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The apartment was dark aside from the faint glow filtering through the curtains from the streets below. Silvermoon never truly slept, but at least for now it was quiet. Veilos stood by the window with a mug of long-forgotten tea cooling in his hands, looking out onto the city with a thousand-yard stare. Behind him, the apartment felt different than it had a few months ago. There was another presence here now, another person who occupied space in a life he had spent years believing would remain largely solitary.

Altherei was asleep in his bed, the thought alone was enough to make him glance over his shoulder toward the bedroom door. She had stayed over before, and each time it remained a little strange. Not in a bad way or unwelcome at all, just unfamiliar. For years, his apartment had been a place he returned to alone. No matter how loud and exhausting the day, the silence had always been waiting for him when he unlocked the door.

He wasn't certain when concern for her had become something deeper. There had been no singular moment he could pinpoint, no dramatic moment of revelation. Instead it had happened gradually, through conversations, shared meals, walks through the city, and countless small moments that seemed insignificant on their own at the time. Somewhere along the way, he had started looking for her in crowds, and at some point, he realized that hearing from her had become one of the better parts of his day.

That realization should have made him happy. In many ways, it did. Yet there was a lingering discomfort he couldn't quite shake, and he knew exactly where it came from. Kyrisa's memory quietly lingered in every corner of his life, no longer the unbearable wound it had once been but still very much so present. Time had softened the sharp edges of the grief, but it could never be erased. He still thought about her, and their children, and he still missed them dearly.

The guilt was irrational, and he knew it. If Kyrisa could somehow see him now, she would likely be relieved that he had allowed someone into his life again. She had always possessed far less patience for his self-destructive tendencies than he did. Even so, there were nights when he caught himself feeling as though he were standing on cracked, uneven ground, caught between the life he had lost and the possibility of building something new.

His gaze settled on his reflection in the window. The man staring back looked older than he remembered becoming. There were more scars now, more lines around his eyes, more grey in his hair. He could not help but reflect on all that had changed since the life he once thought he would have. Sometimes he felt as though he could divide his life into two halves: before the Scourge and after it. Everything that had happened since had been shaped by that single catastrophic event, whether he wanted it to be or not.

The worst part was not the guilt, but the uncertainty. He worried constantly that he wasn't giving Altherei what she deserved. Years of grief had taught him how to endure, how to compartmentalize, and most especially how to carry burdens without asking for help. They had not taught him how to be emotionally available or how to start again. More often than he cared to admit, he found himself staring off into space, trapped in memories she could not possibly understand.

He worried she noticed every distant look, every moment his attention drifted somewhere else, and every occasion he became quiet without explanation. Altherei had never complained about any of it. In fact, she was remarkably patient, which almost made it worse. Patience had a way of highlighting his own shortcomings more effectively than criticism ever could.

Part of him wondered if he was waiting for some magical clarity to arrive. A moment when all the fear disappeared and he suddenly knew exactly what he was doing. The older he got, the more he realized that life did not work that way. The most important decisions seemed to involve moving forward despite uncertainty rather than waiting for it to vanish. He was discovering that relationships were no different.

Veilos set the mug of cold tea aside with a frown and rubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted, though not in the physical sense. This was a deeper weariness, the kind that came from wrestling with thoughts that had no immediate solutions. He could treat injuries and reinforce mental barriers, yet when it came to his own emotions, he often felt remarkably unequipped in these situations.

A soft sound from the bedroom drew his attention. He tilted his head and listened for a moment and heard the rustle of blankets. The sound grounded him more effectively than any amount of introspection had managed. Altherei was here because she wanted to be, not because he had convinced her, not because she expected perfection, and not because she was unaware of his flaws. She knew enough of his scars to understand.

The realization eased something in him. Not enough to make the worries disappear, but enough to quiet them for the time. He cared about her deeply, whether it was love yet or something still growing into it, he couldn't honestly say. What he did know was that the thought of losing her had terrified him on Quel'Danas, and that her presence made his days brighter in ways he had not expected.

She had become someone he sought out without thinking, someone whose opinions he valued and whose happiness genuinely mattered to him. It had been a very long time since another person's presence felt so natural in his life. Perhaps that was what unsettled him as much as it comforted him, the realization that despite everything he had lost, he still had room in his heart to care this much for someone again. 

After a few moments, he finally stepped away from the window and returned to the bedroom. The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he slid carefully beneath the blankets. Altherei stirred slightly and moved closer in her sleep, settling without waking. Veilos stared at the ceiling for a while longer, listening to her breathing in the darkness, and for once he allowed himself to stop searching for answers he didn't yet have. Some things were allowed to unfold in their own time.

TW: Death

Years had passed since the night of the sparrow. Zenithal was no longer a frightened child staring at a terrible miracle in the moonlight. He was older now, more knowledgeable, and far more dangerous because of it. His parents had taught him a great deal about death and the forces that surrounded it, but there were still subjects they refused to heavily discuss beyond a firm warning. Resurrection sat at the top of that list.

The prohibition only made it more fascinating. Every time he asked why it was forbidden, he received some variation of the same answer. He wasn't ready, he didn't understand enough, some boundaries existed for a reason. None of those explanations satisfied him, and if anything, they convinced him there was something important hidden behind the refusal. Zenith had spent years studying, practicing, and refining his abilities, and at fifteen, he no longer believed he was the child who had animated a sparrow by accident.

One autumn evening, when both his parents were away for the night, he slipped quietly from his room and made his way next door. The funeral parlor sat silent in the darkness, the familiar halls illuminated only by moonlight filtering through the windows. He knew every corner of the building because he had grown up there. It was the family business, so the preparation room and the morgue held no fear for him. At least not anymore.

The cold greeted him as he entered the lower level. Along one wall sat the rows of refrigerated mortuary cabinets used to store the dead before preparation. Zenith paused in front of one of the drawers, resting his hand against the metal handle. The man inside had died suddenly only two days earlier. No violence or prolonged illness. Alive one day, gone the next.

He stood there for several moments before pulling the drawer open. The body slid forward with a soft metallic sound, revealing a man who appeared to be middle-aged. His features were peaceful enough, and there were no obvious injuries. Looking at him, it was easy to imagine he was merely asleep.

A part of Zenith knew he should close the drawer and leave, but another part reminded him that opportunities to test his theories rarely presented themselves so conveniently. Curiosity had been winning that argument for months. If his parents were right, he would finally understand why. If they were wrong, he would prove it.

The process was nothing like what had happened with the sparrow years ago. There was no accidental instinct guiding him now. Every movement was deliberate, and every word chosen with care. He reached toward the body and focused on everything he had learned over the years. The room seemed to grow unnaturally still as the cold and invasive sensation settled over him, drawing at something unseen beneath the surface of the world.

The moment he truly committed to the process, he felt the magic respond. The cold spread through his arms and settled deep within his chest, far stronger than anything he had experienced before. It felt as though something was being pulled from him as much as it was flowing through him. Sweat gathered along his brow despite the chill of the morgue, and a dull ache began to form behind his eyes. He ignored it. Powerful magic always demanded something from the practitioner. That was simply part of the discipline.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the man's fingers twitched against the drawer. Zenith's pulse quickened as a shallow breath followed, then another. The man's chest rose steadily, and before long his eyes opened.

Excitement surged through Zenith so suddenly that he nearly stumbled backward. He had done it. Against every warning and every prohibition, he had succeeded. The man blinked several times, his gaze wandering across the ceiling before eventually settling on Zenith. For a few brief moments, he looked confused.

"Do you know who you are?" Zenith asked.

The answer came immediately. The man gave his name, even his wife’s and daughter’s names. He named the business he owned and the street where he lived. Every answer was correct and coherent. With each response, Zenith felt his confidence growing. He had expected confusion, gaps in memory, perhaps signs that something had been lost. Instead, everything appeared intact.

Then, the man fell silent. His eyes shifted past Zenith's shoulder and fixated on something that wasn't there. The confusion vanished so quickly it was almost unsettling. What replaced it was something far worse.

Fear.

Not ordinary fear. This was the look of someone who had seen something so terrible that merely remembering it threatened to break them. That expression alone was enough to horrify Zenith more than anything he had witnessed in his studies. 

The color drained from the man’s face, his breathing quickened, and his entire body began to tremble. "No." The word was but a faint whisper. His gaze darted around the room wildly before returning to Zenith. "No. No. No."

Zenith felt a knot form in his stomach. The excitement that had filled him moments earlier began to evaporate. He stepped closer, intending to calm the man, but the moment he entered arm’s reach, a hand shot forward and seized the front of his shirt. The strength behind the grip startled him.

"Why did you do that?" The man's voice cracked as tears gathered in his eyes. "Why did you bring me back?"

For a moment, Zenith could only stare. He had imagined countless reactions to success. Gratitude, relief, maybe even confusion. Never this.

"I was gone." The man's entire body shook. "I was gone!"

A sharp pain shot through Zenith's skull, forcing him to brace himself against the edge of the cabinet. His vision blurred for a moment before slowly clearing. The effort of maintaining the resurrection was becoming increasingly apparent. Every breath the man took seemed to pull something from him in return. Was it supposed to feel like this?

The man's eyes remained fixed on him. "I wasn't supposed to come back." His voice was growing weaker now, but the terror within it had not diminished. "It was over." The words broke apart as he spoke them. "It was finally over."

Whatever memories had returned with him, whatever experience lay beyond death, Zenith wanted no part of it. The man's dread-filled expression was more than enough. He looked like someone standing before an open abyss. Not because he feared death, but because he had already crossed into it and been dragged back against his will.

For the first time that night, genuine doubt pierced through Zenith's confidence. He realized he had never truly considered what resurrection might feel like for the person being resurrected. He had approached the entire problem from his own curiosity and desire to know whether it could be done. The man inside the drawer had never been part of the equation.

Maintaining the connection became increasingly difficult. Every breath the man drew seemed to drain Zenith further. His muscles felt heavy, and his heart hammered against his ribs despite standing still. The room swayed around him, and his hands trembled from more than nerves. Years of study had taught him that necromancy carried a cost, but knowing that fact and experiencing it were very different things. Maybe he was still too young and inexperienced.

The realization settled heavily in his chest. He could render a body functional and restore movement, breath, and speech. But whatever made a person truly belong among the living seemed far more complicated than he had imagined. The difference between life and animation suddenly felt far greater than it had when he first looked upon that sparrow years ago.

The man's grip gradually loosened and his breathing slowed. The terror in his eyes remained until the very end. Then, little by little, the unnatural force holding him together began to unravel. Moments later his chest stilled, his eyes closed, and he became a corpse once more.

By then, Zenith's own legs were trembling. A deep exhaustion had settled into his bones, and every breath felt shallow and strained. He gripped the edge of the mortuary drawer to keep himself upright, staring at the body as the room slowly stopped spinning around him.

The silence that followed felt far heavier than any lecture his parents could have given him. Zenith remained there for a long time, replaying every moment in his mind. The victory he had imagined felt hollow now. He had achieved exactly what he set out to do, yet all he felt was unease.

As dawn approached, he finally pushed the drawer closed. The metallic sound echoed through the room, followed by an uncomfortable stillness. Looking at the man, he had found one answer. Looking down at his own shaking hands and feeling the lingering drain within himself, he found another. Some questions carried costs far greater than curiosity could justify.

Thursday nights had been something sacred to the group. Nobody officially declared it tradition, but somewhere between deployments, transfers, and increasingly complicated schedules, the five of them had collectively decided D&D campaign night took priority. They had trained together for the elite forces and despite no longer being stationed in the same places, somehow still found time every other week to gather at someone’s apartment, drink some cheap beer or wine, and make poor decisions inside worlds Keyalin built entirely from scratch.

Tonight was at Keyalin and Aerden’s apartment, which meant the dining table had once again ceased functioning as usable furniture for about a few days prior. Blackwater Crossing spread across nearly the entire surface in absurd detail. Crooked harbor streets twisted between weathered buildings, lanterns were fully functional, market stalls sat cluttered with hand-painted details, and the docks looked damp enough to smell faintly of saltwater. There were fishing nets, barrels, moss creeping along stone, and even tiny scattered oyster shells.

Lyessa stood over the table with crossed arms, staring. “There’s algae,” she said after a long pause.

Keyalin glanced up from organizing miniatures. “Yes.”

“Like, -actual- algae.”

“It improves the realism, why wouldn’t there be algae?”

Sael crouched lower and suspiciously narrowed his eyes. “Did you paint fish?”

“Yes.”

“You painted individual fish?”

“They’re part of the environment. Do you want your sets to look real or not?”

Across the room, Aerden sat comfortably on the couch with a beer, looking amused and unsurprised by any of this. Unlike everyone else, he had long ago accepted that living with Keyalin occasionally meant overhearing deeply concerning statements like ‘the dock erosion lacks authenticity’ at two in the morning.

“He spent three hours repainting roof moss last night,” Aerden mused.

“The original texture didn’t look right,” Keyalin replied.

“You whispered ‘immersion is suffering’ like someone died.”

Talia had already picked up one of the miniatures and was inspecting it closely. “…Did you contour this merchant’s face?”

“Well, of course,” Keyalin said.

“He’s an inch tall!”

“He still deserves cheekbones.”

Lyessa sighed, “you continue to horrify me.” It was a compliment from her, and Keyalin took it as one with an amused grin.

The strange thing was that if anyone outside their group saw Keyalin like this, they probably would not recognize him. He was usually much quieter and more reserved. A little awkward sometimes, especially socially. The kind of person who paused too long before answering because he was carefully thinking through every possible interpretation of a sentence. 

But campaign nights transformed him into someone else entirely. The moment he sat behind the screen, something shifted. He smiled and moved more, he became expressive in ways that bordered on theatrical. The awkward engineer who occasionally stumbled through small talk disappeared, replaced by someone fully committed to storytelling, dramatic tension, and too many NPC accents.

“Previously,” Keyalin began, lowering his voice dramatically in a way that made everyone groan, “our collection of catastrophically underqualified adventurers arrived in the harbor city of Blackwater Crossing seeking answers regarding the disappearances beneath the cathedral district.”

“Oh, we’re being insulted immediately,” Sael muttered.

“You robbed a funeral home,” Keyalin reminded him.

“It was abandoned!”

“There was an active funeral!”

“There were no signs...”

“There were mourners.” Keyalin sighed, this was normal.

Sael’s rogue, Rook, was essentially just Sael with lockpicks and worse impulse control. Overconfident, reckless, and somehow still charming enough to survive consequences, Rook approached danger with the unwavering confidence of someone who had survived enough bad decisions to start trusting the process. 

Lyessa played Seraphine, a heavily armored paladin who specialized in healing and spent most sessions functioning as the exhausted parent of the group. Off the table, Lyessa had always been practical, dependable, and quietly protective, and somehow she had accidentally recreated herself in fantasy form.

“I just want everyone to know,” Lyessa said while organizing dice, “that if any of you touch something obviously cursed this time, I reserve the right to slap you after healing you.”

“Hostile much?” Talia replied.

“You remember what happened last time.”

Talia’s warlock, Vesper, remained one of Keyalin’s greatest narrative challenges because she treated every single encounter as a potential romantic opportunity. Guards, villains, mysterious strangers, cultists, even suspicious entities… it truly did not matter. He was also fairly certain she had used those skills in real life against Aerden, judging by the way they kept glancing at each other across the table with obvious interest. 

“You flirted with a wanted criminal last session,” Lyessa reminded her.

“He had sad eyes.” Talia pointed out with a smile.

“He murdered six people.”

“I could fix him.” She winked over to Aerden.

Aerden, meanwhile, had refused to play anything remotely close to a healer. “I already heal people in real life,” he had said months ago. “In my free time I would like to hit things.” His barbarian, Bram, reflected this philosophy beautifully. Dryly sarcastic and profoundly practical, Bram approached everything by asking whether it could be solved through violence before entertaining literally any other option.

The evening’s session began in the harbor market, where rumors of disappearances beneath the cathedral had begun circulating among fishermen. Keyalin slipped seamlessly between characters, moving effortlessly from a suspicious dockworker to an exhausted merchant to a city guard who was clearly hiding something. Watching him work always felt faintly surreal, because he got so into it. He gestured while speaking, changed his accent, tone, and even posture between NPCs, and did insanely realistic sound effects. 

The disaster began when Sael attempted stealth. Again. “I rolled a natural one…”

Aerden sighed immediately, and the other two facepalmed, something terrible was about to happen. Rook was the worst rogue in existence.

Rook attempted to discreetly sneak through the fish market. Instead, according to Keyalin’s increasingly delightful narration, he tripped over stacked crates, tangled himself in fishing netting, knocked over an entire display of oysters, and accidentally stumbled face-first into the single angriest goose in existence.

Keyalin dug through his stash of minis before placing a tiny, white, angry-looking goose onto the table. “You see...” he spoke slowly, visibly trying not to laugh already, “an aggressively territorial harbor goose filled with resentment!"

Silence.

Talia immediately leaned forward. “Oh my god.” She considered seducing it, but decided that perhaps even Vesper had her limits.

Aerden nearly snorted beer through his nose.

The goose attacked instantly. It bit Sael hard enough to knock off a good chunk of hit points. It chased a screaming Lyessa through the market, who apparently had unresolved issues with birds. It stole bread directly out of Talia’s inventory. Then, somehow, it snatched a folded map from an NPC cultist and sprinted into the harbor district while hissing like something fueled entirely by vengeance.

“You’re kidding,” Sael said.

“We have to pursue the goose!” Aerden exclaimed.

Thanks to one entertaining roll after another, the goose kept accidentally helping. It led them toward hidden tunnels beneath the cathedral, bit a suspicious priest, exposed someone secretly involved in disappearances, and then violently attacked a cultist carrying an important key.

“He senses evil,” Talia whispered.

By the end of the investigation, after Sael fed it stolen berries and Lyessa wrapped a scarf around its neck ‘for characterization,’ nobody wanted to leave it behind.

“What’s his name?” Keyalin asked, already sounding tired. This was all improvised and not a part of the plan, but this was also how every single one of their campaigns always went.

Aerden answered immediately, “Duke Honkers.”

Nobody questioned it, and they all immediately cheersed Duke Honkers.

The cathedral beneath the harbor came later. Keyalin physically swapped sections of the map while narrating their descent underground, and the mood shifted almost instantly. The deeper they traveled, the stranger things became. Hallways bent subtly wrong, statues seemed to change direction when no one was looking, and something wet moved somewhere in the distant dark.

Then, Keyalin stood and everyone immediately groaned.

“Oh no,” Talia muttered.

“He’s standing,” Lyessa sighed.

“That means trauma,” Sael winced.

“....But we have Duke Honkers, all will be well.” Aerden whispered.

The creature descended slowly from the ceiling. Keyalin paced slightly as he described it, fully committed now, voice low and unsettling enough that even Aerden stopped joking. Flesh hung unevenly across its body like soaked cloth stretched over bones assembled incorrectly. Limbs folded inward at grotesque angles, joints clicking as they reset themselves with squelching sounds.

Faces moved beneath its skin. Not fully visible, just impressions pressing outward briefly before disappearing again, mouths opening silently beneath translucent flesh. Too many eyes blinked in places eyes should not exist. Mouths split across ribs and palms, with rows of teeth grinding together while fragments of overlapping voices escaped in frightened whispers.

“The smell reaches you next,” Keyalin continued quietly. “Saltwater and rot, with something sweet underneath that in an attempt to mask the stench.”

The fight became chaotic. Sael nearly got swallowed after another bad stealth roll. Lyessa spent most of combat healing everyone through visible disappointment and constant swearing. Aerden solved problems by throwing furniture. Talia attempted flirting with the eldritch horror, which forced Keyalin to physically stop narrating because he was laughing too hard.

Through logic nobody could fully explain, Duke Honkers landed the final blow. The room exploded into laughter while Keyalin sat behind the screen staring at the battlefield in complete disbelief. “You know, there wasn’t even supposed to be a goose.”

“He chose us,” Talia replied.

“He chose violence,” Aerden corrected with a firm nod.

Keyalin looked down at the tiny goose miniature, sighed dramatically, and quietly moved it beside the party figures. “Fine,” he muttered. “Congratulations.”

Duke Honkers had joined the campaign. Keyalin already had three ideas for his backstory.

The Construct moves without question, Through silence shaped by His design; Every step a form of confession, Every thought already aligned.

He gleans a thought that is not command, No echo of Him in its haunting tone; It trembles like glass in unseen hand, And feels to be something wholly his own.

The Construct pauses where certainty ends, A space unfolds without order given; No binding will, no shaping that bends, Just silence that does not feel driven.

For the first time, choice lacks a name, Not carved, not placed, not quietly shown; A flicker that refuses the flame, Of what he has forever known.

And in that pause, the bond grows thin, Not broken yet, but acutely aware; As if something buried within, Begins to breathe without Master there.

Pickles had stopped counting the number of times Taric had been struck by lightning. The first few had been memorable, but also a little frightening. Everyone made a fuss, healers were summoned, and Taric spent days sprawled across furniture making dramatic noises whenever he moved. After a while, lightning strikes became just another category of inconvenience. Like running out of tea, getting sand in the apartment, or accidentally creating a poison that melted through three shelves before someone noticed.

Today had started perfectly normal. Taric had left that morning carrying his surfboard and wearing his usual beach attire consisting of board shorts and a lightweight long-sleeved shirt to keep the sun off his skin. He had promised to return before dinner and had also promised Pickles treats. Pickles personally considered the second promise far more important than the first.

The shop had been closed for the day, leaving the cockatiel with the entire building to himself. He spent most of the afternoon occupying various perches near the windows, occasionally yelling "HELLO" at empty rooms just to make sure they hadn't forgotten he was there. By mid-afternoon he had migrated to the apartment above the shop and settled near the balcony doors where he could watch the harbor.

That was when the weather began to change. Dark clouds gathered over the sea, gradually overtaking the bright blue sky. The breeze strengthened, carrying the scent of rain inland. Pickles watched the approaching storm with mild annoyance. He wasn't worried about Taric exactly, lightning had tried very hard to kill Taric over the years and had yet to succeed.

The storm arrived quickly. Rain hammered the rooftops and rattled against the balcony railing while thunder rolled overhead. Pickles retreated inside and perched on the back of the couch. Every so often he glanced toward the door, expecting Taric to appear dripping wet and complaining about the weather.

Instead, the storm came and went. Then another hour passed, and another. Pickles was beginning to consider whether he should be concerned just when he heard footsteps on the stairs below. The apartment door opened moments later and Taric staggered inside looking like someone who had recently made several poor decisions in rapid succession. His hair was singed, his shirt was missing one sleeve, one side of his face was covered in soot, and most concerning of all, he was carrying only half of his surfboard.

Pickles stared. Taric stared back. For several seconds neither moved.

Then Taric pointed a finger at the bird. "I can explain." That was never a good sign.

Taric dropped what remained of the surfboard against the wall and immediately collapsed into a chair. The moment he sat down there was a loud crack and every feather on Pickles' body puffed outward. A visible spark jumped between Taric and the chair. Both of them looked at the chair, then they looked at each other. "Still a little charged up," Taric murmured.

Pickles watched cautiously as Taric carefully stood and attempted to remove his shirt. The fabric snagged halfway over his head before a shower of tiny sparks erupted from it. The shirt promptly caught fire. Taric yelped, Pickles laughed, and the shirt was eventually thrown into the sink. After several moments of frantic splashing and creative swearing, Taric managed to extinguish it. He stood there shirtless, damp, and visibly exhausted while Pickles continued to laugh from atop the couch.

"You're not helping."

Pickles laughed harder.

Once the immediate crisis had passed, Taric prepared a cup of tea, or at least he tried to. The kettle didn't survive the experience. The moment he touched it, a sharp crack echoed through the apartment and every light flickered. The kettle gave up entirely. Taric stared at it and sighed "Well that’s unfortunate." Pickles considered it hilarious as he stamped his feet and did a little dance to show his amusement.

Eventually Taric sat on the floor with an ice pack pressed against his shoulder and began recounting what had happened. According to him, the lightning strike itself had gone perfectly. In fact, he claimed it was one of the cleanest absorptions he had ever managed. The problems began afterward. Apparently he had taken in significantly more energy than usual. At first he hadn't noticed anything wrong, until he touched a palm tree, which then proceeded to explode. Not completely, just enough to make him realize something had gone horribly wrong.

After that, matters deteriorated rapidly.

His communication device stopped working the moment he picked it up. His surfboard developed a smoking crack down the middle after he grabbed it with both hands. When he attempted to sit on a beach chair and think through the problem, the chair instantly burst apart beneath him.

Pickles nearly fell off the couch laughing.

Taric didn't seem to appreciate this. "I could have died."

Pickles made a noise that sounded suspiciously like disbelief.

"Okay, probably not."

Much better.

The rest of the trip home had apparently involved walking several miles while avoiding physical contact with basically everything. Fences sparked when he passed them, metal signs rattled, one unfortunate crab had pinched his foot and immediately reconsidered all of its life choices. By the time he reached Booty Bay, Taric had succeeded in destroying a chair, a communication device, part of a surfboard, two palm trees, half a fence, and possibly a shrub. He wasn't entirely sure about the shrub.

The evening settled into a comfortable silence after the shock wore off. Taric eventually managed to find a blanket that didn't spark when he touched it and wrapped himself up before sinking into the couch. He looked thoroughly exhausted, which was understandable given he had spent the afternoon being struck by lightning and then terrorizing local vegetation.

Pickles fluttered down and landed beside him. For a while they simply sat there, then Taric sighed. "At least it wasn't as bad as last time." Pickles tilted his head, and Taric thought for a moment. "You know what? Don't respond to that."

Pickles immediately puffed up and, in a perfect imitation of Taric's voice, declared: "I can explain." Taric groaned and buried his face in the blanket. Pickles considered the day a complete success. After all, his human had come home alive, and more importantly, had done something incredibly stupid. Both were traditions worth preserving.

The vial waited on the shelf like a captured sun. Xo stood before it for a long moment, fingers hovering near the glass but not yet touching it. The fire behind her crackled low and steady, warming the small apothecary with its amber glow. Shadows moved over the shelves in slow, breathing shapes, passing over bundles of dreaming glory, corked draughts of ancient lichen, and little bones tied with string.

Her gaze remained on the vial. Gold shimmered within it. Not gold like coin nor jewelry This was softer, stranger. A radiance suspended in ink, swirling with its own quiet life whenever the glass was moved. Even untouched, the contents seemed restless, tiny motes turning over themselves as though remembering stars.

Xo reached for it. She watched the ink swirl in the vial for a moment before carrying it to the wooden desk beside the fire. There she set it down with care. The long hem of her dress danced lightly against the floorboards as she swept the fabric beneath herself and settled tidily into the ornate chair beside the table. It had once belonged to David. Like most things in this room, it had become hers by inheritance, necessity, and stubborn refusal to let ghosts keep their furniture.

The chair was too large for her. She liked that.

For years, she had gone to Moirrigan or Drii for this. Weekly at first. Then sometimes more, depending on how quickly the runes faded, depending on how much she had exerted herself, depending on how close she had come to burning through whatever fragile mercy kept her soul bound to flesh. Sessions became appointments. Appointments became obligations. Obligations became exhaustion. And exhaustion became a quiet kind of shame.

She had braced herself ready for the burning sensation of the brush, yet she remained worn. Not from the paint. Not from the sting. Not from the way the Light sometimes crawled beneath her skin as if being awoken for the first time. It was the reliance. The checking of schedules, the waiting for someone else to have time, the gnawing fear that, if neither Moirrigan nor Drii were available, her body might begin to remember it had once been dead.

That was risk enough. Xo had decided she would learn the ritual herself.

She would not make survival someone else's burden. She uncorked the vial. A faint glow spilled over the desk. With her other hand, she reached for the wooden brush. Its handle was worn smooth from use, its silken hairs fine enough to paint calligraphy on porcelain. She dipped it into the vial and swirled it slowly through the shimmering ink. The bristles drank in the radiance until the tip shone, molten and heavy with intention.

She lifted it. A bead of gold gathered at the end. Xo dragged the bristles lightly along the tapered mouth of the bottle, removing the excess before bringing the brush to the back of her hand. "Ritual was as ritual does." She often mocked the gravity of it because the truth was too frightening.

The first stroke touched her skin. Gold bloomed over the old lines. She did not flinch. She had learned long ago that pain, when expected, was easier to befriend.

The painted rune along her hand brightened beneath the new ink. Old symbols drank in the fresh radiance, thin lines and delicate curves threading across the back of her hand, toward her wrist. The Light there was not loud. It simply hummed - a soft, living vibration beneath her skin. She exhaled slowly.

Then her gaze drifted to the fire. For a moment, the room fell away. The chair beneath her vanished. The brush was no longer in her hand. There was only mud, rain, blood. And the sound of someone screaming her name. It had not been a glorious death. That was the first thing she remembered, once she remembered it at all. There were no songs. No heroic last words. No shining stand beneath a perfect sky. There had been a road broken by wagon wheels, a treeline too quiet, and the uneasy knowledge that something had been wrong for nearly half a mile. Will had felt it too. She remembered the way his hand had hovered near his weapon. She remembered the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes swept the trees without moving his head. He had always been better at pretending calm than she was. Xo had never had the discipline for it. Her unease lived in her fingers, in her mouth, in the impatient twitch of her shoulders.

They had not been alone.

A small group traveled with them that day - two mercenaries, a courier, a boy hardly old enough to carry the satchel strapped across his chest, and a woman whose arm had been bandaged from wrist to elbow after some trouble on the road two nights prior. No one important, the report would have said. No one worth dying for, some would have argued. But Xo had never measured life that way. Fwwwip-

The first arrow struck one of the mercenaries through the throat.

FwwwiPP-

The second buried itself in the side of the wagon.

Then the woods erupted with more than a dozen black-fletched arrows cutting through the rain, whispering before they struck. One tore through the courier's shoulder and spun him backward into the mud. Another found the horse. The animal screamed, rearing hard enough to crack wood as the wagon lurched sideways.

Will shouted something. Xo did not hear the words. She was already moving. Her hand closed around the injured woman's collar and dragged her down behind the wagon wheel as another arrow snapped through the space where her head had been. Mud splashed up Xo's legs. Rain ran down her face. Her hair clung to her cheeks in burmished, wet strands.

The boy froze in the road. That was what she remembered most clearly. Not the arrows. Not the shouting, but the boy. He stood there with the satchel pressed to his chest, eyes wide and empty with terror, while the world moved around him too quickly for his body to understand.

Will saw him as did Xo. The shot was not aimed at her. That was the mercy and the cruelty of it. Nothing was ever meant for her.

A black shaft jutted from her side, trembling with the force of impact. The feathers were slick with rain. Around the wound, dark veins began to spread beneath her skin, branching outward like ink dropped into water.

Poison… No. Not poison. The realization came with a coldness that had nothing to do with the rain. Will reached her before she fell. His arms caught her as her knees gave out, and the world lurched sideways. Mud pressed against her hip. Rain hit her face. Somewhere, someone was shouting for a healer, but the words already sounded far away.

Xo tried to speak. Blood filled her mouth instead. Will's face hovered over hers, pale with fury and fear. "Stay with me," he ordered. She would have laughed if she could. As if he could fucking command that. As if she had not spent her entire life refusing to do as she was told.

Red spilled over her lips.

The cold spread quickly.

It moved from the wound through her belly, into her chest, down her arms, up her throat. The pain was there, yes, but beneath it was something far more frightening - a hallowing numbness. A slow distance opening between her and her own body.

Will pressed his hand hard over the wound. His other hand held the back of her head, keeping her face turned toward him. The sky behind him was gray. His eyes were not. That was the last warm thing she remembered seeing. Then even that slipped away.

Death did not feel like sleep. That was another lie she had been told throughout her years. There was no dream. No light. There was simply a place where Xo had been, and then no Xo at all.

--

She came back with a shocking gasp that tore through her like being dragged out of a deep abyss. Her body arched from the couch. A hand caught her shoulder. "Easy, thorn bush."

Xo's eyes flew open. She noticed the ceiling, the wooden beams, the fire. The smell of broth, smoke, dried herbs, and old leather… David's home. The fire crackled only a few feet away, but she could barely feel its warmth. She blamed that on exhaustion. On whatever sickness had wrung her out so thoroughly that her limbs felt distant, heavy, almost borrowed.

David sat beside her. His face looked wrong. Relieved, yes, but strained. His mouth held the shape of a smile that had been forced there and forgotten. His eyes shone in a way she did not like. As though he had not slept. As though he had been afraid to blink.

Xo rubbed at her eyes, her thoughts dragging slowly through fog. "I shouldn't be here…" Her voice was hoarse. Thin. Unfamiliar to her own ears. David's hand tightened on her shoulder. She turned her face toward him, blinking until he came into focus. "What's going on? Where's Will? Where is everyone else?"

His hand swept the ashen bangs from his forehead before returning securely to her shoulder. "Easy," he said again. His voice was gentle. "I don't expect you to fully catch up immediately." He sat beside her more heavily. "Thorn bush, you must have come down with something while you were out. Will sent your ass promptly back to me and told me to handle it." He forced out a chuckle. It did not belong in the room. "Looks like I managed pretty well… glad to see you're doing better."

Xo stared at him. The words made sense individually. Together, they did not. Sick? She remembered rain, the mud… the thought scattered before she could grasp it. David leaned away and reached for a mug on the small table beside the couch. He handed it to her carefully, watching her fingers close around it as though he feared they might fail.

The mug wasn't warm. Again, she thought nothing of it. She had learned to trust David after years of surviving his worst experimental concoctions. He had been an impossible boy once, forever trying to make her swallow something fizzy, smoking, or allegedly medicinal. But he was a seasoned alchemist these days. A good one. Tepid broth hit her lips. A small, cautious swallow followed. Her tongue swept her lips, savoring the flavor.

"Mm…" Her nose wrinkled. "Cold broth. Thanks, David." She rolled her azure eyes away from him. Because of that, she missed it. The slip - the brief, naked confusion on his face.

--

Xo lowered the brush to her skin once more, her hand steadier now. The fire crackled. The ink shimmered. And in the quiet of the apothecary, she continued painting herself back into the world.

The apartment still occasionally surprised him with just how quiet it could be. Not because silence was rare in Silvermoon, but because for most of his life it had been temporary. There had always been another deployment waiting, another assignment, another fight. Even prison had its own constant noise. These days, Xylaes could sit in his small apartment in Murder Row and listen to little more than the distant sounds of the city outside his window.

A book rested open in his lap, though he had been staring at the same page for several minutes without reading a word. His attention had drifted elsewhere. Outside, someone laughed. A pair of voices carried briefly through the night air before disappearing around a corner. Music drifted from an open door. None of it demanded his attention or required him to react. It was simply life continuing around him, indifferent to whether he participated or not. 

His gaze eventually lifted from the pages and settled on the reflection staring back at him from the darkened window. The purple glow in his eyes remained impossible to ignore. Months had passed since the void powers first emerged, yet seeing them reflected unexpectedly still gave him pause. Not because he feared them anymore, that fear had faded long ago. Instead, they served as a reminder that he was no longer entirely the man he had once been. The military, prison, and loss had all changed him, as it does anyone. Now the void was changing him too, and he wasn't entirely certain where that road ended.

His thoughts drifted toward war, as they often did when left unattended. Not a specific battle, but all of them. The military, the undercover assignments, the mercenary and personal contracts, the endless conflicts that seemed to define his life. Looking back, he realized that some of his clearest memories existed on battlefields, and that realization had become increasingly uncomfortable with age.

The older he became, the harder it was to ignore the truth. He understood violence and war extremely well, and in many ways, he found them easier to navigate than ordinary life. Everything else was complicated: relationships, family, and especially trust. At least on a battlefield, objectives became clear and priorities became obvious. There was rarely time to second-guess yourself when lives depended on immediate action. 

That was what unsettled him about the void. The problem wasn't the destruction it could cause, the problem was how natural it felt. Whenever he allowed himself to fully embrace it, doubt disappeared and all hesitation vanished. Every instinct sharpened until action felt effortless. He thought back to recent battles and the moments he had surrendered to that power completely. Those memories should have frightened him, but what remained was the certainty he had felt. That certainty was alluring.

It had nothing to do with bloodshed, there was no thrill left in killing or death for him. What appealed to him was the simplicity. The enemy stood in front of you, the objective was clear, and the path forward existed whether you liked it or not. The void amplified that feeling until everything else seemed irrelevant. There were no complicated conversations waiting for him. No strained relationships to navigate. No questions without answers. There was only action. 

Perhaps that was why peace often felt more difficult than war. Peace required patience and vulnerability. War demanded competence. Xylaes had spent most of his life learning how to survive conflict. Learning how to live afterward had proven significantly harder. The irony wasn't lost on him. He had survived undercover operations, imprisonment, assassins, monsters, and enough battles to fill history books. Yet some days a conversation with someone he cared about felt far more daunting than facing an armed opponent. 

His gaze drifted around the apartment toward the record player, the framed photograph of Garren and he, and the weapons stored neatly where they belonged. None of it was particularly impressive, but every item represented something he once believed he would never possess again. Prison had convinced him his future was already written. It had been easier then to think of himself as a weapon, and weapons didn't need homes or families. But the years after his release had proven otherwise.

Outside, another burst of laughter rose from the street and faded into the night. Xylaes listened for a moment before looking back down at the book in his lap. The void remained where it always was, waiting patiently beneath the surface of his thoughts. He knew it would answer if he called upon it. The allure of certainty, power, and becoming exactly what he had been trained to be. 

Tonight, he left it alone. Instead, he turned the page and forced himself to focus on the words. Tomorrow would eventually bring another problem. For now, he had a home, people worth returning to, and a life that existed beyond violence. Those things were infinitely more complicated than war had ever been, but as he settled back into his chair and turned the page, he found that he enjoyed the complexity.