aut viam inveniam aut faciam

There's nothing to forgive.

Wasn't there? He had failed, he realizes now, as he watches his body grow cold and his posture rigid. Not the boy he loved—but the vestiges of something he had failed to keep safe. That was always the point, wasn't it? Of every compromise, every cruelty, every stain upon his conscience—he had endured them with grace, bowing his head for every lash feasted on nothing but darkness for years—it would all be worth it if people like him, if he should never have to carry such burdens. But now he asks to be a scythe, asks to be yielded. Will that hand reap life too? Will it cast others into damnation? Will it stain red with sins he cannot wash away?

He wants to warn him: once you cross over, there are things in the darkness that can keep your heart from ever feeling the light again.

But he would not heed his warning, would he?

He watches Cian slip away from him little by little, gone, drifting, and he knows he has failed, in every way there was to fail. He lets go, fingers curling reflexively at his side, old scars pull taut beneath pale skin. He is a night that raves and moans, restless, uneasy, filled with dread—the loss of purpose leaves him without aim, floating in the emptiness of himself. He says nothing more, not a word, not a sound, and the way his hand falls feels final, an unspoken relinquishing hope as he surrendered to his own quietude, his head turns from her, from him, a final act of resignation.

The moon paints him in melancholy's image, perched high in the skies, and like Cian, entirely out of his reach; the pale ghost of his face full of woe, absent of mirth. His heart bleeding, aching, pinned to his throat. He can taste bile, in his head a pounding of a drum, and his rage—his rage will not slumber, but it feels deflated as his shoulders curl inward, spine wilted with defeat, his mouth was a smear of seeping sadness. It seemed to invade every part of him, down to his very marrow. He mourns him like wolves mourn their own, standing over their bloodied caress, howling in grief. Where was he when their innocence was torn asunder?

I am ignorant to what he plans, he says. and neither do I have the luxury to wait for him to deign to let us find out.

He wants to laugh at the absurdity of the sentiment. Did he not know? How could he not know? He could tell him now.

He'd scorch the earth searching for what he lost. And if he could not find it, he'd scorch it all the same, for daring to deny him. He would have done the same, he almost had. A man driven mad with grief, a man willing to burn the world down for the one person they care about—that's a man he could understand.

He is smiling—but it's a beast's baring teeth, soulless, quiet footsteps leading him to a deserted corner of the opposing side of where the shadows could cloak him in their familiar embrace. He leans there, without speaking, hunched, where bloody eyes can wander off into the darkness, hands gripping at the railing. For the first time he feels tired, alone. That crippling, aching loneliness that had crawled into him during his years of isolation crawls back to him, reminding him it never left. How could he forget it? The dry, sharp exhale is almost laugh, dead too soon, a chill against the warm weather as the wind rustles with the inky blackness of his hair.

He approached, her lamb with carmine slaughter in his eyes, the blood-cost that would now surely follow in their wake, for no good intentions ever came without sacrifice. But he was right about one thing. His hands would remain as pristine as the day he first came into this world, screaming into an endless night, lungs bellowing the promise of survival. That would be his role, his oath: the man who dipped the world into baptismal waters and, willing or not, would bring on rebirth, no matter the pains of growing, the ache of that first gasp into new tomorrows. For he had sacrifice writ inside the script of his veins, a prodigal prince in everything but name, and she would be his inkwell, his quill, to tell the tale of him until they both lay buried beneath the same banner, if it ever came to such tragic endings. She would carry the stain, the blot, sully her good name to keep his rejoiced on others’ lips. For he’d seen her. He’d chosen her, just as surely as she had chosen him. All along, she’d thought herself the servant, but here he was, lowering himself before her. He would lower himself in the dust for her sake, if need be, and that is why she would elevate him from the rabble. Because of all those born to grander names, only he understood that nobility came with obligation, would lash his flesh for the good of them all.

Lenore said nothing, an effigy carved from ivory and slashed with blood, the maroon of her dress pooling at his feet like a spreading stain. She took his hand, larger in hers, etched with calluses, yet handled with a reverence reserved for sacred vessels. She pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “My lord.” Her eyes lifted, silvered in the night. “My crown.” A step closer. Her other hand reached out to briefly caress the line of his jaw. “We shall serve each other, and with it all of Nocturnia.” She loved him, she knew then. A pure sort of love, that of one kindred heart to another, bound in a purpose larger than themselves. As a brother, as a king, as a destiny. “I will be the shadow to your light, your knife in the dark.” Her voice did not raise. Her words carried no excess. Only certainty.

Lenore held his eyes for a moment, as serene as a spill of moonlight. “The work will be heavy, we may yet suffer greatly in our pursuit, and there will be no reward at the end.” She continued, voice steady. “No laurel wreaths, no songs of victory, no praise nor thanks. We will not deserve such graces, Cian. We will need to make ourselves undeserving, do you understand? Once we do this, the world that comes to pass… it may well be that there will be no place for us there.” She did not speak for Cian’s sake then, but for another’s. Her monster had turned to stone, a memorial monolith, a cenotaph. She watched the sepulcher of his form, the weight engraved into his bones in the form of their names. While they had chosen their path, he had been dragged into its depths. Her warning came as close to an apology as she would ever give.

Love was the death of duty, so the common saying went. But Sheng’s love had become his death, and now he would be resurrected unto duty. Cian had been the knife sliding between his ribs, and Lenore the hand that had held him down during it all. And so, she stepped towards him, carefully, the way one tried not to spook an animal in the process of succumbing to his wounds. “Sheng.” Her voice was a soft cruelty. “Do not turn from us.” Her hand, gently beckoning. “Please, come here. Speak.” Perhaps she was wrong, she reflected. Perhaps Sheng himself was the rib, parted from them, their third, to be hewn into a better shape. She could do that for him. For them all.

Cian fidgeted, as if a boy again rather than the man that had so severely spoken but a moment ago. “Wait.” He called. Graced Lenore with a look of apology, a small bow of his head that promised further explanation later. But then he moved quickly—walked forward to Sheng, hand closing gently around the man’s forearm, leading him then further into the darkness beyond the balcony and into the candle-lit shade.

Cian let go as he disappeared into the entryway of what must be his personal rooms, and then returned with a box of ebony, upon it carved a ruby-eyed crane. It was long enough for it to seem unwieldy even when held in his long limbs, but he did not struggle with it, besides moving with a slight limp.

He came closer, until the box and a few breaths was the only space between them. His words started a murmur, only for Sheng to hear. “I prepared this gift for you.” Cian had commissioned it upon his return to Sheer Castle from his visit to Perrelor Keep, having turned the thought in his head quietly the entire ride on the way back. Their arguments had been no obstacle to its completion—if anything, Cian had wished to gift it before leaving Braxigar, only to find such a feat impossible to fulfill. The box had gone the distance with them to Heliophra, and then, had been stored in his room, unsure if it would ever meet the hands of the man to whom it had been meant to be for, unsure if he was dishonoring himself and his sorrow for caring about such a thing through it all still.

It was no delicate thing, but it felt brittle in Cian’s hands.

“Here. Take this.” It is shoved into Sheng’s arms gracelessly, as if it burned. “When you promised me, you—you did not know this is what it would come to. You couldn’t have, you must’ve thought me quite different indeed.” His smile was rueful, wistful, and for a moment Cian too, grieved, the image he must’ve been. But the truth of him was one that wielded a knife, ready to snap the thread he had slowly wound around Sheng upon his command. “So open it and find it wanting, or terrible for what it asks for, for what it means. Shatter it if you will—break it into pieces and remold it. Throw it into the seas. I will understand the meaning, and ask you for nothing. But otherwise—Otherwise,” Cian closed his eyes for a moment, and when they reopen, he seems haunted and lost and desperate, all brought into one. “I know myself enough.” Raw, voice wretched. “I will not allow you to go after this.”

Cian had spoken true. This bond would not break, not even through distance nor the passing of the ages that lay before them. It was bound into Cian’s soul. But the physicality of it, the way it was tangible rather than merely a sweet dream—Cian had been numbed by grief. It would perhaps be the only moment where the cut of the limb would not feel tantamount to death. The ghost of it would haunt him, and he would grasp at it in the night like a fleeting wisp, and he would let it turn all in his mouth to ash as the loss lingered among what seemed to be the firsts of many others and never the last. But Cian was already turning more alike a doll. Let him be human for one last time, then, and sever this bond while he was still made of flesh. Otherwise the growing steel of him would close around Sheng like a shackle, never knowing if the man would've ever freely chosen this rotten face of his.

Vaelor  sees  the  shrink  in  their  shoulders.  The  closing  of  their  lips.  The  tense  wire,  tautened  and  stiff,  that  hung  between  them  like  a  line  one  wasn’t  ready  to  cross.  A  cord  laid  frost  bitten,  too  thin  to  bear  any  of  their  weight.  Perhaps  Vaelor  could  speak  in  ruins.  Could  speak  in  a  song  and  a  tune  to  meet  them  halfway,  but  Vaelor  only  looks,  his  salt  eyes  only  a  glacial  pressure.  Silence  stretches,  and  his  gaze  falls  to  their  crossed  hands,  one  laid  on  the  other.  As  the  first  tear  drips,  Vaelor  still  does  not  speak,  does  not  trust  his  voice  to.  But  a  mountain  peak  settles  upon  the  siege  of  his  shoulders,  and  his  heart  thickens  with  stone  as  he  feels  the  chill  of  their  tears  falling  down  upon  the  blade  of  his  spine.  He  does  not  move,  but  he  cuts  the  air  as  he  speaks,  long  after  they’ve  gone  silent.  " Do  you  think  I  do  these  things  without  weighing  them? "

They shake their head at his words, but whether it is grief or an acceptance of his wisdom, they do not say. Cannot speak, cannot even think of Ivar any further. Already he haunts them in every other way, and yet the shade is here again—and starting to envelop Vaelor, greedy, sparing not even him. They are maddened with it, and they speak with even less sense that they usually spare. “So you would make it happen again? No, no.” They pace again, pulling absentmindedly at the ends of their own hair. “That seat is cursed at this point and—okay.” They take a deep breath. “Perhaps they shall not even choose you! There’s others, maybe not of great houses but—The council has always liked those of lesser standing for their puppets, right? Literally anyone else.”

the rumors of his friends return to society had caused varyn's ears to perk up. he wanted it to be true. the rumors of àsta's disappearance into the mountains and possibility of passing at the hands of a dragon had not been easy to hear. and while varyn had told himself that if anyone were going to be well equipped to be near dragons without becoming lunch, he could not help the small fear of doubt he felt late at night when he wondered where the malaric was.

so the rumors were a spark of hope. one he tried not to feed into, until he received the letter. one so similar to how they communicated in their youth, that invited him to a small apothecary in heliophra. he did not tell anyone his reasons for leaving the grounds of elaris keep, and if someone were to ask he would simply say he needed ingredients for his experiments he could not easily source in drakathar. once within the darkened building, varyn spotted a familiar head of blonde hair and walked towards them. "next time you disappear for months, i beg you to send a farewell letter so i do not hear of it through my staff gossiping."

“Well—! It is not as if it was planned!” They speak from under their loose hood, startled enough to forego any proper greetings. With all the festivities abound, this apothecary in particular had the bad luck to be out of the way enough to not be graced with the great influx of clientele. And yet Ásta would make up for it, and rather well—they had ordered a tincture and a pouch of smelling salts, a custom mixture commissioned on the spot, and told the fretting woman manning the counter that they could simply wait for it to be made and then brought. A perfect plot to take much longer to linger. “You know if it had been, you would’ve been among the first ones to know.”

So surprised they had been that it is only after that Ásta fully takes him in. Their eyes light up with the force of their own smile. “Varyn!” They breathe, hand closing around his arm, squeezing in greeting as to replace the hug they could not give before they let go of him. “I’m so happy you are well—When I heard the news I almost fainted on the spot!” Had looked so shocked the barmaid had had to check they were well. “Your staff gossips of me? Truth be told, I did not think me leaving would be such a big deal…” They fret, just as embarrassed as they are confused. “But, how are you—you do not know of what they speak of so far away, really, it’s all jumbled and mumbled. And, are you really unharmed? And what have you been up to and anything new with you and—” Their mouth feels a bit dry. “And an engagement, Varyn?” Ásta nudges him. “You are to be a lord husband? That was so fast!”

It was only when enough space had been put between them and the two that Leyla released his arm, momentarily curious about the wares he carried. But before she could voice her curiosity, he was whispering to her about other ways she could have handled the situation. She pressed her lips together. Of course, she knew what was being suggested. And in truth, she would have done just that had he not shown up at the same time. It was as much preserving her image and secret, and a desire to not instantly maim the others which kept her from doing so. “ I doubt I would be so effective at those methods, ” she replied, laughter in her voice. She could fell a man, that much only she really knew, but he was right about another thing: her kindness would have likely prevented her from causing much harm.

“ I’ll see that as a compliment, and I would appreciate the escort, Lord Garramoth. Though, I promise to not take up very much of your time. I am sure you have much to still see, and plans of your own. ” It is in that moment that a realization dawned on her, only made after they had made their escape. Biting her lip, Leyla tried to decide how best to say what instantly came to her mind. Had she not been in familiar shoes herself so recently? “ I appreciate that you could, in an instant, be of such help. Especially when I am sure your thoughts are well occupied elsewhere. ” She allowed a small beat to pass before finally saying, “ I was sorry to hear of what happened to your family. ”

His brow raises. “What one would find themselves willing to do in their own defense would stagger the mind.” Cian sighs. “But rather somber words have no place here. I hope you never find cause to find them true.”

“Plans?” Cian laughs under his breath, not unkindly. “Do you think me a man of much maneuvering?” There was a hint of a play in his words, yet such playfulness is tinted with sorrow, limited by it, and does not last for long. “But it would be a lie to say that you are wrong, as there is much to do with what lays before us. Still—your company is no great burden.”

Her interest does not go unnoticed, even if unspoken. Cian procures the book hidden in the grasp of his other hand, raising it for her perusal; allows her to hold it, if she wishes so. “One of the objects of my selfishness.” He presents.

It is a heavy tome, betraying the corded muscle hidden within his lesser bulk as it is wielded one-handed. This was no peasant fare, nor ostentatious book to display in a glass case at a castle’s library: embossed in simple figures, accompanie by a sturdy brass clasp. On the spine was engraved a simple Natura Plantarum, alongside a rather intimidating Vol. XI. “This little escapade of mine… An indulgence to procure it. I hope that you shall not fault me for it.” He tilts his head. “You, as well? Taking a moment of respite, as to renew your strength?”

After her condolences, they walk in silence. Cian is not struck speechless, but rather, his gaze dims enough that it betrays the way loss lingers, and steals from one their words. “The position calls for me to be at your disposition, my lady. You may not be one of my Hollow, but we are of Nocturnia. Duty waits for no grief.” He breathes out. “But one feels it nonetheless. None are made of unfeeling stone, after all. Thank you.”

“ Ah, well… I suppose it is not entirely common, ” Evandris conceded with a shrug, slipping the strap from his shoulder. He held the instrument forward, holding by the neck while his other hand supported the bowl. He held it delicately, with a tenderness that showed its importance. It had been a gift from his mother, commissioned from a great craftsman in Morkhul for when he turned twelve. “ Most have bowls made of spruce such as this, and necks of poplar. The fingerboard is rosewood. That is where the similarities in construction with most other lutes found in Morkhul ends. The mother of pearl inlay on the fingerboard is unique to my lute, as is the intricate pattern of the rosette, ” he motioned to the features as he spoke. A mother of pearl inlay set into the rosewood that looked almost like crawling ivy working its way up the dark surface of the neck’s fingerboard, and then the intricate detailed pattern carved into the face of the big round body of the lute from which the sound echoed. It looked like an ornate window peering into the body of the instrument, a pattern of cuts that left swirls of wood, almost like the outline of a stain glass window. Upon closer inspection, the pattern looked like a blooming daffodil within the window. “ Six courses, eleven strings, and my family’s crest is here on the pegbox, ” Evandris showed off the crest of the House of Elarion carved into the wood at the head of the instrument briefly before offering it for them to hold. “ Only if I may see yours, ” he said, his smile lopsided. He had not played a lyre before — the instruments he played were other stringed ones which resembled the lute closely, and the pan flute he’d picked up fairly recently.

They trace the intricacies with their eyes, mapping them as a traveler would; following the tale of this lute’s journey as told from his tongue and spoken by the smooth timber of his voice. Rosewood and mother of pearl, rosette and daffodil. Rarely did anything bloom in Drakathar—winter roses that withered quickly, and oft all that was left in the gale’s wake was the wind-buffeted trees with their branches bared. Now, there was lushness not just around them, but carved into the instrument, furthered by its song.

It cannot be helped. As if spelled, they play the chords even while the lute is still in his hands, a single progression drawn by their fingertip as to sweeten the air. “It’s beautiful.” Then, their eyes fall upon the family crest, and their face decides to color itself in several different shades of white and red.

“You can do whatever you like!” Shit. Peer, indeed, more than, truth be told! “I only mean to—” They extend their lyre but almost drop it as they rush, with a twitch to their brow and eyes almost closing at their own fumbling display. “Mine is simply a humble tool. I have a couple more, one back home I found in my travels made of wild cherry that is carved with the very same that gave the wood its name—that one is my second favorite—but this one, ah—ehm.” Ásta flusters at the way their own mouth runs, but continues nonetheless. “This one is the oldest of the three. Blackthorn wood, carved by our own weapon-master's hand after I gifted him his favorite song. The figure is that of a long dragon-snake—here, you can see its head.”

The scales remain despite the time they had weathered, but the wood of the creature’s head is smooth, as if someone had rubbed their thumb against it often, be it to pet the wood-dragon or for luck. “I’ve had it since I was a fourteen.” They pause. “The one before it broke alongside my knee. That was a long time ago.”

They do not step back, but remain still, awkwardly holding the lyre to his inspection—for however long he desires. But hopefully not too long, or their arms would cramp. “I did not mean to speak for so long, Lord Elarion.” Ásta’s cheeks have remained vaguely flushed ever since the recognition struck them like a stick does the drum. “I had heard of you—Though I did not know you played nor composed! I just—I usually tend to keep to myself, in the few parties where all the Hollows join. I had yet to learn your face.” It would’ve been a difficult one to forget.

.✦ ݁˖ ⸻ Graveholt was a castle bolstered by chilling silence, a eulogy for all things forgotten, a grave for what she could not let go. Each place traveled to was filled with more boisterous life and revelry, with music which flowed effortless. This was the first in which Efigenia paused; the music was not discordant, it was pleasant, spoke to something rare within her, but she noted the lack of harmony such tune had with Heliophra. A place lacquered in gold and drenched in false light, it was no wonder Amarei's ideals for what their former glory pertained to stretched towards this place.

" Have you forgotten everyone in your respite ? " She delighted in a familiar face, especially one who had drifted away towards the sands of time grasping for hopes of oblivion. Efigenia smiled, an expression which would make most uneasy from her, eyeing Ásta as though they were the mealworm caught in her well-fashioned web. " For one who had skittered around my home , colluding with my family , I would hope to be greeted in a friendly regard , " she dangled such fraught truths like a lifeline; to either be ignited or ignored, but either response would be ammunition that she would delight in.

The recently restrung chord snaps with a dissonant noise; pity the sheep whose gut had been wasted in it, though it is Ásta who feels at the mercy of the butcher’s block now. Oh no. “Lady. Velwyrn.” Their onyx eyes are wide. Ásta lowers the remnants of their lyre, hides it behind themselves. “Wuh—no!” Their face finally breaks from the surprise, though it remains rather stiff. “How could I have forgotten you! My lady.” They bow, one hand behind them still, and straighten quickly, as if they cannot bear her being out of their sight for too long. “What? I do not know of what you speak.” And that is all they would say of the matter, thank you very much! “I rushed all the way back from the fringes of Drakathar, and barely had time to unpack my bag before suddenly we were rushing to arrive here in time. So much hustle and bustle, actually, ha—were it not for the servants, I probably would’ve forgotten by smallclothes in my closet back at Draegor. What a relief it wasn't so!” Ha. Ha.

Ásta blinks, and finally then does their face reflect how wary they feel. “It’s… Some would say it is… Simply the way it should be.” Their bare fingers clench and unclench, unsure of what to do with them when there is nothing for them to pluck at. “Nocturnia has been too long without a crownwearer. If it is a horrid game then… It is one that has been played several times, and a song that none have forgotten.” They pause, haunted by that truth. “But… If it’s so horrid in your eyes, then why play, my lady? Does—Does your sister not worry at you stepping forward for such a thing?”

the loss of lady garramoth had been jarring. it was true that death would find all velkynar but there was something in it to denma. something like a pattern dancing across her mind. first the chosen, her own little brother. then the fire. only to be followed by the lady. none of them sat right with her but all she could do pose was questions. hold suspicions. only solace was within her power of providing; in knowing their bodies were taken care of and their souls were finally free of the coil they were living in.

she had not expected a summoning to heliophra so quickly, her mind intrigued simply by the timing and that she was summoned as well. denma’s family was no longer in the running of the chosen. she would never have put her own name in for such a thing. her duties lay beyond a kingdom. beyond a council.

still, she came. even with graveyard dirt on her feet, she stood among a garden. gently viewing plants, she had not seen them in some months. deft fingers carefully tracing lines of petals, her eyes looked over the area with fondness. a soft sigh leaving her at the feeling of a presence nearby.

“It greets me as well as it can.” In front of her, Cian feels petulant child, like the troubled youth he pretends not to be. “If anything, I hope you will accept mine.”

Let me be your hands, he had said. But hands need be dextrous and steady, to wield the needle to thread or the knife to cut. Hands cannot by themselves grieve, let alone tremble and flinch. The sorrow threatened to drown him no matter the strength he used to swim to the shore. She was gone. And were it not for the way Denma's wisdom had bound him to his own sanity by a hair-thin thread, Cian is sure that he would've soon followed.

He walks to her side with his head bent. Lady Fukuyama carries with her a temple wherever she walks, it seems, and already Cian feels himself steadier under her shelter. If only he did not need to burden her with his need for further guidance still. “I’ve—” He stops. He has grown too used to the way he weaves lies into his words that now his voice cracks as it snaps back into a truer shape. “You once told me... Told me of how you kept them, even when it seemed there was nothing left to keep.” He swallows. Cian's eyes are wet, and his mouth trembles. Cannot help but wrap an arm around himself, a pale imitation what he desperately needs. “I cannot have lost all of her. Please, help me.”

Beric had not intended to interrupt. the sound had reached him long before the musician came into view, carried through the garden on the warm night air. it was enough to alter his path, if only slightly. enough to draw him toward it rather than away. for a few moments he remained where he was, half concealed by moonlit branches and stone, listening. then came the rustle. his own fault, perhaps. the melody stopped. beric's gaze lifted toward the figure seated amongst the gardens, recognition settling not from familiarity, but from name and reputation. one noble house knew another, even if introductions had never been properly exchanged. slowly, he stepped forward into clearer view. “my apologies,” he said evenly, his voice carrying easily through the quiet left behind by the interrupted song. “i wasn't aware i was close enough to ruin the performance.” a faint glance drifted toward the lyre before returning again and the corner of his mouth moved faintly, something not quite a smile. “and before you ask, no, i wasn't lurking.” a brief pause. “intentionally, at least.”

Onyx meets deep blue. Ásta knew of this man. Had lingered by the walk-ways that opened to the courtyard to catch a glimpse of him; had worried and hoped at the arrival of his carriage. They had never before exchanged a single word. “You—” They take a step back, straighten their back. “I didn’t ask—I mean! I did not mean that the way that it sounded,” Wings above! “I would never suspect—I would never even fathom the thought of you stalking me, lord Verathorm. That would be quite ridiculous, there wouldn’t be much to be caught.” The laugh that follows is half-forced, half-begging for him to allow it, if just to deliver them from the misery of such embarrassment. “And you did not ruin it, just… One cannot be too careful nowadays, can they?” They mutter, already wrought with grief, both past and borrowed.

They deliver him a small curtsy, and a smaller-even-if-bit-stiff smile. “Do you—Uh. Do you wish to keep listening to my performance? I can play a much lighter song. You must be wishing for some relaxation! Because of the... Because of the circumstances, I imagine…”

The thunderous heartbeat of a stomping giant permeates the halls with restlessness and unease, and Heliophra, in all of its beauty, turns to a funeral pyre in the wake of him; heads snapping, fingers clutching, eyes wide with the fresh bloom of dread he evokes. He stops for none, faces and bodies blending into gray, dull masses, gasps and whispers blending into a cacophony of noise without meaning and without aim. He does not stop, makes no effort to linger, makes no effort to justify the death omen of his presence or cushion the apprehension it brings.

He meant to come earlier, but time would not stop for him.

Time, as it were, selfish and unkind, stopped for none.

He walks straight through the guards like an arrow, hand already gripping the door, disallowing any pleasantries; and when they threaten to come in his way, the look in the Nuwa's blood-red eyes suffice as a warning of what would happen to anything that tried.

The door opens—and the loud thumping comes to an abrupt end as it closes behind the straightness of his spine. The tall, terrifying thing stands there, rigid and unyielding, crimson eyes piercing through the inky blackness. "Lenore." he greets, the heaviness of it unsettling, the thick rasp of his cadence like bone against bone, meat scraped raw, dry and chilling; his eyes find her first—whispering, already, surely. Whispering, weaving, scheming in the dark. Then, they find him. Those large, familiar hands are on his shoulders before he can rise of his throne of sorrow, gripping, clutching. "Young Lord," the voice softens so, then, and all of his rage dies in his throat, all of those harsh demands of the night prior turn to ash on his tongue. Guilt flickers briefly, his mouth close to his temple with the desperate urge to soothe. Why have you done this? Why didn't you tell me? What are you doing? This cannot end well. "Forgive me." it is a fond, gentle whisper; a quiet supplication muffled against his skin, for him, to him; because all desire to be right had disappeared, exorcised out of his body as he was possessed with the urge to love him instead.

Cian seemed less a patient in need of ablation and more a butcher’s carcass, bloodless and drained of the boyish fervor that usually ran so hot it bordered on ferality. She had expected to find a weeping wound, not the absence of one; the absence of anything, really. Lenore watched the hollowed shell of his face while something inside her unwound; it was not concern, but fascination. He bore his sorrow with a kind of hollow dignity, and if the quietude of those cherubic features drew her in, she, whose heart had never been a wellspring of pity, knew others would surely find themselves entranced as well. She held his hand as if cradling a glass-spun reliquary, keeping quiet, both measured in stillness and present in the warmth of her skin where it touched his. There was no need for words; a shelter need not announce its presence to draw in the weary. He would come to her as he always did, lay his head in her lap and ask for her hand to soothe his brow. So when his voice finally broke the silence, her head turned only slightly; midwinter eyes fixed on his face with the slow-moving attention of a swelling stream.

Then came the sound of a door.

Then the boy returned, if only momentarily.

Lenore did not need to turn her head to know whose presence had beckoned life back into Cian’s features; yet she did, for she wanted to see him as well. “Sheng,” she said, and no more; the name rang out as less a greeting and more an acknowledgment. My monster.

Lenore watched the tapestry unfold; a thousand stories were woven in the threads she saw forming between the two men. She knew her suspicions had been right, for they were now so tightly interlinked that separation would mean rupture. There would be no clean cut, unlike the symbolic patricide she would one day excise upon Cian; some bonds ran deeper than blood, especially those rooted in the heart. Watching Sheng’s lips graze the boy’s temple with care bordering on worship, she felt like an interloper; yet shame did not follow. After all, had she not woven this tale, or at least set the spinning wheel in motion? She, who was mistress of weft and loom, held the spindle that kept them all together.

So she rose from her seat in a murmur of skirts and stepped close enough that her presence became less an intrusion and more an addition within this strange tapestry.

Death, maiden, lamb.

“I knew you would come.” Her voice was soft, like velvet cloth drawn across skin. “Such sorrows should not be carried alone, but in the company of those closest to the heart.”

Her eyes moved slowly back to Cian, and her fingers reached out to brush a russet curl from his brow.

“Tell me, dearest,” she murmured, “what do you need of us?”

Cian had shut himself in a birdcage of his own making—golden gilded crystal windows, tall and open to the night sky; distance, from the world outside. A necessity due to his own brittleness, waiting for the craftsmanship of Lenore’s hands to fill the cracks of him with her stalwart silver. But now, here is a man that could break past those walls and shatter him with nothing but a whisper. Cian had gifted him that power as if it were nothing but a common flower, after all, and had done so with glad hands.

Sheng had never been one that Cian had ever feared, not until now. And so the soft words are an absolution, one that he is slow to trust—not due to the man’s own faults, but his own desperate desire for them making him doubt it being so easily got. It is the touch that breaks through the madness. Cian does not stand, but rather turns his head and allows himself to burrow into the safety of Sheng’s arms. He hides there, breathes him in, lets the comfort of it drown him enough until the dam within him overflows and snaps. Cian does not shake nor sob, but his eyes well up with practiced silence, leaving tear-tracks over Sheng’s heart.

He is peeled raw in front of Lenore. That, in itself, is more soothing than their shared quietude had been. If she were to find him wanting now, it would be for the whole of him. There would be no ambiguity to hide behind, and no more to give.

If the world was kinder, he could hide in that safety forever, and yet, it is not. Still, he lingers as he looks up, meeting Sheng’s crimson eyes with his bloody own. “There is nothing to forgive.” Rather than to cut, Sheng had come to mend. This is a bond that Cian would not allow to break.

Already he had prepared himself to cross the boundary and had been interrupted mid-step. Now, they would both be witness. Cian stands—leaving both their affections behind as he walks further into the balcony, now with the background of the nearby stars. “My father has refused to see me.” A pause. “And all I've got are news, twisted as they have passed through countless hands. I am ignorant to what he plans, and neither do I have the luxury to wait for him to deign to let us find out. When I took to the title of Council Lord, I did so believing that I would turn what is considered a weakness within Braxigar into a strength without. Let my meekness match theirs, so that they would find me an equal, and finally understand.” He turns to them. His voice breaks at the admittance that follows. “I was wrong.”

Weakness, it had remained. No longer. Cian’s gaze hardens.“I am no old fool, set in my ways out of pride and stubbornness. If this method does not work, then I must find another. These killers have furthered their reach, and now they tear into our flesh and render us into nothing. They’ve lit a pyre which they wish to use to drown us in the darkness it casts; for our foes dwell in the shadows, speak in whispers, linger in the walls—but so do you.” He steps forward, towards her. “Lenore.”It had always been her. Cian would learn to walk with the wind of the storm that would follow her. “They have tipped the scales in their favor through blood and fear. Let my weight be the one that brings the balance.”

He bows, deep and supplicant. “Let me be your hands in the light.”

the  sound  of  a  lyre  is  heard  in  one  of  the  many  oasis  gardens  of  the  elaris  keep  .  citrine  hue's  find  themselves  eager  to  find  it's  creator  and  with  gentle  and  easy  steps  ,  the  thanachalerm  daughter  carries  herself  to  the  oasis  .  it's  astonishing  how  the  heliophrians  are  able  to  live  in  the  desert  ,  yet  build  their  homes  in  places  where  greenery  has  found  sanctuary  .  perhaps  the  place  is  created  or  maybe  it  was  here  before  the  keep  ?  the  secrets  of  old  lay  burried  deep  within  their  world  and  perhaps  they  will  never  come  to  light  .  silken  clothing  sway  in  the  wind  as  she  approaches  and  when  she  finds  the  creator  of  the  beautiful  sounds  ,  her  shoulders  sinks  back  into  comfort  .  she  did  not  know  when  asta  had  returned  from  their  travels  ,  all  she  knew  was  that  they  were  upon  draegor  when  she  and  vaelor  returned  from  vallarion  .  "  it's  me  ,  asta  .  "  careful  words  ,  whispered  to  let  the  music  still  sway  her  ,  like  a  serpent  wanting  to  move  to  it's  tune  .  "  i  can  leave  if  you'd  like  ,  i  just  really  wanted  to  know  who  made  such  beautiful  tunes  at  such  difficult  times  .  "

Her appearance greets them unaware. Amazement comes to their features, from seeing her face as it peeks through the greenery, as if another flower blooming through the leaves. It is no wonder they sing songs of her, no wonder they speak of her even in distant inns—and no wonder that when the engagement was announced, that many mourned and celebrated both. As if higher being, now bound to earth. “Chantara,” They breathe, as if spelled. Then, a moment later, they move back not in fright but out of respect and to give her further space, still struck slightly dumb. “No, no—Pschow, you know you do not have to leave.” They attempt to school their expression into something inviting, but most likely miss by a mile. “We are to be family, so—Come, here.” They step back again, almost tripping for it, and gesture to the empty seat. “Sit, sit. I’ll play you a song to lift… to lift your spirits.” It is now, that they realize what she had said. “…Is everything alright? Has... Has something come to pass?”

Clean  air  won’t  make  your  voice  braver.  Still,  he  lets  his  thoughts  stay  close  to  his  heart  as  he  stands  there,  large  and  imposing,  all  stoical  and  phlegmatic.  Dry,  cutting  eyes  find  the  shade  of  concern  of  his  sibling’s.  This  time,  he  does  not  let  himself  relent  to  a  softer  gaze  as  he  clenches  his  jaw,  only  followed  by  a  sigh,  loud  and  clear.  " Nerves.  Dust.  Whatever  else  you  intend  to  blame  next?  Me? "  Ivar?  Our  parents?  The  cold  of  Drakathar  that  pilfered  the  warmth  from  one’s  limbs?  He  holds  her  expression  of  disbelief,  no  retreat  into  any  softness  that  would  undo  the  shape  of  what  he  has  long  since  become.

His  rebuttal  does  not  end,  and  he  feels  the  jarring  phantom  ache  of  his  own  words.  " If  you  have  complaints  about  the  quality  of  the  air,  Ástra,    do  address  them  to  our  dearest  maid.  I’m  certain  she’ll  be  more  than  devastated  to  learn  her  stewardship  of  the  dust  has  failed  your  sensible  lungs. "  For  must  I be  burdened  by  your  airway  too?  He  can  tell  by  now,  as  the  maid  fluttered  in  the  room,  that  they  held  their  breath  as  they  perked  their  ears,  their  apron  around  their  middle  slightly  askew, only  adding  to  his  ire.  Still,  he  does  not  raise  his  tongue  towards  them,  but  instead,  tears  his  eyes  away  fully  to  catch  the  glimpse  of  his  sibling.  " Otherwise,  I  suggest  you  endure  it. "  His  brows  furrow  as  they  grip  the  charcoal,  his  scowl  only  deepening  as  a  streak  of  ash  paints  their  skin.

Their lips close, mouth shutting with a sound clic. Immediately, they shrink. Was this not what they feared? What they had told themselves they would not allow again? Already a buzzing fly, a wretched burden. “No, never…” They answer as a mumble, gaze lowering to the floor as their back straightens under the reproach that is surely on his voice, as they evade what must be disappointment in that pale stern gaze. Again, it cannot happen again. Their hand leaves the chair to fold over the other, leaving ash on the wood; holding onto the cold charcoal. “No, it is—it is alright.” They fidget. “The windows are as clear as crystal, and quite pretty.” It is a peace offering that achieves little.

"You're such a shameless girl..." there is a longing he will not name in him, an envy he will not recognize as he folds into himself, lounging by the edge of the shadows where the light nearly kisses, where the sun threatens to scrape the flimsy sheets loosely draped over his thin silhouette.

"Noona, close your eyes," the boy sing-songs, languid shape outstretched, unspooling in a small ripple of ivory on the floor of her bedroom like a discarded porcelain doll, much too delicate for such violent delights. "Pretend I'm somebody you trust," his voice floats to her like a white satin moth, gauzy soft, hoarse from all the involuntary noises she'd wrung from his pale throat. "Won't you tell me what's on your mind?"

Shameless, yes, that is her. Shamelessly sitting in the sun, where he cannot reach. Not that he could, she thinks, even if she stepped into the coolness of the shade. Baeksa is delightful to be sure, and she enjoys deeply the sound of his sighs, the whine of his worn-out voice—but in the wake of such delights comes bitter aftertaste. Not his fault, of course. He is as sweet as sin, and twice as wicked.

Impish little thing. Now, Ruoxi does crack a smile—a whisper of a sharp grin. It is telling that there is nothing to correct. “And be bereft of the sight of you?” Her eyes linger on his bare shoulders, on the shape of his waist. She’s tempted to make him turn on the floor for her, to make him bare his belly for her sharp eyes to pierce. “You ask for too much, but that is how I spoil you.”

With her eyes closed, the grace Ruoxi usually sheds comes easily. It makes her look like the painting of a young woman, one who is not her. Someone you trust. She could think of not a single one. Her siblings had all gone distant, and her mother… her mother. There is a weariness within me that only grows, she thinks. If you’d spent less time in bed and more in battle, perhaps we could have made you earn your spurs, something echoes. “I’m thinking of your tempting skin.” Whip-quick, she reaches past and into the darkness, and pinches his cheek. Then, she retreats. Ha!

He  tunes  out  of  their  flutter  of  musings.  Ásta’s  voice  nervously  breaking  like  thin  ice  as  they  speak,  shaping  him  into  a  man  of  constraint.  His  arms  are  crossed  over  each  other,  eyes  staring  at  the  ashen  steel  plate  next  to  the  firewood.  For  a  brief  moment,  as  Ásta  continues  their  distressed  chatter,  he  wonders  why  a  hollow  this  warm  would  have  a  littering  of  previous  remnants  of  ash.  Vaelor  opens  his  mouth,  eyes  searching  for  the  maid,  to  speak  an  order  to  clean  the  hearth,  but  his  words  derail  as  his  patience  thins,  and  instead  he  speaks  more  cutting.   " You’re  a  bard     yet  you  speak  like  you’ve  forgotten  the  point  of  your  song. "   The  maid  is  long  forgotten  now,  yet  he  can  see  from  his  peripherals  the  slight  hitch  in  the  maid’s  spine  before  they  rush  back  to  work.  Vaelor  bites  his  tongue  then,  wishing  he  did  it  sooner.  Still,  the  lingering  regret  softens  his  eyes,  and  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  entered  their  quarters,  salt  eyes  look  upon  their  blood.  " What  I  mean  to  say  is  to  be  careful  with  the  friends  you  make,  Ásta.  These  aren’t  the  travellers  and  commoners  you  come  across  on  the  mountains. "  He  tries  to  put  as  much  love  in  his  words  as  he  could.  Yet,  he  is  stoicism  made  flesh.

“Why, well of course I have!” Their fingers itch for their lyre, but already they had left it at their room on the other side of their quarters. “How am I to sing with all these—these nerves and, this room is a little dusty, isn’t it?” They squint at the hearth and bend to pick up a stray oddly-shaped soot-ridden rock, and then Ásta shoots a worrying look at the small sound of dismay let out by a maid just a few feet away. Someone goes to fetch a wet handkerchief.

It is not usual that Ásta graces Vaelor with an expression of sheer disbelief, but what is common is the worried look that follows; common enough that it is never suspect, that it never means anything besides what is expected of them. Too late, brother.

Again in too-short-a-time, Ásta looks at Vaelor aghast. Then, they start. “And what do you mean by that?!” The last word drags on a whine, bordering on a desperate sob, and Ásta starts pacing immediately, bringing a hand to their forehead out of the stress. Quickly, a streak of ash forms on their skin painted by their blackened fingertips, one they do not address as their other hand worries at the charcoal they had just picked up. “I do not want to know, but if I do not know, I shall be suffering all the while from what I do not know but you know and refuse to let me know without asking me if I should even know!”

It was not uncommon to see the marketplace so full of faces. It had always been bustling, with vendors lining the streets selling wares and trinkets unique to their hollow and sometimes from far beyond. Beneath colorful banners and pennants which flickered as an evening breeze rolled through, the market square was far more congested as new faces now flooded the area beside the usuals, and Heliophra answered in kind. Every tavern door was wide open, the smells of hearty meals drawing travel weary patrons to their dining halls. Inns boasted being at near capacity, other establishments moved their finest wares to be visible at windows or on stalls right outside their stoop. The marketplace had come alive with the momentous occasion that they had been given the honor to host.

But Leyla Altinsoy was not among the throng flocking to the marketplace. Walking swiftly up an uneven path sloping behind the buildings that lined the bustling avenue, she had taken to the laneways which ran parallel to the market instead. These paths were empty, less traversed alleys which still lead through the busier parts of town. They were perfect alternatives to getting around for those that knew how to navigate the labyrinthine side streets, and she was one such Heliophrian on a particular mission of sorts. In the midst of all that was happening she had commissioned new jewels, the artisan all too eager to design a set that was to be adorned on the youngest Altinsoy. She could have sent anyone to fetch them, but Leyla liked to see to such things personally. She wanted them to see her gratitude within a radiant smile that always took to her features when claiming a new piece. It suited her image at court, that of a beautiful girl who was more occupied with such simple things than the intricacies of politics. Let her elders play their games; Leyla would instead shine in ballrooms and grand halls, forever that little pretty thing to admire.

Such a task should have been fairly simple, but the large crowds made it impossible to navigate the marketplace quickly. So she took to the alternative routes, going against the protestations of her lady’s maid in the process. Esma was to go pick up her new gloves at the haberdashery while Leyla pressed onwards to the jewelers. Splitting up meant getting through their respective tasks quicker, after all. And besides — this particular path lead straight to the back door of a bakery Leyla had frequented since she was a child, taking her allowance to waste on simit and poğaça. Why not take the opportunity to find her way to their back door and indulge while she was at it? It was this thought that added a certain pep to her step as she traversed the path. But coming to a sharp turn, she was startled when she almost walked head first into two tall hooded figures loitering at the back door of a tavern. Their breaths held the reek of ale as they laughed at the near collision, a voice echoing through the alley when one spoke up. “ Well, well, what have we here? Not the typical alley cat we would expect to find. Where are you off too? Perhaps we can escort you? ”

Her nose wrinkled, Leyla lifting her chin haughtily in defiance even though they towered well above her. She reached for a dagger she luckily had thought to conceal within her cape but as she began to contemplate unsheathing it for her own protection, Leyla’s amber eyes caught another face coming down the laneway opposite them, and felt relief swell within at the familiar visage. “ Oh — there you are! ” she cried out, side stepping the two and rushing up the incline towards the velkynar approaching. She ignored the confusion on their face, flashing a look that said ‘do not ask questions’ before smiling and continuing, “ When you said we would meet up in an unorthodox place, this was hardly what I had imagined. Shall we go, then? ” She lowered her voice, barely nodding her head back as she added, “ Just play along until we are rid of them, hm? ”

Cian blinks, startled into marble-like stillness, before life comes to him again. His words carry, soft yet loud enough still to be heard. “Forgive me—But you know that I am yet a fool, when it comes to finding my way. That said, I will argue I still found you, didn’t I?” He wraps an arm around hers and gives her a smile, half-grieved, half-indulgent. “Let us go quickly.” His eyes flicker towards the men. Piercing crimson, a dark blood-shade. He wonders if those outside of Braxigar still knew to fear them, and their stumbling back made him believe the answer was yes. “I saw a peculiar little stall on the way here, one that I most wanted you to see.”

He whisks her away, past the bumbling fools. A small sun on his arm, and a new book under the other. They do not rush nor run, but still they overcome those who had been watching. Moments after, Cian’s voice finds her in a whisper. “You could’ve rid yourself of them in a number of other ways. Still could.” It is not meant to encourage cruelty; if anything, there is a question in it. “You’ve a kindness for not doing so. Please, allow me to see you to safety, lady Altinsoy.” Cian tilts his head at her, almost as if a bow. “If only just until we find you proper company again.”