and tides and old debts that never truly drowned. understanding settled over her with a slow, almost intimate chill, and her expression did not change, save for the faintest softening at her mouth, as if she had finally learned the true name of the storm and found it more interesting for it.

when he spoke of mercy, lillith’s dual colored eyes softened, though not in relief. if anything, there was a hint of something like sympathy there, misplaced and strange. “mercy,” she echoed, tasting it as if she were savoring whatever reaction she may elicit. “is a curious thing to offer when it costs you so little.” her fingers left the stone wall, folding loosely together before her, posture unguarded in a way that felt deliberate, that was deliberate. “still, i will not pretend i dislike the sound of more days. time has a way of revealing what men truly value.”

she regarded him more closely then, no longer as a distant storm but as something nearer, something with edges she could trace. “but…you mistake me if you think silence requires obedience,” she said gently. “i have always been very good at seeing without speaking.” her head tipped, dark curls shifting. “what you ask is nothing difficult, lord celtigar. it is merely… interesting.” she spoke his name as if he had offered it to her as introduction, rather than revealing it to her in passing.

at his repeated words, her she inhaled a breath, a quiet, thoughtful thing. “i saw nothing,” she murmured back, not as agreement, but as consideration. the phrase sat between them in a moment of silence, reshaped by her voice into something approaching tenderness. “perhaps that is true. perhaps what i saw has not yet decided what it is.” her eyes lifted to his, steady and clear. “storms look different depending on how close you stand to the shore.”

"i suppose it does suit me," she said, tucking a copper-gold curl behind her ear. "hu- my brother and sister, their names are really different to mine. proper names, you know? i think my parents took one look at me and knew that i wasn't a proper sort of person. not like they are." she caught herself before letting her siblings names slip too, just in case.

lillith's warning on the dangers of beauty struck her as ironic, for that was the exact thought she had about the woman herself, that she might be something beautiful and dangerous all at once. "there's greater tragedy in it, i think," she mused. "if you're eaten by a wolf - well, that's it. you're wolf food. but to love something so much you let it lead you to death? there's a cautionary tale in it." it was a theme, she realised, that reoccurred time and time again. it was not just flowers. it was the sailors who went to their watery graves in search of a siren's kiss, it was the vain man who was alleged to have lain upon the bank of the red fork, staring at his reflection until he withered away on the spot. the many tales of maids who died of broken hearts, pining over their lost, gallant knights. all carried the same message, that love was the gentlest, and most dangerous killer of all.

she fell silent then, turning her face upwards, as though hoping to catch the trees speaking to one another and that it would suddenly make all the mysteries of this encounter make sense to her. "well, the first men believe it is a language," she pointed out. "every rustle of the leaves or crunch of a twig or howl of a wolf in the distance. the language of the old gods. that's why they prey in the godwood, rather than between stone walls." she offered a smile to lillith, her expression kind. "maybe that's what you're hearing. the old gods are trying to talk to you, but you just don't know the language yet."

she let out a low hum at the thought of beauty leading to death, the sound resonant and thoughtful. “yes,” she agreed. “the wolf is quite straightforward. it does not ask you to beg or adore it. but love…” her fingers brushed absently at the satchel on her hip, where herbs and oddities rested. “love, admiration, teaches you to follow willingly. that is the cruelest magic of all.” there was no bitterness in her voice, only a calm certainty.

when fiadh spoke of the old gods, lillith’s head tipped, dark curls slipping forward. “perhaps,” she said, almost fondly. “or perhaps i understand it well enough to know they’d prefer my silence.” her mismatched eyes flicked to the trees, the snow covered branches, the hush between them. “some languages are not meant to be answered. only heard.” a faint smile touched her lips, small and strange, like a shared secret. the blood of the first men still flowed through the veins of those of the vale, and though lillith did not pray to the old god’s, she was quite familiar with them and their domain.

the halls of highgarden breathed differently at night, quieter yet never still, as though the very stones carried whispers from one chamber to the next. maximus moved with the precision of a predator through those corridors, his gaze fixed on the figure ahead. lord waynwood’s pace was unremarkable, unguarded, as though he thought himself safe within the heart of the south, insulated by wine, laughter, and the false comfort of roses. the fool had not even looked over his shoulder once since leaving the ballroom, not even when the echo of footsteps trailed too neatly after his own.

the weight of the dagger pressed against his coat, its presence steadying him in the way other men might feel comforted by a prayer. there were debts owed, old numbers lingering in ledgers like festering wounds, and maximus had never been one to forget what was promised to him. gold was not simply coin; it was power, respect, breath itself. to deny him was to spit on his bloodline, and he had little tolerance for insult. one finger, perhaps two, would remind waynwood that debts were not trifles. a ruined eye would make the lesson eternal. the thought of it pleased him, more than it should have—the sudden wet shock of pain, the howl, the collapse of a proud vale lord into something small and pliant.

the hallway stretched long, the tapestries heavy with the weight of family crests and floral patterns, silks softening the stone but unable to disguise how narrow it became the further they went. a perfect place for an accident, a stumble, a swift punishment. maximus lengthened his stride, letting the heels of his boots fall a fraction heavier now, a low announcement of his pursuit, a hunter’s warning meant to sharpen fear before the strike. waynwood did not notice. too drunk, too foolish, too certain that the walls of highgarden sheltered him from consequence. the moment drew close. the dagger itched against his palm though he had not yet drawn it.

he could already imagine the first cut, the startled cry breaking the silence of the hall like music, his hand clamping over the man’s mouth before anyone else could hear. he thought of the stories his forefathers told of claw isle, of how the sea punished those who did not pay their tides. he, too, would exact the sea’s justice, cold and swift.

and then the spell broke.

laughter, shrill and sudden, spilled from the corner ahead, a gaggle of courtiers rounding the bend with the flutter of silk sleeves and perfumed chatter. light from their candelabras scattered across the walls, chasing back the darkness that had once cloaked him. maximus slowed, his expression unchanging, but the hunger in his eyes had been denied its meal. it was not the first time he had been interrupted, but irritation twisted sharp in his chest, not unlike the edge of the blade he carried. he might have abandoned the pursuit then, folded the moment away for another night, had it not been for her. his gaze caught on a figure lingering at the far end of the hallway, just beyond the babble of the courtiers. she was not part of their merry throng, nor did she attempt to pass them.

she only stood, apart, and stared. there was nothing uncertain in her eyes, no confusion at what she had witnessed. she had seen him for what he was—not a man strolling behind another in a noble’s hall, but a beast on the cusp of striking.

for a heartbeat, perhaps two, the world narrowed to that gaze. the courtiers might as well have vanished, their chatter muffled like the drone of insects, the flickering torches paling to shadows. maximus did not move, though the tension in him was coiled tight, as if the dagger had embedded itself not in his coat but in his very chest. he could feel the moment forking in two directions—one where he advanced, careless, tearing waynwood apart even as witnesses pressed in, and another where he acknowledged the quiet observer at the edge of the hall, this woman who had seen too much already.

she noticed the dagger in the way he carried his shoulders. she noticed the hunger in his stride, the kind that spoke of intention rather than impulse. this was not some drunken quarrel of southern lords. this was a hunt. and her father, stumbling and laughing to himself, had not even turned to see it. the knowledge settled in her chest like a cold coin. her gaze lingered on the valyrian longer than courtesy allowed.

when the courtiers burst through the corridor in a flurry of perfume and silk, the moment shifted. the predator halted, the strike withheld, and her father vanished in their midst, blissfully unaware of the jaws he had nearly stepped into. her gaze, however, did not follow him. it found the valyrian instead, held him quietly, curiously, as if she were appraising not the danger of him but the purpose. there was no fear in her stance. only stillness, like a deer in winter deciding whether the wolf before it was hunting or simply passing through.

the valyrian turned, his eyes finding hers with deliberate precision. she had expected him to look away. he did not. she wondered then, not with fear but with a kind of reverent fascination, why a son of fire and blood walked the vale’s guest wing so quietly, why he stalked her father beneath the roses of highgarden rather than issuing challenge as honor demanded. secrets, she thought, always had a scent. his smelled of salt and iron.

you saw nothing, he said. it rolled through the air more like ritual than threat. lillith tilted her head, candlelight catching in the dark of her gaze.

lillith’s head inclined, the smallest tilt, like a bird listening for movement beneath snow. “nothing,” she echoed, tasting the word thoughtfully before letting it slip from her lips. she stepped slightly into the light, enough that her eyes caught the flicker of the flame. “do you mean that i did not see you at all,” she asked, gentle, almost curious, “or that i did not see you following after my father?”

she said father in a way that made it clear she noted him, named him, but claimed no sentiment beyond blood and observation. the inquiry was gentle, but it lingered in the air with the weight of something sharper. not defiance. almost… invitation. her gaze drifted down the corridor where the lord of house waynwood had disappeared. then back to the man before her. “the vale has a way of teaching its daughters to see from afar,” she murmured. “one learns to watch without stepping into a hunter’s line.”

she stepped no closer, yet the space between them felt narrowed, as though her presence pulled the world inward. she studied him the way one studies rare things in old stories, head slightly inclined, eyes searching not for confession but for intention. there was no fear in her. only interest, glimmering like candlelight catching on glass. “because i did see,” she continued, a quiet note threading through her voice. “and i am deciding what sort of seeing it was.”

she let the silence stretch then, as though savoring it. her fingers brushed the stone wall absently, as if feeling for the heartbeat of the place. “if you tell me i saw nothing,” she said at last, voice lowering like twilight, “i will decide whether that is a gift… or an oath.”

"i don't mean to be bold, lady lillith," her grin was sheepish, for she at least had the grace to look abash. "my mouth and my brain don't always work together at times, and i'm afraid this was one of them." there was enough of an apology in her words to mark them as genuine, and she wiped her hand on her skirts before sticking it out for her to shake, wondering if lillith's fingers would be cool to the touch. "fiadh vance."

"i should have known better, really," her smile turned rueful, glancing down at the ghostcap. "i've read enough stories where the beautiful things are the ones that lead to doom. i'm just dopey enough to forget when it comes to my own life." her words invited lillith to laugh at her again, though fiadh did not laugh herself.

she took the sprig of pin, twirling it absently in her fingers. "that's no small request. if i name you, it may linger," she said, with something akin to teasing in her voice. "especially if i name you in a place like this. feels like the trees themselves hold memory." she reached out her hand to place against the bark of the nearest tree, wondering at how many conversations it had overheard in its lifetime, and how many secrets it kept.

she crouched then, skirts gathering snow at the hem, and plucked a bit of lichen from the bark fiadh had touched, rolling it absently between her fingers. “you’re not wrong, you know. the lovely things, the dangerous ones, ” her mismatched eyes lifted again, catching the last dim light as it slanted between the trees. “they linger longer in stories because they kill slower. the wolf is honest in its hunger. but the flower? it asks you to admire it first.”

her laughter came low, a little too long, but not unkind. she rose, brushing powdery snow from her palms. “a whisper-name,” she repeated, tone soft, almost pleased. “i have to admit, i'm intrigued all the same.” she tilted her head, dark curls spilling forward as though listening to some hidden sound. “but i suppose you’re right. i don’t much belong to any name. not truly. though, sometimes, i think the woods might be trying to give me one. in the way the wind catches my ear, or the crows call when i pass. they’re not words, but,” she gave a small shrug, a rare flash of sheepishness, “i listen all the same.”

AUBRI IBRAG as Lizzy Elmsworth

"right, then. let's get this over with."

there was little preamble as younes strode into the room, with all the bearing of a man on his own death march. of all the lowly, menial tasks he subjected himself to, of all the ways he broke his dignity into pieces to auction of for the sake of a bit of extra coin, this was perhaps his least favourite. the last time he had agreed to test some of lillith waynwood's gods-awful tinctures, his guts had been churning for a week solid, and he had promised himself this was absolutely the last time. and yet, pınar, the youngest of his sisters, was beginning to outgrow her gowns, already let out to the very last seam. a talented seamstress might have been able to extend their life, but seamstresses needed paying, and so here he was.

"hold on," he removed his jacket, recalling one incident where he had slurped down her concotions and then been violently sick down himself. he took his time hanging it up, wanting to prolong the seconds to the moment she would press something into his hand and he would raise it to his lips. the thought crossed that she would kill him like this, one day, and it would be an undignified end.

"all right. do your worst," he turned to her expectantly, brows raised as he braced himself for whatever it was that she had waiting for him. he never did quite know when it came to lillith waynwood.

"my worst has never killed you," she said mildly, though the faint crook of her mouth could almost be called a smile. "not yet, at least." her tone was dry as bone, but unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world for suffering and slow poison. she clicked her tongue softly when he mentioned the last batch. “then it worked. just not how i’d hoped.” her gaze flicked to him briefly, unreadable. she did not elaborate. she was only grateful he was willing to endure this for a bit of coin, and it wasn't some poor little rabbit.

that was how she had found herself out here. there were stories in these trees, she was sure of it, old tales whispered from one generation of northmen to the next, half-truths and half-memories contained within the trees. she could remember one her father had told her at his knee, of a ghostly green light that appeared in the sky, wolves that sang and a magical white hart that only appeared on a king's birthday. but instead of a white stag, she'd found the flowers. unusual things that bent like bluebells, save for their ghostly white colour. she crouched, curls spilling over her shoulder as she reached for them.

and then came the voice, sudden in the stillness, startling fiadh so thoroughly that she nearly toppled back into the snow. she glanced up, and found for the first time since she had stepped away from the feast hall, she had company. "seven above, you nearly frightened the soul right out of me," she laughed as she spoke, placing one hand on the trunk of the nearest tree to lean on as she rose.

"ghostcap?" she had never heard of it, but she wiped her hand on her skirt, nervously. she hadn't yet touched it, but you could never be too careful. "oh, no, nothing like that. i was just admiring it - you wouldn't think it would be deadly, would you, pretty little thing like that?" she glanced down at the bloom again, and the inexplicable urge to pluck it from the ground anyway came over her. she had to force it down. "it would be a ridiculous way to die, out here in the northern snow clutching a handful of flowers."

she stepped lightly to the side, circling a little, boots brushing through the thin crust of snow and stirring the pine needles scattered across the forest floor. her fingers drifted along the bark of a nearby tree as she passed it, the pads of her gloves grazing lichen and frost. her movement was unhurried, feline, like something wild that had simply allow herself to be seen.

“so...you must think i look like something the woods dreamed up,” she mused, voice wry. “something made of roots and blooms, maybe. a little tragic, a little strange.” her smile curved. “i suppose i do. i spend enough time out here, i’d be more surprised if i didn’t look like i was becoming part of it.”

she crouched again beside the ghostcap, reaching out, not to touch the bloom, but to clear a patch of snow from the base of its stem, revealing more pale heads hidden beneath. “but no. i’m just lillith. and you nearly made the same mistake most do, mistaking beauty for safety.” she flicked her gaze up, the smile still lingering. “the flower, i mean. not me. although…” there was a jest to her tone, a soft wink of her eye.

the wind stirred again, sifting snow from the branches above. flakes drifted into her hair, caught in the thick chesnut tresses. she stood slowly, her breath rising in a fine mist, and reached for a pine branch, twisting off a small green sprig. “truth is, you’re lucky it was me who found you out here and not something with worse manners.”

she extended the pine sprig toward fiadh, a small offering cradled between her fingers. “will you indulge me? if i were a forest spirit, i’d need a name for the stories, wouldn’t i? something eerie and only half-remembered.” her voice dropped, soft as snowfall. “you can make one up, if you like. just mind what sort of power you give it.”

axell’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk forming at the corner of his lips as he stepped closer, the heavy leather of his boots muffled by the mossy ground. he didn’t rush her, didn’t force her to face him entirely—he knew better than to press too hard, too fast. some things were better when they came willingly.

“i wasn’t aware you considered singing to the trees a secret worth guarding,” he drawled, voice low, rough-edged. his eyes, dark and steady, moved over her carefully, lingering not on the delicate lines of her figure, but on the sharper edges—the coolness of her stare. perhaps there was a faint wariness tucked behind her amusement. smart, he thought. smarter than most of the women who fluttered around the eyrie.

he stopped a few paces from her, hands loose at his sides, posture deceptively relaxed. “and if i wanted to join in,” he said, his tone carrying that same low, rumbling humor. a slight smile on the ghost of runestone’s face “i would have.” he let the weight of the words settle, watching to see how she reacted. testing the waters.

the breeze stirred between them, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked earth and pine. his gaze didn't waver.

“you’re right, though,” he said after a beat, voice dipping lower, more serious. “secrets are dangerous things.” he let the statement linger between them before tilting his head slightly, studying her. “lucky for you, i’m good at keeping them.”

his smile, if it could even be called that, was quick, sharp, and gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“you shouldn’t be out here alone,” he added finally, the edge of something harsher creeping back into his voice. “next time, if you insist on sneaking away, you best bring a sword—or someone willing to wield it for you. i know what lurks in these woods more than anyone.”

“if the trees could speak,” she murmured, “they’d know more than most lords at court.”

her voice was even, a soft hush like snowfall, but there was something taut beneath it, like a drawn string, waiting to snap or be loosed. the way he spoke, half teasing, half warning, stirred something in her. not fear. not quite irritation, either. she took in a slow breath, eyes following a raven’s shadow as it cut through the fading light above.

“you think i came out here to be safe?” she asked, quieter now. not mocking, curious, maybe. amused by the presumption. her gloved hand brushed the pouch at her hip, filled with dried petals, bits of bark, a rust-colored root she hadn’t named aloud in years.

finally, she turned to face him fully. her cloak shifted with the wind, and the look she gave him wasn’t soft, it rarely was, but it was honest. searching.

“you talk of danger as if it’s something that only walks on two legs and hides in trees.” her gaze flicked to the knife at his belt, then back to his face. “but you and i both know that the worst things don’t come snarling out of the dark. they come smiling.”

she stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like a creature testing the edge of another’s territory, not threatening, for she could never be seen as threatening to a man who was the envy of the mountains themselves, but narrowing the space between them with quiet purpose, as though drawn by instinct more than intent.

“and they offer protection,” she added, tilting her head slightly. “as if that’s not a kind of trap all its own.” her smile was faint, unreadable, the curve of her mouth gone before it fully formed. “i know what lurks in these woods, lord royce.” her voice lowered, softer than before. “perhaps you should wonder why it hasn’t come for me yet.”

she let the words linger between them, slow and curling like mist rising from damp earth. then she tilted her head, a flicker of something sharp in her eye as a low, amused laugh slipped free, quiet and unexpected, breaking the stillness with ease.

AUBRI IBRAG as ELIZABETH ELMSWORTH

@paradoxofpresence

the woods were quieter than he expected that afternoon, save for the rustling of leaves and the distant cries of bird and creatures. axell royce moved through the shadows with practiced ease, his heavy boots softened by the damp earth beneath them. he had been following her for a while now, keeping a careful distance, ensuring no one else had taken notice of her wandering. it was reckless, foolish even, for a lady to venture out alone—especially this close to the mountains, where dangers lurked beyond just beasts. but he supposed that was what intrigued him about her.

and then, she sang.

the melody carried through the trees, soft yet haunting in the way it wove through the air. he had heard whispers of it before—talk of the waynwood girl with a haunting beautiful voice. but hearing it for himself was different. to some it probably would set them at unease but he did not seem to mind. she could sing, if she wanted. didn’t matter to him. women did strange things to occupy their time. so for a brief moment, he merely listened, allowing himself that small indulgence.

then, he stepped forward, letting the crunch of a twig underfoot announce his presence.

“you sing beautifully songbird,” he murmured, the deep timbre of his voice cutting through the air like steel through silk. he emerged from the trees, his tall broad frame casting a long shadow in the sunlight. his tone softer than most would expect from him. “but tell me, my lady, do you always wander the woods alone at night? or is today a special occasion?” he let the question hang, studying her carefully, his expression a carefully crafted blend of intrigue and amusement. he would not come on too strong. not yet.

when she heard the telltale snap of a twig beneath a boot, she didn’t flinch. her posture remained as still as the forest around her, though her eyes, cold and sharp, flickered briefly toward the sound.

"lord royce," she said, her voice as soft as the wind but carrying an edge to it, like a blade slipping through silk. she didn’t need to turn to know he was there before he spoke. he had that way of moving, too deliberate, too sure of himself to remain unnoticed.

she let a beat of silence settle between them, the only sound the dancing of leaves. finally, she spoke again, her words laced with a dry amusement.

“following me now, are you?” her tone was not sharp, just dry, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to find herself being trailed through the woods. “how... considerate."

her lips barely curled into something that might have been a smile, though it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. "if you'd wanted to join in, you could’ve at least waited for the second verse,” she added, her voice dipping back into its usual quiet steadiness.

"i don't know," she admitted at last, her voice quiet enough that it didn't carry beyond lillith. "the north is as much a part of me as the marrow in my bones. i shouldn't like to leave it, but none of us know what the future will bring."

and yet. her lips pressed together with the thoughts she would not speak aloud. for a long time, she had thought of winterfell as her sanctuary. as a sickly young girl, it was a place where the ills of the world could not touch her, and she had carried that thought process into her adulthood. now, though, she could not help but wonder if it was less a sanctuary, and more a cage she had constructed around herself. she took a breath to dispel the thought. there was little to be gained from dwelling upon it.

“if you did, i suppose it would serve the vale right,” she mused, mismatched eyes flickering toward the hearth as if measuring its warmth. “perhaps then they’d stop pretending the mountain winds are anything but frigid.”

she was silent for a moment, letting the fire crackle between them, the weight of dacey’s words settling in the space they occupied. the north is as much a part of me as the marrow in my bones. a sentiment she understood, though her own bonds had been forged differently. she had never felt trapped in ironoaks, precisely, but there was an expectation to remain, to endure. it was not always an unwelcome thing. but there was something about the way dacey spoke that made her wonder if the cold in her bones was comforting, or suffocating.

without much preamble, she said, “i could make you some tea.”

it was not quite a question, nor was it particularly warm, but there was a quiet sincerity in the offer. lillith was not one to fuss, not one to coddle, but she knew the value of small comforts. and, if nothing else, she had a fair hand at brewing something strong enough to warm through the bones.