#juneday42026

She held the pieces together to let the glue bond a few seconds before placing it down to join the other figures on the table. A set of nightsabers, an owl, a hydra, a few Sentinels, and a Priestess of the Moon. The little crowd of figurines was waiting patiently on the table before her. The paint was drying on a few she’d already assembled today. She wasn’t even sure what she was making these for. She hadn’t ever played the game that they were used. But it felt satisfyingly meditative to paint them. And maybe she would play one day?

The waitress smiled, leaned on the table and shared a few words after complimenting Messy’s painting skills. She lingered longer than usual and suddenly Mesandrèaux was unsure what was going on or what she was supposed to do. “Ah, a fresh glass of water to drink? And one for the brushes, please?” The young nightborne woman smiled softly and the blood elven waitress reflected it back with a subtle tightness around the eyes. She walked on and left Messy confused about what she had done wrong or how she might have upset the other woman.

The nightborne priestess went back to the miniature figures and got lost in thought as she stared at the warrior Sentinel she had just picked up again. The waters thunked on to the table and jostled her little cadre of figures. Messy looked up just in time to see the waitress walking off again. The woman had always been nice the other times Messy had visited this Silvermoon game cafe. She’d even gotten lightly reprimanded once for lingering too long with Messy.

Oh. Oh. Had she been flirting with Messy? Her eyes narrowed in thought and she tried to piece the puzzle of her memories together. Flirting? It was a solid maybe. Her brows twitched together before she sighed softly. She’d had to ask Marint directly if he had been flirting with her during their last conversation. He had. She didn’t know what it meant that he had been flirting; likely he simply flirted with everyone. He was a friendly man. Still… She didn’t think it was that she didn’t read people at all; she just missed something deeper. Someone happy. Someone was sad. She didn’t think she had trouble with the big emotions. It was the nuance that sometimes flew over her head.

Like an owl--so silent she didn’t even know it was there. She smiled a little to herself at her small, private jest but it hardly lifted her spirits. She had missed the signal, even if it wasn’t flirting, surely the woman was expressing that she liked Messy. But the tenuous bond had broken before it would even think about forming. That felt like her life lately. Inadequate. No bonds. Even back in Suramar she had felt out of step with people she had known before.

Who was she attached to? Her family. She’d never been good at forming deep friendships, never had a romantic relationship, never had a rival, never had a mentor. She had not missed it much while on her pilgrimage; the solitude had felt comfortable. The opposite of demanding. Much like working in the archives at her temple had been.

It had always been easy to make friendly acquaintances. It was the next step where she seemed to stumble. On a melancholic whim she flicked the Sentinel figurine with her nail and made it tumble. She hadn’t meant to make it fall off the table, but it had. She winced to watch as it broke apart at the newly glued interface. Inadequate bonding, indeed.

How many times had it been that Marint was the one writing to a very particular redheaded elven man? It was always for work. The two of them never spent time together aside from professional means. Usually it consisted of choosing a meeting place, getting there, and discussing whatever job he was going to be putting forward. Or rather, if he had any leads on where jobs could be gotten. Some of them came from Madame Rudonthos. Many of them were simply things that Marint heard about.

Regardless, it was almost unheard of for him to receive something from his ever-so-reliable work cohort. When a courier delivered to his hand a neatly folded missive with a 'V' on it, there was no mistaking the way his eyebrows rose. 'Why' was the obvious question. It was for something important. Soryk never would have reached out to anyone if it wasn't. And even though it must have been important, there was still a sliver of surprise that Soryk would reach out at all.

...So what had gone wrong?

@daily-writing-challenge

Nobody escapes this sort of wake-up call: Early into the expedition, a good soldier died to shield us so that we could salvage a single dragon egg. Why she thought we were more important than her: Easy. She was a good soldier. Even I understood that much.

And all I could do was follow along, get additional protection for the long way to the others from our Voidwalker friend, be grateful, and let her die.

Sitting morosely in our next camp, egg and report delivered, I kept thinking, if I’d learned a single useful thing for anyone but myself, something like throwing up a shield or fighting on my own instead of delegating to other planes, she wouldn’t have had to die.

Along with her remains, once they’d salvage them, it was time to burn all remnants of an idea of myself as a military man or protector of any kind. I had protected exactly three people today: The spirit who lives with me, myself, and that unhatched dragon. In that order. There were things best not to admit outside of your own head.

“Sometimes your sacrifice for your family, sometimes they are the sacrifice. I will make sure you do not have to support your youngest child any longer. I am glad you came to me with this, Qeshzin. You are a disgrace already. I will take care of her. Now go back to your meager life.”

The words came from Vasa’s great-great-uncle and head of House Sallah, and they were the last she heard before she awoke outside the protective shield of Suramar.

Covering her eyes from a bright light above her, the pain lanced through her head and she tried to pull away, but found herself shackled to a tree.The air was warm, but she could not stop shivering. She sat up locking her arms around her waist, her body trembling so badly that the bark scratched and caught on the thin robe she wore. Sweat dampened the dark strands of hair stuck to her forehead despite the chill that seemed buried deep inside her bones.

The next few days were not much better. She laid in the dry, yellowed grass near the shield of the city, peering through to the life she once had. Vasa’s muscles ached constantly. Some moments it felt as though she had marched laps through Suramar in full armor; others, as though invisible hands were twisting knots beneath her skin. Sleep came only in fragments. When she managed to drift off, she woke minutes later with her heart pounding and her breath caught in her throat.

The worst part was the restlessness. Even though she was weak, she could not sit still. She paced as far as her chains would allow until her legs threatened to give out, then collapsed wherever she was, only to rise again moments later. Every thought returned to the same place, her hunger.

Looking down at her hands, she saw that the skin that had once been soft now looked as though all the moisture had been pulled from it. When she touched her face, she could feel the hollows there. She did not know what was happening to her, but she needed to find a way to survive.Vasa no longer walked; she shuffled, her legs too weak to properly support her, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. Taking a few more steps, she toppled to the ground and closed her eyes.

“What a tasty little piece you are. No wonder he paid so well for you to be prepared.” Vasa heard a voice and felt the click before her shackles fell away. Her eyes would not open, could not open. A sound came from her chest, a guttural rumble, but nothing that sounded like her voice.

There was a softness beneath her when she woke. She tried to lift her head, but it was heavy, as though sand filled her skull. Bringing a hand to her forehead, she slowly opened her eyes. A maroon-and-gold canopy hung above her. Looking to the side, she found a tray of fruit and water on a nightstand. Confused, Vasa shook her head, and she felt a surge through her, a rush of pain unlike anything she had ever experienced. Screaming and placing her hand on her head and the darkness claimed her once more.

The next time she woke, she tensed just waiting for the agony to returned, when it didn’t she rolled over, opening her eyes and saw a handsome, well-dressed middle-aged man in the room with her. He sat in a chair, almost preternaturally still.

“Welcome back to yourself, Vasandereu.” He looked familiar, one of the lords that was always in the same circle as her Great-Great-Uncle. “You poor thing. They just left you out to dry, quite literally, didn’t they?”

“I am sorry, but why am I here? Who are you?” Vasa asked, her voice was soft, her throat hurt as she spoke.

He stared at her until she averted her gaze.“Hmmm. I thought with as smart as you are, your observation skills would be better. You will need to work on that.” There was a pause, and then he snapped. “Look at me!”

Lifting her gaze to him again, she found she had no choice, even though she wanted to shrink away. He nodded. “Ah yes, perfect. Just as it should be. This arrangement between us is sealed well.” He leaned back in his chair. “Your family sold you expecting that you would be drained for research because your father could not afford the arcwine for all of you any longer.”

She wanted to deny it. She knew they were struggling financially. Her father’s jewelry business was failing as he floundered, unable to create new designs after so long. They could not be that desperate, though. Her father would not do that. Then she remembered what she had heard before waking outside the shield, that she would be sacrificed.

“There is that quick mind. It makes too much sense to deny it, doesn’t it? You were their sacrifice.” His voice was in her head. The smile on his face shifted into something predatory. “I have paid a price for you,” he said aloud once more. “A considerable price. But you are exactly what I need.”

He rose, his form shifting until a fel lord stood before her. “I have cured your addiction, Vasandereu. You will no longer need arcane magic to survive. You have ingested my blood and are now bound to me, addicted to my blood. There is a rebellion at hand, and my demons have been unable to get me the information I need. I do not trust the information from those I might pay, so you will get me what I need.”

He walked to her and grabbed her jaw. “But I am in your head now. What you see, I see.” His grip tightened. “Now get dressed. We have a dinner to attend.” He turned away from her, and by the time he reached the door, he was once again in the form and dress of a Shal’dorei lord.

“Do as I say and you will be well taken care of. Try to fight and…”

Agony tore through Vasa’s body. She fell from the bed onto her knees, vomiting fel-green fluid onto the floor.

“…torment will be a constant companion. Do not make this difficult, Vasa dear.”

The quiet tap-tap-tap of Keranna's cane heralded her arrival the way her high heels used to. Pyraelia didn't bother glancing over from her sheet music. Her fingers, flesh and metal, glided along the keys as she played through a particularly complex bridge. They both loved listening to piano, and that alone would allow her cousin to happily wait until she'd finished.

Her walking aid was new, of course. A similar tap-tap-tap of thoughts coming together connected some dots from a story she'd read in the paper earlier that morning. You could name the director of the Magistry Intelligence office. People had a right to know who he was. Everyone else involved still had to be protected. Another agent killed him in self-defense after confronting him with proof of his treachery and betrayal of the Regency. The press was allowed to print that their hero had sustained significant, but not critical, injuries in their confrontation.

It wasn't a secret within their family that Keranna worked for the MI office. Fiorenze had previously worked for MI, but forfeit her security clearances when she left the service, and Pyraelia herself was an Archmage, with all the benefits and terrors that mantle bore. And yes, Keranna was old and could just be using a cane for arthritis or to support an older injury — she'd mentioned being kicked by a hawkstrider in her youth a couple of times in conversations over the years — but why now.

She turned the page, the rasp of it crisp against the otherwise lilting notes. Her ability to avoid a conversation was rapidly diminishing. How long could she hold a fermata? There were a few between where she was and the final note.

Keranna came closer still, patient enough to step only when the clack of her cane would enhance the melody with subtle percussion. That should've been more annoying than endearing, but the older elf had always had a love of music. The Conservatory was proof of that. It had become Pyraelia's favorite place to hide away in the wake of Magister's Terrace. Something was always being created here, and that felt like a balm against the senseless destruction.

The final note lingered in the air as Keranna smiled, "Brava, my dear. You had some deliveries left at your office, I thought it best to bring them to you."

Pyraelia glanced over at the parcel and wildflowers her cousin set on the piano's shoulder and responded with a quiet, "Thank you." And then a more direct, "Did you kill Director Kam'arrin?"

Keranna nudged Pyraelia's calf with her cane and had a seat next to her on the bench as soon as she moved to make enough room, "Yes."

If there was one thing Pyraelia would always appreciate about her, it was her choice to be direct when it mattered. There was trust in that. She closed her eyes and exhaled, letting her shoulders drop a little — in defeat more than relaxation. "You say that with such ease. I still have nightmares about people who died on my watch and this doesn't seem to bother you at all."

"The Terrace debacle was his fault as much as Rommath's," Keranna offered. It wouldn't matter much, but that fact meant something in her blood-stained calculus. "It's something I've been thinking about for a long time. How I would do it. When... I'm glad it wasn't my choice in the end. Making him suffer the way I wanted him to suffer would have changed me."

That wasn't particularly comforting, but it was honest. Pyraelia furrowed her brow and scrunched up her nose as her lips pursed. What she wanted to say was sour, and honesty begat honesty. "I don't think I belong in this family. I'm inadequate compared to you and Fiorenze. You're both so…" What word did she want to use? Decisive? Terrifying? Comfortable with violence?

Keranna was silent for a moment. Her slender fingers found the keys in the upper register and she played the first few chords of a familiar duet many noble girls were taught early in their lessons. Enough to make Pyraelia catch the hint. "Do not ever consider your kindness and gentleness a weakness. Your mother had me raise Fiorenze because she didn't want the lessons a future Queen needed to learn on her conscience. I made her a weapon, the same as I am. Your sister will never forgive me for that, and she's right for it."

That had been the plan all along, for Fiorenze to marry the Prince. It didn't work out that way. Pyraelia put her fingers back on the keys and picked up the tune alongside her cousin. "I didn't know you could play piano, Kera," she said, quietly. "…And it's not like my mother was kind, either."

"She was ruthless. Your father, though, was a lovely soul," Keranna chuckled and matched her note for note, "And I can play many instruments. Mandolin is my favorite and the one I've decided to embrace the most. There's no reason not to learn anything that interests you when you have centuries to do it."

Pyraelia smiled a bit at the sentiment. Learning was her favorite thing, and always would be.

"Take a sabbatical, darling," her cousin continued, crossing one arm over another to move her hand to the higher keys, "You're an Archmage. You may have been born here, but no kingdom commands you. The Magistry wronged you in how the Terrace was handled. It is perfectly fine to want some distance and time to heal."

Why did that feel like quitting? The notion alone made her chest feel tight. Keranna wouldn't say it if it weren't true, though. Not to her. Pyraelia frowned and picked up the short solo meant for her part before answering, "May I have a studio here if I do?"

Keranna leaned and nudged her gently with her shoulder, "You're family, darling. The answer will always be yes."

Day 4 Inadequate/Bond 

Belore... 

The chanting lingers on the sea breeze once more. Endless praise to the divine sun of the Sin’dorei. It didn’t matter what part of Silvermoon one would find themselves in; one could always hear the faintest whisp of that beloved word every now and then, a constant assurance of the sun, its warmth and the promise of a new day. That same sun bared down on Ruzzell, as if to shine a beam on him. An actor in his own stage with no one to witness his efforts. He sat at the edge of the harbor, lost in countless negative thoughts. He gave up the wine days ago, but his own insecurities welled within him. Trying to recall his lessons learned, the kind words of friends, remembrance of all the good he has done. Clawing at the edges of the light are the shadows of his misdeeds. A glimpse of darkness within him. Things he’s tried to forget, but always dormant and lying in wait for those quiet hours alone. He could almost make out some distant laughter behind those melodic prayers as he meditated. Weary eyes closed as he basked in the radiance of the sun, trying to find his peace. 

“Hey mister! Are you a plant?” 

A soft, youthful voice interrupted his meditation. Turning to his side, he’d find a Blood Elf girl with bright green eyes looking at him curiously. In her hands she clutched a wicker basket full of assorted flowers. 

“What? No! I ain’t a plant!” 

The child blinked and tilted her head, more questions coming up now. 

“You sure you’re not a plant mister? You look like one of those green plant people from the Lightbloom.” 

Flustered, the goblin stammered as if insulted. 

“No, I’m a goblin! We have green skin. Well, most of us anyways.” 

Upon hearing that he was a goblin, the child’s eyes grew large in wonder and excitement. 

“Whaaaa! A goblin! No way! I’ve never met a goblin before! Wooow, you’re so cool!” the child gleamed at him, now walking around his person to get a better look at him. Ruzzell leans back at the invasion of his personal space and falls back off the ledge of the stone wall. Sunhat and glass dangling off his prominent nose, the girl giggles at his silly actions. 

“You’re funny!” 

“A-am not!” 

“Hahaha! I like you, mister! My name is Dawn! My mommy named me that because I brightened up her day, just like the sun!” Extending a tiny hand out to him, a delicate bracelet made up of daisies encircled around her wrist. Ruzzell had never been around kids much, so he was a bit awkward. He took her hand and shook it gently. 

“Dawn... I’m Ruzzell! Nice to meet you.” He offered her a warm smile, the glint of his golden canines catching the child’s interest now. 

“Ohh, your teeth are gold! You must be from Silvermoon too! Everything here is covered in gold!” She chimed brightly with a gap-toothed smile. Her innocence and purity melted something in Ruzzell’s heart. He hadn’t talked to someone so sweet and honest before. Climbing up on the ledge again, he neatened his dress shirt and cleared his throat. 

“Well, I used to live here a long time ago.” 

“Oh, you must be really old then Ruzzell! I never seen a goblin like you before, and I’ve been all over Silvermoon, haha!” 

“Yeah, this was back when...” he paused, those memories of being shamed out of the city flooding back. 

“Back when all those undead monsters still haunted our city?” she finished his sentence for him, looking up to his saddened face. 

Glancing down to her expecting eyes, he offered a soft smile. “Yeah. I actually fought one of those monsters here long ago.” 

A spark in her emerald eyes dazzled in the sunlight upon hearing this. “Waaaa, you’re a hero too! You’re amazing! Thank you for keeping our people safe mister!” 

Her words struck something very deep in his heart. Ruzzell’s eyes burned as he felt something wet run down his cheek. 

“Ruzzell? Why are you crying? Was it something I said?” she asked in concern. 

Blinking through the unexpected tears, he wiped his blurry eyes now. “No... it’s just... nice to hear is all...” 

The child studied him for a moment, still unconvinced he was alright. “Hold on just one moment...” she says as she turns to rummage in her basket. “Here! This should make you feel better friend!” In her hands was a white flower with delicate petals and a magical glowing light. He carefully takes the gift with the reverence of something holy in his hands now. A wave of intense tranquility and comfort fills him, and then he sobs quietly. Seeing his sadness, she scoots closer and pats his shoulder. 

“It’s okay, Ruzzell. It’s just as flower.” 

Stifling his cry, he lets out a soft chuckle and nods. “T-thank you, Dawn... This is a lovely gift.” 

The child beams brightly to her new friend “Yay! If you’re ever having a bad day, just remember to look for the flowers and sun! They are gifts you can always have!” 

The goblin laughs softly and nods at her advice. Off down the road, an older woman’s voice calls out the girl’s name. Her pointed ears perked up, and she looked back towards the road. 

“Oh, my mommy is calling me now! I had better go. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Ruzzell! We’re friends forever now!” she gave his neck a tight hug before running off with her basket and waving back to him. 

Something deep inside of Ruzzell burned intensely in reaction to all the love and kindness. A taint that has stained him for years still remained in him, silenced by the light and warmth. Echoes of Silvermoon, K’aresh, and himself. He clutched at the tranquility bloom, the healing glow easing away the pain as those thoughts silence in reflection. 

On the sea breeze echoed the refrain of the Children of the Sun once more. 

Belore. 

Altherei’s gaze lingered at the growing mounds of paperwork on her desk, scattered in varying states of disarray. It spoke to the amount of work and stress she’d put on herself that they were nowhere near as organized as she would like. She knew what most were and where in the stacks to find what she needed. Grant applications, bond applications, flyers for events and more- it was all there. The outside was just a reflection of the clutter inside her mind. She knew it, too.

She needed air, and she pushed herself away from the table before the mere sight of it all overwhelmed her. 

She’d quietly known it for some time, but like so many other unpleasant things she told herself she just didn’t have time to think about, she pushed it aside. Except now, with the Summer Gala planning in full swing and with twice the workload and half the help.. Altherei didn’t arrive at the realization so much as crash into it abruptly. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t have seen it coming- she just didn’t want to.

The Reprieve had been struggling for months. Es’dai had been able to take it over for a time, but with her recent disappearance, Altherei was barely keeping it- and herself- afloat. While she was assured her fellow Speaker was alive and all right, her whereabouts remained unknown. Revlas could wash dishes, but that seemed about all he could- and would- do if he wasn’t permitted to put his feet on the table. Her growing concerns about their bratty baron-Advisor would have to wait until another day. Their conversation the night prior had drained her of all optimism, and the sinking reality was one she forced herself to push to the side. There were other things to deal with. He’d have to wait.

She was doing all she could to keep the Court afloat, but the weighty silence in Dawncourt’s hall pressed down heavily onto her shoulders. It lingered like an uncomfortable truth everyone in a room knew, but no one dared say aloud. She thought of Waylight Refuge. Waylight Outreach. Organizations before, attempts before to do the very same good she was trying to do now.

Always, it ended the same. Folded, disbanded, dissolved. Her lips pulled into a frown to think of it, and she shifted her weight in her chair as if changing position would free her from the discomfort of her thoughts.

Was she just.. bad at this? At running things that weren’t singular events? At leading organizations? Did she just not have what it took to gather a following- or was she not charismatic enough? Strong enough?

These and a thousand other questions piled in her mind one after the other, and she pulled her cardigan tighter across her shoulders before she realized she wasn’t actually cold. It was the unique chill that came with feeling horribly inadequate, worrying she wasn’t really cut out for anything but throwing fancy events, and fearing that she was staring down yet one more failure.

She didn’t want it to be. She wanted to succeed- she wanted the Court’s mission to succeed. But if she were to be brutally honest with herself, it meant acknowledging she would be, essentially, starting from ground zero. That there was no one to rely on- at least, not right now. That if success was what she really wanted.. she’d probably be at it alone until her friends either returned, or she found other like minds to bridge those gaps.

She could do it by herself. She had before. She could again. But she didn’t want to.

@daily-writing-challenge

The sunlight in Quel'Thalas was wrong.

Not wrong in any way Ridley could properly explain. It was warm, golden, and honeyed through the canopy of red-leafed trees that arched over the estate's courtyard like the ribs of some enormous living cathedral. Boralus’s light was gray, and Dampwick’s in particular had been the brown of old puddles and lamp-smoke. This was something else entirely, and standing in it made Ridley feel like a stain on clean linen. He leaned against the stone balustrade of the upper terrace, arms folded while he watched Sybil and Agatha far below in the paddock yard. Agatha's shriek of delight carried clear up—she'd found the hawkstriders. One of the juveniles, its plumage still mottled with the dull fawn of adolescence, had lowered its ridiculous feathered head to inspect her, and Agatha had seized its beak in both chubby hands with the fearlessness of a child who assumed all animals were secretly her mother's friends. Sybil stood beside her, one hand resting on Agatha's shoulder, her sandy hair catching the golden light. Even from up here, Ridley could see the tilt of her head—that particular sideways listening she did when something only she could hear was talking to her. "She has a way with them," Jilene said from behind him.

Ridley grunted. He didn't turn around, but he shifted his weight to make room at the railing, and after a moment Jilene drifted up beside him. She moved the way she always moved—careful and peripheral, as though she were trying to take up as little space as possible in a world that had already told her she took up too much. His aunt was tall—or maybe she only seemed tall because she was so narrow, built like a candle that had been left to collect dust. Her snow-white hair was pinned in a half-up braided style that looked meticulous and slightly outdated, as though she'd learned it once and never found reason to change. Her robes were fine but faded, the embroidery at the cuffs picked loose in places by nervous fingers. She held a cup of tea she wasn't drinking, both hands wrapped around it like a ward. "Aggie's got no bloody sense of self-preservation," Ridley said. "Gets that from 'er mum."

"Or from you."

He cut her a look and Jilene's mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more the ghost of one that had died on its way to her lips. They watched the paddock in silence for a while. Below, Agatha had somehow convinced the juvenile hawkstrider to sit down, and was now attempting to climb onto its back while Sybil steadied her with both hands, murmuring something in that lilting way of hers. "Place looks good," Ridley offered, because he wasn't sure what else to say. The estate did look good—immaculate, even. The hawkstriders were in magnificent condition: glossy-feathered, bright-eyed, and their legs clean and strong. He'd noticed the way every bird in the yard moved with an alertness and ease that spoke of careful handling, good feed, and someone who knew what they were doing. But he'd also noticed the empty stalls in the lower barn. The paddocks could hold three times as many birds as they currently did. The staff he'd seen numbered two, maybe three.

"It's...quieter than it used to be," Jilene said. "Father kept forty breeding pairs at the height of things. I have eleven now. Well, Nine hens and two cocks, so eleven feels generous." She gave a small, fluttering laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "The Farstriders used to place orders a year in advance. Now they go to the Dawnsong ranch in the south. Bigger operation. Better bloodlines, they say, though I—" She stopped herself and smoothed the front of her robe out of habit. "Well."

Ridley said nothing. He recognized the shape of that sentence. Better bloodlines. “Jil.”

"Mm?"

"You ain't gotta perform for me. Yeah?" He looked at her properly then, with the flat directness that made most people flinch. Jilene didn't flinch, but her fingers tightened on the cup. "I know what it looks like when someone's holdin' the whole fing togevver wif spit and prayer. I grew up doin' it."

Her chin trembled, just once, before she set her jaw. For a moment she looked almost like Merrick—not in cruelty, but in the stubborn refusal to crack where anyone could see. "I manage," she said.

"Yeah, I know you do."

The hawkstrider below let out a warbling trill as Agatha finally got both legs over its back and she threw her arms up in triumph. "Do you remember your father at all?" Jilene asked softly, not looking at him.

Ridley's jaw worked as he stared at the treeline—focusing on those perfect red-gold leaves, every one of them exactly the right shade, not a single one brown or curled or rotting. "Bits," he said. "'Is 'ands, e’had long fingers. He smelled like, I dunno—somefing floral. Couldn't tell you what. Merrick remembers more, or says 'e does." He paused. "Don't fink Merrick remembers 'im so much as remembers bein' angry at 'im. Two different fings, innit." 

"Lanril was..." Jilene began, then seemed to lose the thread. She turned her teacup in her hands. "He was the talented one. The heir. Everything came easily to him—magic, combat, society. Mother adored him, and Father staked everything on him. And I was just..." She made a vague, diminishing gesture at herself. "The spare." Ridley looked at her. "I couldn't do what he could," she said, and her voice had gone thin. "Not with magic. I was thirteen before I could manage a basic illusion, and even then it flickered so badly the tutor asked me if I was doing it on purpose as a joke. "Father used to make me practice in front of him. I had to stand in the study and cast what I learned in front of him." Her voice dropped. "I would shake so badly the spells fell apart and he would just...sit there. He didn’t even look angry or disappointed, he just looked—bored. As if watching me fail wasn't even worth the energy of being upset about." She shifted her jaw slightly. “I was in the paddock at dawn one evening, sitting in the mud with a skittish yearling that wouldn't let anyone else near her, doing the slow patient work that no one wanted to do and Father said I handled them like a human." The word came out as though she were quoting someone else's disgust. "He meant it as the worst thing he could say." 

Something cold and old shifted in Ridley's chest. He knew that feeling, he knew it like he knew the taste of dock water and the weight of a too-thin coat in winter. "Merrick can do it," he said, low. "The magic, took to it like breavvin'. Me—" He stopped, clearing his throat before he started again, rougher. "I got th’ears, but the one fing that actually matters?" He held up his hand and turned it over. "Nuffin. Can’t light a candle wif it without gettin’ a headache. Not wivout a rune or a glyph or some bit of kit to do the work for me." He dropped his hand, grasping the railing with it. "So I got guns, I got traps, and I got fings I built wif my 'ands because my blood didn't give me what it was s'posed to." He swallowed. "An' every time I walk through this place, every time I see the spires and the enchantments and I fink: you don't belong. Not in Boralus, not 'ere, not anywhere."

Jilene set down her tea and her hand found his forearm, light and tentative, the touch of someone who expected to be shaken off but he didn't shake her off. "I think that too," she whispered. "Every day in my own home. In the house I grew up in, with the birds I raised from eggs, in the country that's supposed to be mine—I feel like a guest who's overstayed."

Ridley's throat ached and he looked down at her hand on his arm. Her fingers were long and pale and ink-stained while his were tanned, thick, and as rough as old rope. Same blood in both, and same in their insufficiency. "'S a right pair, ain't we," he muttered.

Jilene let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "Lanril got all the magic," she said. "And then he died, and the magic left with him, and what was left behind was...me. Trying to do what he did with half the gift and none of the confidence. And you and Merrick—" Her voice caught. "You got the hardest part of him, the absence. And I couldn't even—I should have done more, Ridley. I should have come to Boralus and brought you both here. I should’ve fought Father on it—" 

"Don't." His voice was gruff but not unkind. "You 'ad your own weight, but y’tried. You sent parcels when we was kids. Books, clothes, dried fruit—wrapped in that blue paper wif the hawkstrider stamp." He paused and worked his jaw. "Merrick pretended 'e didn't care, but I kept every one."

"I was afraid," she corrected, very quietly. "That's different from having weight. I was afraid of my family, I was afraid of them finding out I cared and I couldn't afford to be diminished any further. So I let two boys grow up hungry in a slum and told myself sending parcels was enough because I was a coward." 

Ridley stared at her for a long moment. He stood there, rigid and uncomfortable and utterly useless with this kind of thing, until something in him, the part that Sybil had pried open, overrode the rest. He put his arm around Jilene's narrow shoulders. Stiff and awkward, like a man who had learned tenderness the way some people learn a second language: late, clumsily, and with an accent that never quite smoothed out. "Yeah, well," he said. “You wanna talk 'bout bein' a coward? I sat next to Merrick for years watchin' 'im do fings that made me sick and told meself it's just business, it's just 'ow it is, 'e's family, what else am I gonna do." His gaze drifted back to the paddock. Sybil was lifting Agatha down from the hawkstrider now, pressing a kiss to the girl's wild dark curls. "Took a girl 'alf my size wif witch eyes to make me see I 'ad a choice. An' even then I nearly chose wrong." 

Jilene followed his gaze and watched Sybil settle Agatha on her hip, the child's arms looping around her mother's neck with the absolute trust of someone who had never once doubted she would be caught. "She's extraordinary," Jilene said.

"She's mad as a bag of cats, is what she is," Ridley said, but his voice had gone soft. "Talks to trees n’bones, and answers questions no one's asked yet. She told me last week that the bread wouldn't rise ‘cause the house was sad." He paused, before adding "Th’bread didn’t rise."

Jilene smiled, small and wobbly, but genuine. "You love her very much."

Ridley's ears went pink and he cleared his throat, adjusted his gloves, and looked at the trees, the sky, the distant spire of a magisters' tower catching the sunlight, anywhere but at his aunt. "She sees me," he said finally. "Not th’ears or what I can or can't do wif magic. Just me. Ain't no one ever done that before." He hesitated. "Cept maybe you.” At that, Jilene bowed her head and leaned into him without another word.