c3p-0h

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Collab between @The Muse and @c3p-0h
_{Location: The Royal Residence — The Jail}

Part IX

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Outside, the frost-bitten air greeted them—making her absence against him all the more prominent.

Waiting just ahead was Flynn’s familiar mount: a towering black Friesian, dark as the night itself, pawing restlessly at the snow-dusted ground. He stepped toward Amaya’s steed first, his eyes sweeping over the smaller grey mare, with a coat so fine it was almost silver.

Beside it, Flynn looked to Amaya, ready to help lift her. “Ready?” He asked, his expression softer now as he tried to ground himself back into a reality that didn’t revolve entirely around her.

Despite the way she was still trying to pull herself together, Amaya masked her hesitation well. Even still, it was visible in the way she moved slowly after him, stepping into place as her eyes swept over the animal. Her gaze paused on the side saddle and she tightened her grip on his hand.

“Is it too late for you to carry me?” Flynn smirked. It was the closest she’d ever come to muttering at him. Still, Amaya took in a deep breath and met his gaze, resignation in her posture.

With the help of Flynn’s steady hands (distracting as they were along her waist), Amaya mounted the horse with as much dignity as possible. She was pleased to at least remember enough of her training to not make an embarrassment of herself. Back straight, chin high, one hand on the reins, Amaya set about fixing the way the skirt of her dress draped – and made the mistake of looking down, and seeing how very far away the ground was. She froze in place, trying to collect herself, before shooting Flynn a look. How disorienting, that his face was tilted up to her.

She rather hated being tall.

Flynn met her gaze, a closed-lipped smile still resting on his mouth, quiet amusement glimmering in his eyes. For a heartbeat, he could’ve sworn he’d seen a flash of fear behind those shimmering eyes of hers. But she’d poised herself with elegant bravery despite it. Snow fluttered its way back to her again, but no longer spiraled in unnatural patterns. She might’ve been afraid atop the horse, but it seemed the storm within her had settled.

His, on the other hand, had not.

It still burned behind his ribs as he looked up at her, nearly dazed—until the rustle of armor behind him pulled him back. The guards were mounting up too.

Forcing his attention away, Flynn stepped back and returned to his own horse—Sable. A magnificent creature who’d been his companion for over a decade now. A proud, stubborn beast that had taken great pains to train, but Flynn had loved him for every bit of it.

In one fluid motion, Flynn hauled himself into the saddle and gave the horse a sturdy pat along his neck in greeting. Sable’s ears flicked back at the touch. Hooves shifted beneath as Sable blew out a long, impatient huff of warm air, breath clouding in the cold as he awaited his cue.

Without a word, Flynn turned his horse with barely a twitch of the reins. Sable shifted forward, moving beneath Flynn like they shared thought. A gentle nudge of the stirrups, and they trotted east—back the way they’d come earlier that morning, before they had taken an ill-fated stop at the Seluna temple.

His expression shifted the further they rode, smoothing into something more composed. Control layered over him like armor. The playful hunger from moments before had melted away entirely, left behind in the warmth of their living room.

Or so he told himself.

He forced his mind to the task ahead as they headed into the center of town.

The puppeteer. The strange, blue-eyed man with an unsettling gaze and the odd performance that had lingered with Flynn longer than he cared to admit. An apparently careless man who’d spoken of treason within earshot of a Champion—but had also helped Amaya before she’d been attacked.

He should've remained focused. He wanted to. But despite his best efforts, his gaze drifted sideways.

Amaya rode beside him, her back straight, her own expression composed—though she seemed entirely too focused on the road ahead to notice his periodic glances.

Flynn’s mind betrayed him anyway. Memories surfaced. Her lips parted, breathing uneven. Those pale eyes that had looked up at him like she’d—

He tore his gaze away, jaw tightening.

The puppeteer. Focus on the treasonous puppeteer.

But the image of her, wrapped up in him, was harder to outride than he’d expected.

Eventually, they slowed near the jail and came to a halt at the front doors. A guard stood waiting, straightening as they approached. He stepped forward to steady Sable while Flynn swung down into the dirt and snow.

Flynn quickly handed over the reins—barely noticing the guard’s wide-eyed stare at Sable’s towering frame. His attention was already elsewhere. He crossed to Amaya’s mare and looked up, offering a hand to help her down.

Amaya sat atop her horse, the picture of silent, regal dignity — and hesitated. She glanced at Flynn’s hand. Then down at the muddy, cobblestoned —

No.

Her eyes snapped shut against the sudden rush of vertigo that had her stomach doing flips. She forced in a slow breath.

There was usually a step stool for her.

When her eyes opened again they found Flynn immediately. Another emotion surged through her veins at the amused, patient look he gave her as he waited: irritation.

Letting out a proud little huff of her own, Amaya handed the reins to the waiting guard on her opposite side and set about the work of maneuvering her dress around the saddle with smooth motions. And if her cheeks were a little dark, if she spent a little longer than necessary handling the fine fabric, positioning herself for a dismount, keeping herself from thinking about the impending drop —

She met Flynn’s gaze coolly and dared him to comment on it.

That dancing spark in his eyes only seemed to grow brighter, and Amaya had the very reckless impulse to wipe it away somehow. Several options flashed through her mind. Suddenly her heart tripped over itself for an entirely new reason, all her proud defiance draining out of her.

Flynn’s eyebrow quirked up as he waited, that smile back on his face. That flash in his eyes.

His fingers curled at her in a quick, playful beckoning.

Amaya grabbed onto the first flicker of nerve she could find, slipped her hand into his, and pushed herself off of the horse.

Air rushed around her weightless body, her stomach looping as she fell, gasping —

Into Flynn, a guiding hand at her waist as she landed on the path before him.

Her eyes fluttered open to stare at the embroidery decorating the front of his coat, polished buttons gleaming against the night. Her hands were tight around him, one wrapped around his, the other on his shoulder — once again properly above her eyeline. Shoulders still tense, Amaya blinked up to Flynn.

For a moment, neither of them moved. His eyes flicked down to make sure she was steady, then rose to meet hers again.

Immediately intoxicated.

He should’ve let her go. Turned away and moved on. Said something neutral—or nothing at all.

But his hand stayed firm at her waist, the other still curled around hers. That mischievous flicker in his eyes lingered, despite himself.

“That wasn’t your first time on a horse, was it?” he asked, his voice low, laced with a quiet humor meant only for her to hear.

Self consciousness made Amaya want to curl in on herself. But his voice, that tone — she could feel it pulling her towards him again. Amaya could almost hear how it would grow rough against her skin if she closed the distance, low and full of promise as he breathed it into her —

“Was my interrogation also scheduled for today?” she snapped back, her hands pulling away. But even as she tried to wrap her own sharpness around herself like armor, it didn’t quite fit the way it was meant to. The edges were dulled by the way her cheeks warmed, eyes glancing over him like she wasn’t quite sure where she wanted to look — the way she kept herself close, voice soft. The illusion of privacy, suddenly precious, couldn’t be broken if she stayed hidden here, with only his eyes on her.

But she felt the gazes of strangers against her — weightless and chilling, like the inescapable Lunarian snow. She watched the snowflakes fluttering around them, white and sparkling as they dotted Flynn’s outline. Amaya could count each one, she thought, call a storm down around them, and Flynn would accept them all as simply another burden to carry.

Her gaze softened as she looked up at him, seeing him as he’d been last night — exhausted.

“What should I expect?” she murmured up to him.

She’d been too nervous to ask this morning, afraid of what he might say. If he’d hand her the damning knowledge of another death, if he’d deride her for daring to ask, if she’d reveal the depths of her ignorance to him and how very unprepared she was for all of this —

And what had that gotten her?

Another death had still been laid at her feet. Others had still dismissed her out of hand. She’d been unprepared and blind.

If Amaya was to be of any help at all… if she wanted to keep Flynn from burying himself in everything he thought he needed to carry, then she needed to be better prepared.

Flynn exhaled softly and let his hand fall away from her waist. The weight of the world pressed down in the absence of her touch. But even then, something in him stayed warm. An ember, buried beneath it all, still stirred in her presence, eager for her to bring it to life again. The burdens never fully vanished, but with her beside him, they felt a little easier to carry.

His mind returned to what awaited them in the half-finished stone building ahead. He quickly sifted through every interaction he’d had with the man—all of them unnerving, each in different ways.

“Well,” Flynn took a step back, angling himself toward the prison, eyes scanning the unfinished frame thoughtfully. “When I saw him yesterday in the tavern, he called himself Halcyon.”

Flynn’s brows furrowed. The man had said a lot more than that. In many, many words. “He—” Green eyes flicked to Amaya. Memories flickered behind his eyes as he recalled the performance Halcyon had put on. Memories of Nyla and her wide eyes, nearly teal, as she stared at him from across the room. Guilt crept in, sharp and painful along his heart.

“He put on a… play, of sorts. Dragged me into it.” Flynn’s gaze drifted back to the jail, unfocused, landing somewhere near a stack of timber. “And Nyla too.” His lips pressed into a thin line at the admission. The name sent a painful shock of ice through Amaya that she wasn’t prepared for. “I don’t think he knew who she was—how could he?” He wondered aloud, not daring to look at Amaya just yet.

“He had her play a ‘Princess’ role, while I played a Prince in his story. But the way he acted…” Those ghostly eyes returned to memory, accompanied by that insufferable little grin on his infuriating face—like he held all the cards that Flynn had been searching for all along. “It felt like he was making insinuations about my family—my father specifically—but he used different names. He called me… Red Star, or something.” Flynn shook his head, dismissing the thought. “I don’t know… I think he may just be a lunatic.” He shrugged, finally turning his gaze back to Amaya.

“But he was also the first to warn me something was wrong. With you.” The painful memory came rushing back to the surface. The piercing dread he’d felt at Halcyon’s tone, stripped of humor. Not a single trace of that theatrical arrogance on his face. Flynn hadn’t wanted to believe him then, but he’d felt the truth of the words as they were uttered regardless.

Amaya was silent, eyes trained on the jail as she tried to move past the frigid memory of that name and its unexpected hold on her. It was the first time she’d even thought of it since last night — and the woman it belonged to. Flynn had told Amaya that he’d seen her yesterday. The image had been nebulous and indistinct in her mind at the time, but now she imagined it… Flynn standing across from someone else, a more suitable Princess. She fought to fold it away, letting out a slow, wisping breath.

Briefly, she remembered the odd, disorienting man that now awaited them inside the jail. Amaya knew she owed him a debt — not just for helping to break her attacker’s hold over her, but apparently for alerting Flynn, too. But Amaya thought of how he’d approached her yesterday at the feast, asking about her mother — if Amaya had inherited not just her eyes, but her heart as well.

She suddenly wanted to leave him to rot.

“And our purpose here?” The words were flat, but clear as they slipped out into the air. She still wasn’t looking at Flynn.

Flynn hesitated, watching her profile for a moment. “We’re here to hear him out,” he said, his gaze drifting back to the jail. “And… decide his fate.” Finally, her eyes found his again.

The words sat heavy on his shoulders. He’d played a part in sentencing before, back in Aurelia—surrounded by councils and protocols, decisions diluted across many hands. But this was different.

This time, the weight didn’t fall on a council. Or his father. It fell to him.
And he hadn’t expected to have to make the choice so soon.

Flynn exhaled quietly, tense beneath his coat. “He seems to be an ally of yours, but… an enemy of mine—or my family, at least.”

Amaya watched Flynn brace himself against the press of his own authority, the solidity of his shoulders, the weight of his voice… the shadows in his eyes.

Decide his fate.

This wasn’t managing bickering old men or finding an excuse to leave an uncomfortable situation — this was a life. Flynn’s voice made Amaya too real, too solid in her body. Too visible. Too consequential. The gravity of it suddenly crushed against her, making every move a risk.

Two were dead because of her. Surely Flynn didn’t expect her to —

But even as frenzied doubts swarmed inside Amaya, she knew the answer. Even if she didn’t believe it yet.

She hesitated. Then somehow she managed to take a step closer to him again, her hand finding his.

“And what am I?”

Who was this prisoner to her, if he was an enemy of Flynn’s?

Flynn’s gaze dropped to the hand she’d slid into his, then lifted to her eyes. He studied the quiet in her expression, wondering what thoughts lay hidden that she still refused to voice.

“My wife,” he said at last, steady and confident. A faint, almost hesitant smile touched his lips. “An ally or an enemy… I guess you’ll have to let me know which you decide.”

Amaya was struck with a sadness that sank deep into her core, even as the corner of her lips twitched up in a small, answering smile. Centuries of bloody history sat between their palms, loosely held together. Amaya heard all the words she still couldn’t bring herself to share with him, felt the distance that held her apart, even now — saw the shadows he cast on the ground beneath them, shifting in the torchlight.

But his hand was still warm against hers.

“Let’s see how the rest of the day goes.” The words were light and soft, but too achingly real.

Amaya finally turned her attention outward, to the guards around them — the man hidden away in the jail. And she was a Princess once more, serene and untouchable.

She’d spent too long standing in the dark, searching for words she couldn’t give him — hiding beneath him with only his eyes on her. Her walls felt too thin and fragile, nearly translucent beneath the light he cast.

Flynn’s gaze lingered, thoughtfully drinking in all the delicate features of her face. There were moments, like this one, where he felt the ground shift beneath his feet.

What would he do, truly, if she turned from him? If she named herself an enemy the next time his lips hovered above hers?

He already knew the answer. The thought hollowed something inside him.

His gaze remained steady and soft, watching her as if he were trying to memorize a star before the dawn tore it away.

She had already undone him in ways no blade ever could. He’d been altered by her, and there would be no return from it. No reclaiming the man he’d been before her, nor the world he once knew.

She’d taken pieces of him and shifted them, quietly, until he no longer knew where the old edges fit.

And Goddess help him—he didn’t want to.

Perhaps that was the cruelest truth of all. That the most powerful weapon Lunaris had ever forged… was the one he had come to—

His heart stuttered, fingers wrapping more securely around hers.

She didn’t tighten her grip around Flynn’s hand, but neither did she pull away. Instead, Amaya stepped towards the jail, loosely tugging him forward until he stepped into place beside her. When his eyes left her again to instead focus on the jail ahead of them — on the next task in his endless list of priorities — Amaya felt her walls finally solidify, shielding her at last from view.

As they moved, Flynn’s expression shifted, slipping back into something measured—more Princely.

The heavy jail door creaked open as a guard pulled it for them. Flynn gave a silent nod of thanks before stepping inside, tailed by two of the Aurelian guards who had shadowed them throughout the day.

His gaze flicked to the intricate lavender runes etched along the walls, faintly glowing. The anti-magic field tugged at him the moment they crossed the invisible threshold. Swiftly, it siphoned until he could no longer feel a trace of magic, leaving his limbs heavy in its absence.

His pace slowed as he glanced at Amaya, giving them both a moment to adjust—watching to see how the same unnatural silence pressed against her.

Her expression was calm, but her focus turned inward, the slight hitch in her breath betraying her. In place of her vast, wild magic, normally so restless and alive, always commanding what attention she could afford to spare, there was… nothing. The sudden lack nearly set Amaya off balance. She was still breathing, but it was like all the air in her lungs had been stolen — like some fundamental piece of her was gone, but there was no wound to prove that it’d been a part of her to begin with.

Amaya’s heartbeat quickened — and there was no stir of frost beneath her skin. She tried to poke and prod at the space her magic had once filled, not knowing what to do with the emptiness, and how there was no answering force to press back against her.

Dim torchlight spilled across the stone corridor, casting long, flickering shadows. Every step echoed off the walls, their presence announced long before they reached the cell.

Up ahead, a figure came into view, a guard stationed near a cell—her posture relaxed, leaning against the far wall, gaze fixed on the prisoner within. The glint of Lunarian armor brought Amaya back to the surface.

Flynn recognized her immediately. The young guard he’d tasked with protecting the Seluna Priestess the day before—and she had followed through, without hesitation.

He gave her a nod of acknowledgement and respect as they approached. “Afternoon,” he greeted her. “Glad to see you’re doing well.”

As they came to a stop beside her, Flynn’s hand curled a touch tighter around Amaya’s—not from nerves, but instinct. Protection.

Inside the cell, the man was already watching them.

Seated casually on the edge of the cot, bare chested and calm, Halcyon smiled.

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_{Interactions: Daphne @PrinceAlexus, Gadez @Dezuel}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Location: The Road Between the Jail and the Inn}

Part II

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Elio smiled down at the Priestess in his hands as she blinked up at him with wide, dark eyes and pink wind-blown cheeks. A loose cobblestone slid neatly back into place behind her.

He’d heard about her – had apparently blown in last week in some golden and gaudy procession. Elio would’ve written her off as another example of Aurelian pomp… if not for what he’d heard next. That the Priestess, some tiny thing from Aurelia’s Ember Islands with uncharacteristically fair hair, had immediately saved some brat from death by blight-born in front of a crowd of her devoted.

Impressive if it was true. An ambitious (if on the nose) bit of propaganda if not. Either way – intriguing.

Especially as he looked down at the Priestess in question now, who looked about as impressive as a bunny. Big eyes. A softly sloping nose. Full pink lips, parted slightly, as her breath drifted over them in gentle white clouds. She was a delicate little thing – practically pocket sized, and swimming in her winter Sun Priestess robes. Hell of a contradiction, that. Seemed Aurelia hadn’t quite figured out how to make cold weather clothes yet that didn’t swallow their Priestess whole.

Shame. But discovery was part of the fun anyway.

Elio’s hands tightened their grip on her narrow shoulder, around the waist hidden beneath layers of fabric, and helped the Priestess straighten up.

Tia could feel the heat building up her neck and across her face as she stood before the towering man – he was… awfully close still, hands lingering as if to hold her steady. The weight of them pressed against her, even through the thick fabric of her robes. His smile grew, amusement sparking in his amber eyes as she blinked dumbly at him.

“You alright then, Darling?” His deep voice rumbled through her and it was like Tia snapped back to life. Nodding, she gave him a thankful smile – though she was sure it looked as awkward and nervous as she felt.

“Thank you,” she said softly as she took a tiny step back – out from under his enormous shadow, away from his firm hands. His dark eyebrow quirked up slightly at the sound of her rasping voice, but his expression shifted easily back into one of genial ease and charm.

He moved smoothly with her, hands lifting away as she stepped back – only to start drifting around her body, brushing snow off of her shoulders and the top of her head, even as more stray flakes drifted to take their place. Tia was frozen under his ministrations, too surprised by this turn to do more than watch as she stayed obediently in place. His touches were light and efficient, defter than she would’ve expected from someone with so imposing a presence. His eyes, the color of smoldering smoldering firelight, seemed to move without seeing her, focusing only on the next problem area to solve.

Tia studied him as he worked, the way the snow landed lightly against him, too. Startlingly tall, broad, warm-hued in a way that made Tia think of the nomads who’d sometimes visited the capital for trade or performances, and, at the moment, attending to her in a way that was almost… paternal. Her unease drifted away like the errant snowflakes he brushed off of her, replaced by something still timid, but more thoughtful. Endeared, even.

A stray lock of midnight hair drifted across his eyes as he grabbed at the collar of her robe, the edge of his short nails catching lightly at the bare skin below her scarf. Tia couldn’t help the sharp inhale as his touch sent her nerves dancing across her chest and down her back. Her eyes widened slightly – he caught them with his own.

Then he straightened out her collar and tugged at the fabric of her sleeves, removing any rumples that’d formed when he’d caught her.

“There,” he said, gently, smile growing on his face again. “Set to rights.” His hands fell away from her at last.

Tia tried to swallow. She didn’t want to know what color her face was. She focused on returning his smile instead, giving a small bow of her head in thanks. Straightening, Tia tensed as another biting gust of wind blew through her, tangling strands of long hair in front of her face.

“You’re the Sun Priestess, I take it?” Elio asked, watching her shiver. She blinked those big eyes up at him as she brushed her away from her face with shaking fingers, before her expression shifted slightly. It was subtle, but Elio watched it happen with keen eyes – how she straightened up slightly, some of her meekness melting away and replaced with a serene professionalism. The Priestess retreated into her title like it was one of her oversized robes, nodding at him with a smile that wasn’t quite so nervous.

“Elio Azkona.”

His name had the intended effect. He watched as she registered the name, just a handful of letters away from that goddess of hers she was so devoted to. Her smile was a little warmer, a little less unsure, as she nodded to him again with the indulgence of a calm, patient teacher. When the Priestess’ eyes found him again, it no longer looked like she was waiting for the appropriate time to make her escape – duty took over instead as she stood before him, waiting to see how she could be of service to one of her flock.

“The stonemason here,” he continued. “So I’m afraid it falls on my shoulders, if this path was too uneven for you,” he said with just the right amount of humor.

Her eyes widened as she looked at him and then down at the stones below her feet – then turned slightly to look at the path behind her, before spinning back to Elio and shaking her head to reassure him (because the path was impeccable, of course).

His eyes flicked briefly at the scarf around her neck as he considered her apparent reluctance to use that voice of hers. He wondered idly how loud she could get.

“Come on,” he said, holding his hands up in a staying motion, his smile growing. “Let me take some accountability. I’ll escort you.” Elio stepped to the side, angling his body down the direction she’d been traveling as he raised an arm towards her. “Help you stay upright.” The pretty pink tinge in her cheeks seemed to darken. His eyes grew a little sharper, his smile a little more crooked, as he took her in, watching as she considered him. A drop of that hesitation came back into her expression.

Another breeze brought the chilling winter air, and she tensed again, long hair twisting like solstice festival streamers hung up around the capital, pale as the moon against the shadowed night.

“I’m a very good windbreak,” he added, low and conspiratorial.

Tia didn’t doubt that. Her cheeks warmed slightly as she looked up at this mountain of a man, with his charming smile and offered arm. But in the end, there wasn’t much of a choice to make. Too polite to dismiss him and too cold to refuse shelter, Tia finally gave him another small, thankful smile, and nodded.

Stepping forward, she slipped her arm around his and tried not to think too much about the hard musculature there, or the way the cold pushed her closer into his side – shielded from the wind, and soaking in the warmth he practically radiated, now that she was close enough to feel it.

He began walking, his steps long and slow as Tia trailed along beside him. She listened to the heavier sound of his footsteps, sure and solid.

“Where to, Priestess?” he asked, looking down at her with those bright eyes of his. “The temple?”

Tia craned her neck to look up at him and shook her head. She took in a short breath to speak – and held it for a moment in hesitation.

“The jail.”

Something flashed in his eyes, so quick that Tia thought she might’ve imagined it. Then his smile was back as he looked ahead, gaze sharp.

“The jail then,” her new escort replied.

Elio led the little Priestess down the shadowed path lined with orange torchlight, his mind working as he considered her, and the flash of worry she’d tried to hide, even as she’d tensed around his arm – then he thought of the pale-eyed ’gardener’ who’d taken up residence in his worksite.

Intriguing.

The cobblestones remained in place as they walked.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Collab between @The Muse and @c3p-0h
_{Location: The Royal Residence}

Part VII

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Flynn held the door open, letting Amaya step through first.

As she entered into the stillness of their home, Flynn turned slightly, catching the eye of the guard who moved to follow. A silent exchange passed between them. Flynn’s quiet request met with a flicker of hesitation, a question unspoken in the guard’s brown eyes. But after a breath, the man gave a short nod and stepped back, falling into place beside his companion at the door. For now, they would be left alone.

Flynn stepped inside and shut the door softly behind him, his gaze fixed on Amaya. On the frost that still clung to her fingertips. His own hands ached, fingers numb from where they’d held hers. He flexed them slowly, trying to will life back into them, then dragged a hand through his damp hair. Snowflakes melted in the strands, along his shoulders, soaking into the threads of his coat.

But on Amaya, the flakes lingered—clinging to her coat, caught in the dark strands of her hair, glittering like stars. Even here, wrapped in the warmth of their home, the cold was reluctant to let her go.

He took a slow breath.

“Let’s get you warm,” he said softly, gesturing for her to continue into the living room.

Shaking and silent, Amaya moved as directed. She was too cold to argue. Too warm to be numb. She sat in that painful middle ground, drained and aching as she found her way to the couch in the middle of the room – the one they’d spent the night on, wrapped around each other. Amaya’s blanket was still there, folded neatly and draped along the back. The fireplace was dark and empty, the wood so thoroughly burnt that it’d turned pale, somewhere between ash and snow. She heard Flynn’s steady footsteps trailing after her like a shadow.

Without any other eyes on her, Amaya’s composure slipped away bit by bit as she sank into the couch. Fog drifted out past her lips as she curled in on herself, clutching her frozen hands around each other and squeezing her eyes shut. Her magic had grown less wild, drained by her own exhaustion, but ice still stubbornly clung where it’d managed to grab a hold of her.

Opening her eyes again, she glanced up at Flynn. Even in the darkness of the room, she could still make out the concern on his face. It sank into Amaya so sharply that she looked away, back to her shaking hands. Something tightened around her heart. Even through the frigid pain, she could still feel the ghost of his lips on her knuckles – against her temple. All the little touches he’d peppered her with throughout the morning, how closely he held her, like he was trying to make up for all the distance she’d created over the last two months. Even as she froze him, too.

Flynn knelt in front of the hearth without a word, reaching for the kindling kept in a worn metal basket beside it. There was something grounding in the process of creating fire. Something sacred in the friction it required, the slow coaxing of embers, the patient ritual of building warmth out of nothing. It could offer a rare moment of calm against the storm in his mind.

So he opted not to use magic this time. Instead, he laid out the kindling by hand, carefully arranged logs, and struck flint.

“Thank you,” Amaya murmured through her shaking breaths as she watched him, the words billowing in the air. They felt inadequate. Too small and thin, for all that was layered in them. But Amaya didn’t know how to pull those layers to the surface. She settled on what was easiest. “For pulling me away, before…” Her icy fingers curled in on themselves and her expression flinched. “This.”

Flynn glanced over his shoulder as the fire sparked to life, casting flickering gold across the room. His eyes found Amaya, and for a moment, he simply looked at her. Something ached deep inside his chest, but he rose to his feet with a playful glint in his eyes anyway.

“Oh, that wasn’t for you,” he said casually, his voice light, a half-smile tugging at his mouth as he tried to soften the tension in the room. “I did need air. Before I could start arguing with a High Priestess and say something truly regrettable.”

It was a joke—barely. But he was rewarded when light flickered in her eyes, quick and fleeting like a stray ember.

Rounding the couch, he reached for the blanket and unfolded it before carefully draping it over her shoulders. His hands lingered only a moment as he tucked it around her. Then, quietly, he returned to the hearth and held his hands out toward the warmth.

Amaya’s fingers were stiff and fumbling as she pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She watched as the growing firelight danced through his hair. The heat was slow to sink into her.

“I knew her.” It was a quiet admission that slipped out before she could stop it. Flynn’s eyes flicked back to her. The words hung in the air between them. They felt more vulnerable than they should’ve been.

“Not well,” she amended. Amaya wanted to wipe the words away, scatter them like snowflakes. But she couldn’t stop looking at Flynn, aglow in his own fire. She couldn’t stop the words from coming out of her, reaching towards him. “Not at all, actually.” Amaya shook her head to herself, pulling back. Her eyes drifted to the window, the fire’s reflection painting the glass. “She grew up in the palace. We’d never officially met.”

Flynn went still. The fire crackled beside him, but its warmth barely reached through the sudden chill washing over him.

His brow furrowed as Amaya’s voice trailed into uncertainty, his jaw tensed.

He might’ve been relieved—grateful even—that she was speaking at all, if not for what she’d said. He’d expected the silence to stretch, for it to fall on him to break, as it so often did. But Amaya, too, could be like coaxing an ember into flame. She required patience. The right pressure. The right conditions to bring her to light.

Yet her words pulled his thoughts in a different direction. The fact that the High Priestess had also come from the palace—under the thumb of King Jericho—didn’t sit right. Was she another pair of eyes for the Lunarian crown? How many of them had been sent here?

He wondered how cold the High Priestess might’ve been to Amaya in the past—if she too had stood among the countless people who’d never allowed Amaya to take up space in the way Flynn had always been given the right to. It made more sense now—the Priestess’s cold shoulder. Not just to him, but to Amaya too.

The fire popped quietly.

“Do you know her family connection?” he asked at last, his voice quiet, thoughtful. His curiosity edged with caution, as he wondered what sort of power her family might’ve held to allow her to grow up within palace walls.

Amaya hesitated, her lips pressing together. Her fingers curled a little more tightly around the edges of the blanket. The pain was less and less with each pull of her slight muscles. She shook her head, eyes still trained on the window pane. Images grew more distinct in the reflection as she let herself focus on more than just the dancing fire – her own figure bundled and hazy on the couch. Flynn, cast in golden hues.

“Only that her father is someone powerful.” Powerful enough that Amaya had never even been allowed to know his name. She’d been kept far from anyone and anything of real importance – it had always been the easiest way to tell who she actually needed to pay attention to. But the Priestess and her father… Amaya had never been able to learn anything about them.

Her lips parted to continue, quiet thoughts and observations bubbling to the surface as she remembered the cold girl and her looming father from her childhood – when the image in the window shifted. For just a moment, the shadow that she cast, flickering in the movement of the fire, grew too large, too dark behind her.

The words died in her throat.

Reality seemed to shift and refocus around her – she was the Princess of Lunaris. Wanted or not, she was an extension of the Crown, even the parts that had been hidden from her. And Flynn – Amaya found him again in the reflection, outlined in shining summer gold, and focused solely on her. On what she might reveal.

Her mouth closed as she looked away from the window. She found the fireplace, if only for something else to focus on. She tried to lose herself in the movement of the flames.

“I haven’t seen her in years.” Her voice was softer, careful and flat as she tried to breathe under the weight of her father’s anger crushing her chest.

Flynn didn’t answer right away. He only nodded, thoughtful, as his gaze slid back to the fire.

“I met her yesterday,” he said after a beat. “Briefly. She was with the body—Sir Abel—when I arrived.”

His voice was quiet, steady, but edged with something colder as the memory took shape. “She looked sick. Pale, exhausted… trembling, even. She could barely stand on her own. At the time I assumed it was because of Sir Abel, but…” he paused, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of what he’d seen. “Earlier, she claimed she’d ‘felled far greater than a single blight-born.’”

He shook his head faintly. “I know Priestesses of Seluna are often made tougher than those of Aelios, but… I’ve never known them to be warriors. That can’t be common, can it?” He briefly looked up to Amaya, then continued with his train of thought, “If she’s battleworn, why did she look so petrified at the sight of gore?”

Flynn didn’t expect an answer. He assumed that Amaya couldn’t explain it either, but something in his gut told him the Priestess wasn’t to be trusted.

Turning to Amaya again, he watched her quietly for a moment, checking to see if she still shivered beneath the blanket. She held herself still, her eyes distant as she watched the fire.

Without a word, he crossed the space between them and sat beside her, facing inward with one knee drawn up onto the cushion. Something warm stirred in his chest again—an echo of the night before, remembering how they’d sat in this same position. Remembering how she’d discarded the blanket for his warmth instead. Of how she’d curled into him, the weight of her against his chest, her breath warm in the hollow of his collarbone.

He blinked the memory away.

Reaching for her hand, he gently took it in his own and examined for any remaining frost. “It’s a wonder you haven’t given yourself frostbite,” he murmured, half-joking as he turned her hand over in his.

She felt her breath still in her chest, with how carefully she held herself, unable to focus on anything but the nearness of him. Amaya wasn’t quite looking at their hands, her pale gaze still unfocused even as she turned her head slightly. But she could trace the feel of him along her skin. Sensation danced through her hand, down her arm, mixing with the swirling guilt that had emerged from her anxiety.

Her guilt only compounded as she filed his words about the Priestess away, aligning them with the few pieces she knew. He’d offered his thoughts and information about the Priestess so freely – just as he offered his warmth, his partnership, expecting her to meet him halfway. And what did Amaya offer in return?

Even now, with her hand in his, Amaya felt the force of her father’s presence more solidly than she felt Flynn’s. Fear turned the words she would’ve given him thick and jagged in her throat, as they lodged themselves painfully in place.

“It wasn’t a concern until recently,” she said instead. She’d steadied her breathing, but her pulse was still too quick – and it only sped up under his touch. She thought maybe he could feel it, always too mindful of her. Amaya slowly drew her hand back, away from his. She felt the loss of him immediately. Echoes of his touch still danced along her nerves, but they were less potent. They made the guilt less bitter on her tongue. She tucked her hand back under the blanket as she looked back to the fire, as if to hide any new crystals that might form along her skin in his absence.

As she withdrew from him, he shifted too—leaning into the cushion, propping one elbow along the back of the couch. Though she wouldn’t meet his eyes, he still faced her, studying her quietly. Watching the way the firelight caught in the pale shimmer of her eyes and flickered shadows along her cheeks. He thought, maybe, shadows danced behind her eyes, too.

“What would you think about letting the Sage help?” he asked at last, gently. “Lady Hightower should have tools—something to make it easier to manage.”

Her gaze sharpened immediately, taking on a proud, stubborn edge.

“I’m handling it.” But there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, before she snuffed it out. She forced herself to take a breath, to push down the guilt of snapping at him. “She has more pressing concerns,” she said, more gently this time.

Flynn’s lips pressed together as he raised one hand in quiet surrender, palm up—a silent gesture that he wouldn’t push her. “Okay,” he said, his gaze drifting from her back to the fire. Amaya glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, regretful. An apology sat at the tip of her tongue – and moved no further.

After a moment, he shifted again, lowering his knee and planting his boot flat on the floor. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he rubbed his hands idly, his eyes dropping to the ground in thought.

When he finally spoke, he glanced up—meeting her eyes for only a moment. “Do you still want to talk to the prisoner with me? Or come to the blight-born interviews?” he asked. “You can rest, if you’d rather. It’s already been a… difficult day.”

He hesitated before adding, “I still need to go, but I’d understand.”

Amaya finally turned her head to face him, watching him carefully. She felt exhaustion seeping into her, weighing her down with every heartbeat. But they seemed to lengthen as she looked at Flynn – that space between each beat growing heavier with anticipation.

He was suddenly too far from her – but not by his choice. By hers.

“Do you want me there?” Her voice was neutral, but the question was too soft and she watched him too closely.

Flynn looked up at her again, this time meeting her gaze fully. His brows drew together as he considered her, searching her eyes for the things she refused to voice.

“I want you to be where you want to be,” he said at last. “Not because I asked, or anyone else expects it of you. Just… because it’s where you choose to stand.”

He held her gaze a moment longer, then added, “I’d always rather have you beside me… but only if it’s what you want, too.”

Emotions flickered behind her eyes, too quick to name as she stared at him. His words sank into her like heat from the fire, painfully stark against the chill.

Unbidden, a memory came to her: Elara offering to stay by her side. But only if Amaya wished it. There’d been no mention of Elara’s desires – she’d dismissed the very idea. And she’d pulled further and further away until finally, Amaya’s friend had made herself into only her handmaiden.

Amaya blinked against the pain, sharp and bloody where it cut at wounds that hadn’t yet healed. Doubts and regrets, mistakes that she was too scared to yet examine. Her eyes dropped from Flynn’s.

The crackling fire punctuated the silence.

Then, with sore legs and hands still stiff and aching from ice that always seemed to wait beneath her skin, Amaya pushed herself carefully towards Flynn, like she was waiting to be told no with every motion.

Amaya crossed the short distance between them, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, and leaned into his warmth.

“I’ll go,” came her fragile words as she fit herself against his side. “I just… need a moment.”

Flynn stayed where he was—elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. Shoulders stiff.

She’d brought herself to him now for the second time. But somehow, this time felt different.

It should have made him feel the way it had the night before—when her touch had been passionate and instinctive, when she’d reached for him because she’d wanted to. But now… he couldn’t shake the doubt that coiled in his chest.

When she agreed to come, he wasn’t fully convinced that she’d chosen it for herself. That it wasn’t a choice made for his sake alone.

Was she beside him because she wanted to be, or just to keep peace with the man she was forced to share four walls with? The man who’d brought her here in the first place and asked her to stay—to feel what he felt.

Someday, he thought, the guilt for it all would eat him alive. If Aelios didn't demand his life first.

He drew in a breath and straightened. Carefully, he slipped an arm around her lower back, his fingers curling lightly at her waist beneath the blanket. He leaned into her and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Amaya’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Okay,” he murmured against her skin. Closing his eyes, he rested his cheek atop her head. For a fleeting moment, he tried to quiet the ache wrapped around his heart—the sharp tangle of doubt and longing that bound him to her and asked if she was bound to him too.

“I need to tell the guards to send out the summons,” he said finally, lifting his head and drawing back. Reluctantly, he stood. Amaya was surrounded by the empty space he left behind, blue eyes trailing after him. “I’ll be back.” he added before stepping out into the hall, leaving her alone in the firelit room.

She sat there on the couch, with nothing but the murmuring fire and her blanket, staring at the empty doorframe he’d stepped through.

Finally Amaya sighed, pulling back into herself. The scene played in her head again — how hesitant he’d been at her side, before he’d moved against her. Only to pull away again. Nerves built under her skin like her ice. Amaya had only ever known how to create distance, to guard herself. How did one just… reach for what they wanted?

How much distance would he tolerate before he pulled away entirely, just as Elara did?

The fire popped, its orange glow filling the room.

Amaya bit her lip and glanced back at the darkened door frame. She heard the soft murmur of his voice as he spoke with the guards, muffled and out of reach.

Another sigh. Amaya pressed herself deeper into the couch, leaning her side against its back and curling her legs up just enough that her feet still hung heavy off the edge — truthfully, she wanted her shoes off. Her feet ached from the trips they’d taken across town, the distance farther than she was used to and the cobblestone a far cry from the smooth floors of the palace beneath the low heel of her boots.

Exhaustion tightened its hold on her as she thought of the day — the morning. The commanders. The argument with Flynn beneath the snowy canopy. The temple. And all the while, there’d been the constant fight for control over her magic. The chaos of the previous day, that she still didn’t think she’d recovered from. The ever brewing fear of her attacker and his poisonous promises. Elara’s absence. Flynn’s distracting presence.

Shame filled her as she thought of all the ways she’d failed today — how unprepared she’d been to face those who knew enough to dismiss her, as Flynn stood tall and sure… and reckless. Open and direct, in ways she’d never learned how to be.

Glancing at the doorway again, she tried to listen for his voice, or maybe approaching footsteps. It hadn’t been long, though — perhaps a minute or two. She told herself she was more patient than this.

Amaya pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, trying in vain to find his warmth again. Her head dipped to rest against the corner of the cushion that lined the back of the couch. Everything felt too heavy. Too slow. Amaya tried to concentrate, the flickering of the fire growing indistinct and hazy, just like her thoughts. It was nearly hypnotic, with its dancing colors and warm light.

Not warm enough, though.

She blinked slowly, until finally her eyes couldn’t open anymore. The last thing she saw before she slipped away was the golden glow of the fire and the looming shadows they cast around the room.

Flynn paused in the doorway the moment he stepped back into the room. He took in the stillness of her, curled up against the couch. Her eyes closed. The tension eased from her brow. Unguarded and peaceful, for once.

He didn't need to step closer to know she was asleep. Or at least somewhere close to it.

Flynn stayed where he was, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe as he watched her, letting the quiet wrap around them.

Then, as quiet as he’d come, he turned and stepped away.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Location: The Road Between the Jail and the Inn}

Part I

---

Elio still regretted not shoving a boulder up Volkov’s ass, but his mood had much improved from this morning. Hands in his pockets, he sauntered down the path towards the inn. Elio’d need to follow up with Barrett about the prisoner and Seth he was sure, because no one in this fucking town could be trusted, but at least he’d set things in motion. In the meantime, there was always other work to do.

And there’d be other opportunities to fuck with Volkov.

For now, he planned on getting a bite to eat, some entertainment among the masses, and then off to the residential district to finish up the latest batch of home foundations Astaros had put in an order for – because people kept moving to this shithole for some reason. World really must’ve been falling apart, if this was their preferred destination. People didn’t come to Dawnhaven, they ended up here.

But that meant that everyone here was just a little bit desperate – and desperation always added a fun new layer to human behavior. Made people make interesting choices. They were a little quicker to snap, a little harder to recognize in the mirror.

A little more entertaining to poke and prod.

So, perhaps Elio didn’t always hate that he’d ended up in Dawnhaven, too.

Something stood out against the glittering snow and shadowed night in the distance – a pale figure walking down the path towards him. Elio raised an eyebrow, amber gaze darting over the approaching stranger.

Tia massaged her cold fingers as she listened to the crunch crunch crunch of her steps, mind replaying the conversation she’d had with Ivor and Kira. Her mouth skewed to the side. She’d added yet another person to the growing list of names who knew too much because of her – another person who might get in trouble or be at risk because of her.

But at risk of what?

There was still too much Tia didn’t know about her visions – where they were coming from, if they could be trusted, what they meant… Images of her fourth vision – the last one that she’d yet to investigate – ran through her mind. A burning hand, coated in flames and hanging from chains suspended above.

But the hand had been uninjured – there’d been no charred, blackened skin, no bubbling, blistered flesh. Burn wounds were some of Tia’s least favorite to treat, but she knew them well. But the hand… it’d worn the flames like a garment, limp but uninjured.

And then there was the gemstone, and its ominous vision. Tia hoped Eris would be able to make sense of it. She hoped even more that she hadn’t inadvertently put her at risk, too. She remembered the visceral, petrifying hate that had coursed through Tia’s body – the burning force of the colossus’ gaze, older than she could possibly imagine.

The snowy path blurred in her vision as Tia looked down at the cobblestones, lost in thought. A cold winter breeze picked up, tangling her long, loose hair around her face, and Tia scrunched up her shoulders, shivering. Lifting a cold, shivering hand, Tia tried to push the loose strands of hair from her face and –

The toe of her boot caught against the edge of a cobblestone, higher than expected.

Letting out a squeak, Tia’s eyes widened as lurched forward, the world suddenly rotating around her in a way it definitely wasn’t supposed to.

It stopped turning though, when a pair of strong hands caught her.

“Careful there,” came a smooth, low voice directly above her.

Blinking with wide eyes, Tia stared down at a sturdy pair of legs standing on the path. There were large hands on her – one spanning the distance between her hip and the middle of her ribs, the other securely on her narrow shoulder

Catching her breath, Tia turned her head to look at the hand at her shoulder. Warm brown skin, a large palm, long fingers with old, faint scars along the knuckles. It moved slightly, the muscles flexing as the hand repositioned itself, fingers curving and flexing over her shoulder to get a better grip.

Tia finally looked up — and up, and up — to see eyes that danced like firelight, shining raven hair, and full lips curving upwards, surrounded by dark stubble.

Her face began to warm. Was an inordinate amount of Dawnhaven’s citizens exceedingly tall and beautiful?

“Evening,” he said, smile growing.

Tia was fairly certain it was noon.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Collab between @c3p-0h, @Beard Dad, and @The Muse
_{Location: Eye of the Beholder}

---

Kira said nothing as the Priestess approached, offering no smile in return. Deliberately slow, her gaze swept over the woman, taking her in from top to bottom. Kira remembered her well. The one she’d seen at the hot springs, fumbling to steady the nobleman who’d insulted Sya, panic in her eyes as she looked to Orion with a silent plea for help. The one she’d seen inside the temple with the so-called “Gardener,” Gadez. He’d been shirtless, smug, and entirely too familiar.

As Ivor spoke, Kira’s attention shifted back to him. The cold shell she wore like armor snapped back into its proper place. Whatever soft flicker of openness that had surfaced between them, it had sealed itself away the instant the Priestess appeared. Her presence was an intrusion, intentional or not.

Like the threat she was, Kira watched her carefully out of the corner of her eye, even as Ivor rambled on about blizzards, healing and… snuggling? Her brows drew down slightly at that. Then lifted again when she noticed the Priestess shifting uncomfortably, eyes wide, shaking her head in subtle, frantic motion.

Her gaze narrowed briefly on the blonde. She knew that look. She’d seen it more times than she could count. The anxious panic of someone realizing a secret was slipping out.

Whatever Ivor was saying, he wasn’t meant to.

She looked at him then. Still speaking, still smiling, his attention fixed on Kira rather than the Priestess.

Ordinarily, she would’ve let it play out. Let the words fall and the awkwardness settle. If someone wanted their secrets kept, they should have had the discipline to guard them more closely.

But the tavern was pressing in on her with every passing second. Too many voices. Too many bodies. Too much motion. Every sound sharpened—heartbeats, laughter, clinking glasses, that wretched four armed blight-born shouting atop a table.

Her jaw clenched.

“Ivor.”

Ivor’s eyes went wide, his mouth snapped close; the soft spoken blightborn surprised him with her sudden vocalisation. Beside him, the Priestess startled. She blinked at Kira with wide eyes.

It was louder and more forceful than anything she’d said in months—perhaps years. The authority in her tone almost felt completely foreign to her these days, but muscle memory had served her well. It worked. He stopped.

“I want to hear your story,” she said, voice firm but quieter now. Her eyes slid toward the crowd, to the table-top blight-born just as Sya hurled something at him. The timing nearly coaxed laughter from her, but her expression was locked into place, her armor too practiced to let it move an inch.

“But it’s too much here. For me.”

The admission left her lips before she’d fully decided to say it. To her surprise, it wasn’t a lie. But saying it aloud in front of a stranger—the High Priestess of Aelios—felt like exposing far too much. Surprise flickered in Tia’s dark gaze, before softening into something more hesitant and thoughtful. Kira felt a hint of regret creep in immediately.

Even so, she met Ivor’s gaze, hoping he’d understand what she meant.

“Can we…” She gestured vaguely toward the door or the upper floor of the inn, but said nothing more.

Ivor blinked a few times before looking around to read the room. The noise level had been steadily increasing, having reached its peak when the four armed pirate had begun to sing. Even the giant himself had to admit that a proper conversation or a tale of adventure couldn’t be told amongst the cacophony. Her head and eyes barely motioned to the passage that lead to Sya’s guest area; she’d been mentioning it to Kira earlier, perhaps now was the time to use it.

Speaking of the devil Sya had come over to chide Ivor for even putting himself in danger, though all he could muster in response was a sheepish grin and shrug. Her other comment made him laugh, “Next time you’re in danger Syraea I’ll personally come and carry you to safety,” he retorted in his native tongue, “If it is not too much trouble the three of us will be using the guest area,” he explained to her, his eyes gesturing over to the pirate, “it’s too loud, need a quiet place to talk.”

The serpent woman nodded in understanding before slithering off to resume her duties. Ivor motioned for the other two to follow as he led them up the stairs. Slipping Sya’s small bottle of alcohol into her coat pocket, Kira followed behind the Priestess. If anyone was going to ensure their time was not disturbed, it would be Syraea. The four armed pirate was certainly an interesting oddity among the tavern, having enthralled the other patrons with his performance. Ivor wasn’t sure what to make of him, but more importantly, he wasn’t sure what to make of being called a ‘whale man’. These questions were better left for another time as they approached the guest parlor.

The room was darker compared to the main area, but also much quieter and with a distinct lack of clientele utilizing it. Kira stepped around Ivor as they entered, veering right. Without a word, she began to circle the edge of the room, eyes sweeping over the unfamiliar space—comfortable padded chairs, scattered pillows and low sofas. The kind of room meant for conversation, not spectacle. It reminded her of a brothel house.

She could still hear heartbeats beneath the floorboards—and the two beating steadily behind her—but here, the noise was dulled. Manageable. At last, she could hear herself think.

Once inside, Ivor turned to look upon his compatriots once more and for the first time since the priestess arrived, he saw how frazzled she looked, “Miss Priestess, are you sure you should being up and about right now?”

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the chaos of the inn. Kira glanced up, noting it had been the Priestess to close the door. Guarding her secrets a little more carefully this time.

Tia looked up at Ivor, his eyes glowing brightly in the shadowed room – ominous purple embers, punctuating a hulking figure. Prowling along the periphery of the room was the other woman, like she was trying to create distance, and the new confined space they occupied was more cage than refuge. She was sleek where Ivor was staggering, quiet and careful as she watched them – Tia thought that when her eyes caught the dim glow of the candles, perhaps they had a glow to them too.

Tia’s heart hammered with a fear older than she was – something primal and animal, as she locked herself away with what her body knew to be predators.

The fabric of her scarf seemed to catch against her scarred throat.

But Tia forced herself to look up at Ivor – Ivor, who’d kept her safe and warm, and had carried her home when she’d collapsed. Ivor, who smiled and laughed like he’d only ever known the world to be kind – or perhaps he’d determined that it simply wasn’t kind enough.

She held his gaze, and bit by bit the glow didn’t seem quite so frightening. It dimmed enough for her to see the concerned pull of his eyebrows, hear the caring tone that colored his voice as thickly as his accent did. Tia offered him a forced smile – but soon enough, it became easier to hold, warm and friendly as she fought to muffle her own nerves.

Her skin still prickled where she could feel the woman’s eyes on her – but that wasn’t fair to her, either. She’d done Tia a kindness, after all. She remembered the snap of the woman’s voice as she’d seen Tia’s rising panic and cut Ivor off. The woman had even made an excuse for her, to move the conversation away from the crowd. For all her sharpness and quiet intensity, she was actually… rather considerate.

It made Tia feel all the more guilty, that she was about to ask Ivor to keep a secret from her.

Briefly, she considered trying to find some way to… be discrete in her request to Ivor. But what good would that do? The woman had clearly just learned that Tia was trying to hide something, and it felt disrespectful to now pretend that she wasn’t. Besides, it wasn’t like discretion came naturally to either Tia or Ivor. No, Tia would just have to accept that this surprisingly thoughtful, if intimidating, blight-born woman already knew something was afoot. She would just have to hold out hope that her courtesy would extend to not trying to pry. She was Ivor’s friend – maybe her affection for him would keep her from trying to get too much out of him. At least the woman had kept the whole tavern from finding out about their adventure yesterday.

Tia glanced at the woman, her sharp eyes bright and piercing. She gave her a small nod, half thanks and half apology.

With one last moment of hesitation, Tia pulled her notebook and pen out of her pocket. She flipped to a fresh page and wrote out the simplest words she could use, taking care to write the letters large and clear – even if it strained her hand anew. When she was done, she held it up to Ivor’s large face.

I am OK.

Thank you for your help.

But please do not tell others yet.

Ivor plopped down to the floor, his rear landing with a resounding thud as the room shook a little, decorations shaking on their wall hooks and mantle tops. He leaned in close to read her words, mouthing each word out as he tried to interpret the sentence. Understanding clicked in his brain and raced to his facial features as he looked at the priestess confused. “But why must Ivor keep such a glorious tale from the others?” He asked.

As she began to write out her response Ivor thought of the myriad of reasons why she’d want to and verbally listed them off as he thought. “Is it because of Lunarian guard that Ivor had punch in stomach? Or because Ivor almost died when the fish ate him and you had to do the healing? Or is it because of glowing rock that gave you a real spoo-”

From the opposite corner of the room, Kira’s gaze flicked to Ivor.

Tia’s eyes widened as she frantically wrote faster and shoved the notebook at him.

I will be in

Yes. All of it.

He read the words on her paper and frowned, “Even the fish? Because Ivor already gave fish to Syraea and Ivor told her about the hole he fell in to find the fish,” he mused thoughtfully, “but Ivor not tell her about glowing rock or guard or-”

A strangled sound escaped Tia.

He paused, seeing the distress on her face, “ohhhh, Ivor was doing thing again,” he covered his mouth.

Somewhere in the room that blight-born was prowling with her sharp eyes – and if Tia had to guess, sharper ears.

Closing her eyes, the Priestess tried to take in a breath and steady herself. When she opened them again, she gave him a pleading look. Then she wrote out another message.

The fish are OK.

Nothing else.

Do not talk about the rock or me please.

Ivor lowered his massive hand from his mouth, reading the words once again. He nodded, “Ivor not know why crystal cave is secret, but Ivor will not be saying another peep, he swears to you upon life and moon.” The last day felt like a whirlwind and whatever happened in that cave, whatever things the priestess had seen with the glowing rock, he now had to keep buried beneath those stones. However something bugged him, secrets usually meant trouble was afoot or that people were in danger should the secret be discovered. His eyes narrowed and he leaned in unusually close to the priestess – she leaned back on instinct. “Be honest with Ivor, are you in the danger?” His glowing eyes narrowed into slits, his gaze reminiscent of their first meeting when she first asked him to bring her there; silently he awaited her response.

Tia blinked at him, pinned by the intensity of his purple gaze. But then… she softened. He’d asked for honesty, and suddenly Tia wanted nothing more than to give it to him – Ivor, her new, terrifying, disarming friend. She saw the concern in his eyes, achingly human. His collapsed, bloody form flashed in her mind, on the damp floor of that cave.

Her smile was small and a little sad as she looked at him.

Words she didn’t know how to say piled up in her ruined throat. Finally, she pulled back her notebook and looked down at the words littering the page. Tia flexed her sore hand. Then she held the book back up to him, pointing at two sentences she’d already written.

I am OK.

Thank you for your help.

It felt too much like a lie. But Tia didn’t know how to begin to unravel the truth.

He looked at her intently at first, then at the words she was pointing to, then back to her face. There was a sorrow there that he wasn’t quite sure what to make of, but he had no reason to doubt her words thus far. His face and posture relaxed, reverting back to the jolly blightborn giant he was. “Very well, Ivor will not tell a soul of the adventure.” He nodded in affirmation, then his gaze hardened once again, “However, if you are ever in the danger because of it, call to Ivor and I will come.” He mused for a moment, “But Ivor may not be around to hear, so find Mr. Guard…but if he is not around…” his gaze turned towards Kira who had been silently watching them. He smiled at her, giving a sort of wink that came across as more of an intense blink before turning back towards the priestess, “Then call Miss Kira and she will come to your aid.” He nodded again, firmly volunteering her for an unasked duty.

To their left, glowing orange eyes lifted from the notebook in Tia’s hands to meet Ivor’s gaze. Kira stood leaning against the edge of a rounded table, arms crossed, her expression unreadable—neither warm nor cold—giving nothing away as her eyes slid back to the Priestess.

Tia’s eyes widened as she looked over at the woman – Kira – and her decidedly approachable demeanor. Flicking her gaze back and forth between the two of them, Tia gave an awkward smile and shook her head. She raised her hand to wave Ivor’s offer away for good measure, not wanting this woman to feel obligated for anything.

Ivor watched the priestess wave her hand and he shook his head in return. “Ivor know Miss Kira may seem a little…scary,” he looked back over to her sheepishly with an apologetic look. “Ivor trusts Miss Kira, like a sister, she will come if you call.” His eyes returned back to the priestess, “and Ivor know that the armored lady is strong, can keep you safe, but if she is not around and the danger is close…” Ivor gave a wide smile and placed a hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing, “Ivor insist.”

Tia couldn’t help but meet Ivor’s infectious warmth, her hesitation melting under his large palm. She hugged her notebook to her chest. A little huff escaped her, almost a laugh.

A faint, barely perceptible smile ghosted across Kira’s lips as she held her gaze on the Priestess. A predatory imitation of warmth she wore like a costume. “What’s your name?”

Tia’s hesitation came back as she found those eyes studying her again. But Ivor trusted her. And she’d only been considerate to Tia thus far.

“Tia.” Her name was soft and fragile when her rasping voice finally slipped out.

“Tia,” Kira echoed, letting the name linger in the air between them. She watched the Priestess carefully, noting the struggle behind her tone, briefly wondering what had caused it. Her eyes flicked back to Ivor—her trusting, self-declared “brother.”

“Any friend of Ivor’s is a friend of mine.”

The words felt like poison on her tongue.

Ivor lit up with excitement, “Jabool!” the giant blightborn laughed, unaware of any deception.

Tia stared back at her, held in place by that firelight gaze. Her nerves rose. She tried to push them back down. She offered Kira a smile, before she finally caved and pulled her gaze back to Ivor. Her smile came easier, pulled by his boundless enthusiasm. Her own hand lifted to rest on the back of his. But her dark eyes glanced back at Kira for a moment – like she was a prey animal who couldn’t afford to take her eyes off the nearest set of fangs. She tried to swallow, her ruined throat straining with the motion.

Guilt poured into Tia. She wasn’t being fair. Ivor had been frightening too – as both a man and a bear – but he was unfailingly kind. Tia wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him.

Forcing herself to look back at Kira more surely, she tried to count all the reasons to not distrust her: Ivor had vouched for her, she’d kept him from spilling Tia’s secrets when she’d been panicking, she’d let Tia and Ivor talk in peace, she’d even protected Sya yesterday from that nobleman who’d been accosting her…

This time, when Tia smiled at Kira, it was warm and friendly, if still a little small. Tia hoped Kira knew that she didn’t actually expect her to… what, jump to her defence? But any attempt to say that now would just lead to more Ivor noises, so Tia let it be. She gave Kira another nod before turning back to Ivor.

“Thank you again,” she said, stepping back. Tia immediately missed the warmth of his hand that’d spanned over the entirety of her shoulder – and then some.

Again Ivor laughed, his voice echoing in the small chamber. Realizing he was being too loud though, he turned to look at Kira, giving her an apologetic look. Turning back to Tia he addressed her, “Miss Pries… hm Miss Tia, yes,” he nodded as if to commit the name to his memory. His eyes bugged out as something suddenly clicked in his head, “Oh no, if I didn’t know that this was not to be spoken of, then surely the guard doesn’t either, quickly we must go and search for him!” He moved like he was starting to get up.

Kira’s eyes shifted silently between the two of them.
Tia briefly thought of the guard – tall, and freckled, and too close this morning as he’d promised to keep her secrets.

She tried to swallow again, attempting to force down the heat that rose in her like her pulse.

Blinking, she shook her head quickly.

“He knows,” she said, making a concerted effort to keep her voice steady.

“Oh…” Ivor already half way up plopped back down on his rear with another thud, “This is the good then, already the secret is safer.” The guard seemed a trustworthy man, he certainly proved his bravery when he dove in after Ivor or even when he punched Ivor when requested to do so. Tia trusted him which was another plus and although he briefly wondered where the glowing rock was now, he realized it probably wasn’t the best time to ask about it. “We all are in the agreements then, this stays here and the cave, nowhere else. Ivor think in fact, there was no crystal cave at all, fish came from lake,” his eyes wandered off to the side. It was a poor attempt at lying, his tone changed, he couldn’t look her in the eyes saying it, it probably sounded made up too. Hopefully though it showed his commitment to keeping her tale behind closed lips.

It earned him another silent laugh from Tia as she raised an amused eyebrow at him. But beneath her fondness for Ivor, there was a thin layer of worry.

“If I’m to help protect this…. information, I’d like to know who else is holding it.” Kira’s tone was even, almost casual. “Who’s ‘Mr. Guard’? Is there anyone else who knows about this… crystal cave?”

Tia stilled. After a moment she lifted her notebook again. But her pen hesitated before scrawling out a new message for Kira.

Silent as a shadow, the redhead pushed off the table and crossed the room to stand beside Ivor—close enough now to read Tia’s handwriting in the dim lighting. Close enough to note the blonde’s heart rate, beating slightly faster than average. Kira said nothing, only watched, gaze steady.

He was with Ivor and I yesterday. I trust him. No one else knows.

Except the entire tavern, Kira thought, her attention flicking to the giant on the floor beside her.

Ivor nodded, “Ivor not know what his name is,” he looked to Tia who also appeared to not know, “but any man who can be told to punch Ivor in belly and do it, without fear, has Ivor’s respect.” He stroked his beard in thought, “However maybe one of guards at the prison would know, they were with Mr. Guard when he punched Ivor in stomach,” the giant laughed, “there was one man, who, his face, he cannot believe it.” Ivor mimicked the guard’s face, mocking shocked disbelief with wide eyes and a big gaping mouth.

There was a sinking feeling in Tia’s stomach as she remembered the scene they’d all made outside of the prison. They really hadn’t been discrete. If someone — like, say, the Prince — started asking questions about where she’d been yesterday, the three of them had made quite the memorable party to any onlookers. Ivor and the guard would face consequences because of her. Tia bit her lip and frowned as she busied herself in her notebook again.

I can check. I’ll visit there next.

Actually, it was probably for the best if she didn’t know the guard’s name. At least then she wouldn’t need to lie about who’d been with her. But Tia needed to go check on Gadez in prison — this was as good an excuse as any.

Ivor stood up and stretched, his hands easily touching the low ceiling, “Ivor will come with you Miss Tia, need to stretch legs after being cramped in tiny chairs. Sya will not be happy if Ivor breaks more chairs…” he looked at Tia after stretching, “besides, there is the DANGER lurking around the corners.”

But Tia shook her head, glancing between Ivor and Kira. She flexed her sore hand before writing.

The town is safe.

…If you didn’t count the murders that had apparently happened yesterday. But Tia didn’t know how to explain to Ivor that the danger she was afraid of wasn’t something he could punch, or… tear at with his bear claws. The gemstone’s vision flashed in her mind again — an obsidian colossus and towering spires.

Kira raised a brow, her eyes lingering on the page before lifting to Tia’s face, searching—calculating. What was she trying to keep Ivor away from? Or was she truly that naive, thinking the town was safe? She’d shut herself in a room with two individuals who could easily snap her in half—and she thought she was safe. Kira knew the Aurelians had a talent for delusion, but this seemed unusually dense. Still, she held her tongue.

I think I should go alone. A lot of people saw us together yesterday and I don’t want you to get into any trouble because of me.

Ivor frowned, but she seemed determined to go on her own anyway and all he could do for now was acquiesce her request. “If you are sure, then Ivor will go elsewhere, still much work to be done after all!”

Tia gave him as reassuring a smile as she could manage and nodded. She looked between the two blight-born again — Ivor, enormous and exuberant, and Kira, quiet and intense. She tried to keep her smile from slipping under the other woman’s scrutiny.

One final note.

Be safe, and thank you for not telling anyone yet.

It was nice to meet you Miss Kira.

She bowed slightly to both of them, offering a friendly smile. With that, Tia lowered her notebook and turned towards the door. She tried to ignore the way the hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she put her back to the two blight-born. Her scar seemed to burn along her neck with each step she took, nerves building in her chest like a warning. But Ivor and Kira had been kind — they were friends.

And there were things in this world more dangerous than fangs and claws.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Collab between @The Muse and @c3p-0h
_{Location: Seluna Temple}

Part V

---

Amaya’s chest was tight and painful as she looked at the table — the bodies. The black of the cloth was too deep, too endless, as it molded itself over the corpses to form the hills and valleys of a haunted landscape. She thought perhaps she smelled iron in the air — it made her sick. She thought she could feel it, thick and cloying as it clung to her skin and filled her lungs like smoke.

She couldn’t breathe, lest the foul taste of blood flood her senses. She couldn’t move, or she’d shatter. She couldn’t look away. She —

She could still feel eyes on her skin.

Amaya forced herself to take a long, slow breath. The only scents in the air were the oils and incense of the temple — and Flynn. His hand was firm around hers. Her fingers twitched, like she’d meant to curl more tightly around him but couldn’t remember how. He shifted closer to her, nearly covering her with his warmth and shadow.

Another breath, heavy with scents that were as familiar as they were foreign. Hers and not hers.

The bodies were still and silent atop the table. Amaya tried to swallow.

She was suddenly at a loss. What was she meant to do? She’d requested they come to the temple to pay their respects, but – what could she possibly offer the two empty corpses on the table that would be worth giving? Amaya felt just as shredded, just as hollow – but even that made her want to curl in on herself.

She wasn’t just as shredded, was she? She was still alive.

Her hand tightened around Flynn’s briefly. Then Amaya loosened her grip to slip away. He didn’t let go at first, stubbornly holding on. But eventually, she felt him uncurling himself from around her, reluctance leaking through every shift of his muscles. Amaya stepped forward – slowly, carefully, not so far that he couldn’t cross the distance with one of his longer strides, couldn’t reach her with his faster hands.

At the edge of the table, Amaya stood over the covered corpses. She felt lightheaded, with how little air she could manage with each breath. But she wasn’t shaking. Her hand was too cold now, but there was no ice on her fingertips, even if she felt painfully numb. The weight of those eyes held her steady. They kept her mask in place, even as her magic lashed and hissed under her skin like a cornered animal in a too-small cage. Flynn’s burning presence pressed against her, as he became yet another observer.

Watching for a fracture in her control when he was the one who ruined her most successfully.

Looking down at the table, she could trace the outlines of their bodies – and where they were wrong. One was shorter than the other, slimmer without the added bulk of Lunarian armor – the civilian. The arching curve of the head was too smooth. Too flat. Unrecognizable, Flynn had said. Another wave of nausea surged through her. Amaya stared at their covered form, like she might know them – who they’d been, before her foolishness had triggered yesterday’s bloodshed. Someone had known them. Someone would know this loss like a blade to their heart. Guilt and grief made her blood too thick in her veins as she looked down at the body.

Amaya shifted her gaze. The cloth dipped too steeply beneath the head of the taller one. The neck was too long. The black of the cloth was too vivid around the lower half of the head, the borders of a stain barely visible.

Sir Abel.

His name was a lead weight landing heavy in her chest, against her heart. She… well she hadn’t known him either, had she? Not really. Not before he’d…

His image flashed in her mind. Not as she’d seen him all her life, a quiet specter haunting her as she’d moved through the palace. No, this was Abel as she’d last seen him – visceral and alive and dying. Bloody and in pieces.

Her breath caught in her throat, a soft gasp barely audible.

He’d never said more than ten words to her, her entire life. They’d never been people to each other, just balanced extensions of her father’s will – the Mistake, and one of the many bars along her cell. Amaya had looked at him and seen her father, a silent sentry whose defining trait had always been obedience and –

And Amaya realized she hated him for it.

How dare he protect her now and leave her with this grief, when Amaya had always known him as a blade in her father’s hand?

How dare he die for her?

Her magic grew frantic beneath her skin, the furious chaos of it fighting against her control until –

A tear slipped down her cheek. It was slow as it burned a path across her skin, a cruel, ruthless march.

The next breath she pulled in was hollow – she was trembling, suddenly so filled with anger she could barely stand it, as she looked down at the body of the fallen soldier that she’d never even realized she had a relationship with. Wary looks and stiff silences, fear as she watched him raise the pointed end of his spear, glinting with blood –

He wasn’t a mindless weapon. He was a man. And he’d allowed her suffering for years, until he’d followed her down that snowy path and protected her with his life.

Amaya was glad he was dead. No –

She wished he’d never come to Dawnhaven at all – had never answered her veiled cry for help and followed her to his doom.

She wished…

Another traitorous tear cut down her cheek.

She wished she knew why.

She wished he’d ever spoken to her, more than just terse orders or silent warnings. If she’d spoken to him, if she’d had the courage to try, would he have –

Amaya squeezed her eyes shut, another wall summoned to seal herself away. And for just a moment, none of it existed – no eyes to see her, no bloodstained cloth, no bodies of men she’d never known. When she opened them again, the world was still too real as it came back into focus. Her eyes were still too wet.

Her hands barely shook as they rose in front of her — but even that felt like a failure. Amaya clenched her jaw, trying to steady her breathing – but it rattled in her chest. She could feel the tremors echoing through her body like cracking stone. Her right hand extended over the civilian’s body, the fingers of her left hand pressed lightly below her wrist, against the fabric of her sleeve. Her right fingers curled together, thumb held against the tips of her nails, and Amaya reached for her magic. It was still restless, still too vast and wild beneath her skin, but it didn’t fight her as she gathered the faintest traces — captured sea spray above a tumbling wave. Another tear slipped out.

Steadying herself as best she could, Amaya flicked the fingers of her right hand out three times, moving in a loose circle over the body. With each flick, water droplets sprayed from her fingers, beading and sinking into the cloth that covered the body. Her lips moved in a voiceless prayer in time with the motion. It wasn’t a common practice in Lunaris – it would’ve earned her too much scrutiny, too much of her father’s disdain if any had seen her perform this ritual in the capital.

Her mother had taught it to her. It was a practice from Shivanta, the storm-tossed island that she’d been plucked from. And it was one of the last things Amaya had of her, now.

The realization struck Amaya like a blade. Another breath, too loud, too audible, rattled through her.

Her mother.

Her mother who’d been dead for two months and Amaya hadn’t even known.

Fresh grief rocked through her, powerful and crushing, threatening to drown her. Her hands moved over Sir Abel’s body as her vision blurred.

Amaya didn’t know how her mother died. Or what state her body was in. Or if she’d had a funeral. Or if she’d been given to the sea already. And Amaya… she’d never know, would she? He couldn’t even give her that.

Amaya would never see her mother again, would never help prepare her body, would never say goodbye as she floated back into the sea, back towards her home –

What rituals had they performed for her? Had there been any trace of her in them, any honor given to her practices instead of the King’s? Had –

“Even in the shadow of grief, may Seluna’s light bring you peace.”

Amaya froze.

She was silent. It was improper. She was supposed to respond, to provide some practiced answer to what’d been offered like a customary greeting. But any words she might’ve found were buried beneath a layer of ice in her chest.

Flynn’s gaze had already found the Priestess. He’d heard her footsteps the moment she stepped away from the moonpool.

“You are not alone in this loss. Though I did not know them, I grieve with you. And I will see that they are returned to the stars above, myself.”

He looked back toward Amaya, noting the rigidness of her shoulders as she stared straight at the bodies, unmoving. Flynn lowered his gaze to them too, listening to the Priestess.

One soldier. One unknown. Nameless, for now. His heart ached for the two—for the life that had been ripped from them and their families. If they had been Aurelian, he might have knelt. Lit incense. Whispered prayer into smoke and ash. But this wasn’t an Aurelian temple. And he realized, standing in its silence, that he knew too little of Seluna’s sacred rites to offer even a clumsy attempt without causing offense.

He felt awkward, out of place and useless as tears had slid down Amaya’s cheeks. He felt—

“While I would not ever ask his highness to leave, if your soldiers are not here to pay their respects, I would request that they step out so as to not disturb the others.”

Agitated. He felt agitated.

Flynn’s gaze lifted back to the Priestess. His expression didn’t shift as he held her gaze. Calm. Steady. His green eyes searched her brown ones, quietly assessing the request.

Slowly, his attention slid to his soldiers after a moment—silent, still, standing respectfully on the far left side of the table, opposite Amaya. Their eyes were fixed on the Priestess, expressionless.

The only disturbance was, apparently, their presence.

“Everyone here is paying their respects,” he said plainly, keeping his voice low in the quiet of the temple. “Each of us mourn those who lost their lives yesterday.” There was no anger in his tone, but it held weight. Unmistakably firm in his conviction.

“My Prince, Princess this is our Temple, it is a safe, calm and holy place. Please respect that. There is little peace left as it is to harm this small shelter against the storms.”

Behind him, Amaya slowly brought her hands back to her chest, eyes never straying from the table. She kept her back to the women, unmoving.

Our temple.

The phrase stuck in Flynn’s mind. Small, but deliberately divisive.

A line drawn where there should be none. Amaya saw the line as clearly as he did – and was stunned to find herself next to him, placed on the outside by her own people.

Amaya felt like a foreigner in a place that she’d expected to be hers. Or worse – like they’d ripped away something personal that she hadn’t even realized was a part of her. The cold, the quiet, the dark, the familiar scents and colors that had defined her life – with a few short sentences, the two women denied them. They cast Amaya out, severed her from anything she might’ve had claim to, simply by failing to consider it.

There was something aching and hollow inside her, a sudden vacuum of stolen breath and cold isolation. She was small. She was alone.

She wasn’t the Crown Princess of Lunaris – their Princess, practicing their faith, honoring their countrymen. Their small party hadn’t visited the temple at Amaya’s request, honored her right to be there with her husband and her guards. She was simply the wife of an Aurelian Prince. Even to her own people, Flynn’s title meant more than hers did.

Flynn’s gaze drifted past the Priestess, settling on the Lunarian royal guard he’d clocked earlier. Her cloak had slipped from her shoulders and now pooled along the bench, exposing a blade that rested at her hip. There was a glare in her eyes, a tightness in her jaw, aggression in the way she postured herself.

A flicker of anger sparked within him. Quiet and controlled. But kindling, slowly warming behind his ribs.

“Would you like to wait by the Doors… if you must be here. We just want our peace, same as everyone else.”

The guards she spoke to said nothing. Their eyes slid to the Prince.

Flynn’s expression remained in place. Neutral. Carefully measured. But he stared at Persephone, unflinching from the fire in her eyes. He let her words sit open in the air between them, letting the silence stretch.

One breath…
Two…
Three…

Then, calmly, “Do we have a problem?”

The water coating the tips of Amaya’s fingers, the tear tracks painting thin lines down her face, began to freeze.

Flynn’s voice remained composed. A blade sheathed, but no less deadly. His gaze stayed fixed on the older woman. “A soldier died. Our guards mourn that loss, too.”

His gaze flicked back to the Priestess—assessing her once again, noting how she had to tilt her chin to meet his eyes from nearly a foot below, yet stared back firmly.

“Are Aurelians not welcome here? Is this not meant to be a shared space for all Dawnhaven’s citizens?”

The cold stung as it pierced Amaya’s skin. She heard Flynn planting himself, stubborn and firm – and always, always thinking he could fight his way through any obstacle. She heard the kindling scatter around his feet. Those words buried in her hollow chest grew agitated like snowflakes in a building storm, frantic with the need to escape. But the wall of ice that covered them was thick and frigid in response. It sealed away her lungs, and crawled up her throat.

Flynn’s rhetorical question lingered in his eyes. Every building in Dawnhaven, he had funded. Every citizen, he had welcomed—regardless of heritage. Just as Lunarians had been invited into the Temple of Aelios, so too were Aurelians to be welcomed here. By his decree.

So he stared at the Priestess, pondering what sort of temple was she attempting to run in a town ruled by Amaya and himself—a town built on unity, on the merging of two nations.

It seemed the Commanders weren’t the only ones resisting change.

Flynn knew well that the history between the Aurelians and Lunarians was long and bloodied. That merging would be a difficult, if not impossible, path. But he found himself wondering what these two women were really doing here. What intentions lay hidden beneath their exteriors. If they did not wish to unify, why had they come at all? He had certainly not requested their presence, and he doubted Amaya had ever had a say in any of it.

It was clear, in the way they carried themselves, that they had no interest in letting Aurelians exist within spaces they still perceived as “theirs.” Their posture betrayed them.

They had no desire to share this place.

How ironic that it was they who asked for quiet. They who asked for peace.

Flynn, Amaya, and their guards had entered in silence. Had disturbed no one. Had come to mourn and then to leave. And yet here sat a Lunarian guard, hand near her sword, glaring at them as if they had stormed in with demands and drawn blades.

Command, Flynn. Even those you do not trust.

Orion’s advice echoed at the back of his mind. He didn’t trust these two—especially not the Lunarian royal guard. But if Dawnhaven was going to survive, unity had to come first. He couldn’t afford to fall into emotional traps laid out by Lunarians eager to deepen the divide. Amaya had insinuated as much, too.

He had to be calculated. Controlled.
Reasonable.

“The guards mean no disrespect,” he said calmly, unwavering from the Priestess’ eyes. “They are here for protection. And will remain with us, as they are sworn to protect their Princess.”

He did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“I’m sure you can understand.”

Considering Amaya had nearly died yesterday.
Considering two cold bodies lay inches away.
Considering at least one of those had given their life for her.

Considering the Priestess had a duty to Amaya, too.

Amaya suppressed a flinch as he yet again made her into too much of a person, gave her form too much weight – made her into a hinderance to be dealt with in the face of their ire, as if she could weather it as well as he did. As if he could, indefinitely.

She was still looking down at the table – at the two people who’d died because someone with actual power found her choices – her words – unacceptable. Warring fears and insecurities twisted inside of her like a blizzard. She was frozen in place, unable to move and make herself real – even as her frantic worries demanded action.

She needed to stop Flynn, to cut him off before he laid any more blame at her feet – but more than that, she needed to stop him from making enemies. Amaya could hear the flint striking, sparks glinting like stars as his unyielding tone – calm, but too solid, too direct – turned him into an obstacle to be removed.

But of course, they already saw him as one – just as they saw Amaya as an inconsequential doll.

An old resentment flickered to life, lashed at the edges of Amaya’s skin. Indignant anger mixed with her fear. It thickened the storm inside her, made the snowflakes harsh and dangerous like hail. The words she couldn’t reach still, buried as they were, turned sharp.

It was as if she hadn’t chosen to come here, led them to the bodies, hadn’t stood before the temple and opened the door with her own hands for them –

She wasn’t Flynn’s partner, she was his ward.

Even here in the Temple of Seluna, the two Lunarian women took it for granted that Flynn’s authority was the only one that mattered – that he had intruded and forced his guards through the door. They barely acknowledged Amaya’s presence, only offering trite, empty words about shared grief while taking offense that she was being closely guarded after she’d been targeted by an attack not twenty-four hours ago – as if the evidence wasn’t here before them, draped in cloth barely dark enough to hide the bloodstains.

If it had been Amaya’s mother in her place, entering a Moon Temple with a foreign husband and guards in incorrect armor, would anyone question her right to do so? Would they reprimand her like a child, and place the weight of the decision with one they considered an outsider?

Lunaris had embraced Queen Anjali, despite her heritage – who would have dared question her presence in her place of worship, or who she chose to bring with her? Who would say they were unwelcome, when she had welcomed them inside herself? Who would have looked at her guards and think that they did not move with her authority, no matter what emblem they wore?

But of course… Amaya wasn’t her mother, was she?

“We came with no ill intent. No weapons drawn. No acts of aggression.” Flynn’s gaze slid to Persephone, pausing—not on her face—but on the sword. He returned to Katherine. “We came in peace. And we will leave the same way—when the Princess is ready.”

Ice crept steadily over Amaya’s fingers, freezing the delicate joints of her knuckles in a painful grip. Her breath escaped her in a small, flowing wisp.

Amaya finally lifted her gaze away from the two Lunarian bodies on the table. The guards stood opposite her, stern-faced and silent. One of them looked past her, clearly watching the two women over her shoulder. But the other – he was looking directly at her.

He was young, perhaps in his thirties, with chestnut hair and deep brown eyes. A thin scar, long healed, cut across his cheek, a pale line marring his tan skin – shockingly warm, against the blue and silver hues of the temple. His eyebrows pulled together as he took in the sight of her, tracing the painful lines of ice on her face. His lips pressed together in worry. He met her eyes – looked at her, and the building storm she represented. Amaya remembered how he’d looked outside as she’d begun to unravel, tense and on guard like she was a problem he might have to contain. But now…

Amaya realized it wasn’t just caution that held him still. His eyes flicked to the back of Flynn’s head before returning to her, a silent question in his gaze. It pierced her, lodging somewhere hidden in her heart. He shouldn’t have known to ask. He shouldn’t have seen her, shouldn’t have given her any more thought than a bar on a cell gave to the one it contained.

But… why not?

He wasn’t a mindless weapon. He was a man. And he was worried for her.

Another tear slipped out of her as she held his gaze, clinging to the trail of ice as Amaya trembled from the cold. She tried to memorize the way his expression shifted as his eyes followed the tear down her cheek.

This man had a right to be in Amaya’s place of worship because she deemed it so. He was not just an Aurelian – he was a guard to the Princess of Lunaris.

The truth of it sank into Amaya like a stone dropped in a pond, rippling through her. She looked back down to the table – the shrouded Lunarian bodies that she’d come to honor. Taking a slow, shaking breath, Amaya lifted her frozen hands again and with a subtle motion, turned her frozen tears to water again and pulled them from her skin. Only the guard saw the way her expression tensed at the pain of it.

Her tears beaded lightly atop the cloth that covered Sir Abel as she finished her Shivanti ritual. Then she lowered her hands, hiding her frosted fingers in the folds of her dress. Those words she kept hidden in her chest, dangerous and terrifying, fought for release.

One last look shared with the guard – and Amaya turned away, towards Flynn and the two women who’d come to chase away those who Amaya had brought with her. Stepping closer to Flynn again, her hand raised slightly to touch against his sleeve at his wrist – careful and light, that she might hide any traces of ice from them all.

“My apologies, Priestess,” she said as she moved. Her voice was terribly soft, barely stretching across the distance to reach the women who stood so close in the vastness of the temple – every word still felt too cold, too raw as it came out of her. Too revealing.

Even as she moved, Amaya couldn’t help but feel their eyes on her as she willingly made herself tangible to them. Her movement was smooth and controlled, but ice fought to find the edge of her barriers. She knew Flynn was wrong – the resentment of others did matter. A title only had power if others deigned to grant it. Amaya could still feel Volkov’s cold, assessing glare, the unspoken threat of his shadow covering the wall.

But… there’d been more than that, hadn’t there? There’d been amusement in his eyes when she spoke. Annoyance. Consideration. It had been so disorienting for Amaya in the moment, but now she realized – Volkov had looked at her as if he thought she might have something to say. And a Lunarian to his stubborn, frigid core, he’d given her more consideration than he’d given to Flynn.

Flynn, who’d assert himself and stand his ground and fight, until all those burdens on his back finally crushed him.

The cold, the quiet, the dark, the familiar scents and colors that had defined her life – Amaya tried to wrap herself in them, to ground herself in what was hers as she fought to find the courage to risk the displeasure of the two women. But Flynn was beside her – warm, and stalwart, and hers, as well.

She finally brought her gaze up – and stilled.

Amaya recognized both women, she realized. She’d never exchanged a single word with either of them. The older one, lightly armored, sword in reach, was a noblewoman that Amaya had sometimes seen at court, the few times she’d been permitted to attend. A soldier. Amaya’s walls thickened immediately, the urge to step back, to slip behind Flynn, suddenly powerful. But the soldier wasn’t the one who nearly stole the air from Amaya’s lungs.

Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Delicate features held in a careful mask, her body controlled and still. And all of it, wrapped in the black and silver robes of a High Priestess of Seluna.

Her image flickered in Amaya’s mind – younger, a teenager, in finery that marked her as the daughter of a powerful man. But that careful expression was the same. That stillness.

Amaya hadn’t seen her in… a decade, she realized. She’d never even known her name. But Amaya remembered her – a few years older than her, standing across the room, her stern-faced father looming over her like a haunting specter. Amaya was allowed at court so infrequently, and even then, she’d only seen this other palace daughter a few times over the years. But she’d stood out amongst the practiced, performance crowd of the court. How her expression never shifted. How her eyes seemed to drift over her surroundings, never bothering to focus on anything in particular. How, whenever her father touched her, she didn’t move at all – as if he simply didn’t exist, and could draw no reaction from her.

But somehow, whenever Amaya’s mask, still young and imperfect, slipped in court – a tensing of her shoulders, a flash of her eyes, a flinch in her expression, a tight clasping of her hands – she’d feel eyes on her. Amaya would look across the room to find this older girl, nearly hidden in a sea of bodies, staring at her. Relaxed. Unmoving. Unconcerned. But her eyes, usually so flat and disinterested, would be piercing.

And bit by bit, Amaya would slip her mask more carefully into place. She’d force her shoulders to relax. Her face would grow calm and unbothered. Her chin would remain high and regal.

Only then, would the girl look away.

Amaya didn’t know when she’d stopped attending court, but one day she realized that the older girl simply… wasn’t there, anymore. Her father still attended, a man kept so distant from Amaya that she didn’t even know his title. He’d never said a word in court, but he’d attended all the same. Kept close but held with careful distance from the Crown in public. That alone made Amaya wary.

And now… here was his daughter, wrapped in the robes of Seluna, sword at her hip as she asked Amaya’s guards to leave.

So, this was the new blade in her father’s hand. This was who they’d found to kill her.

Amaya was surprised at how much it hurt. She’d never spoken to this girl – this woman, now. She’d never had a relationship with her, not really. So why did it feel like she’d already slid blade between Amaya’s ribs?

But under that piercing brown gaze again, careful training took over – a calm face. A relaxed, regal posture. Her tense, cold fingers hidden from sight in the space between her body and Flynn’s.

“I didn’t anticipate how sunlight might distract from the Moon’s radiance, even in Her own temple – to Her own people.” Amaya’s voice was soft and gentle, only loud enough to cross the space between them – but her heart pounded at the pointed edges she’d dared to hide in her words, meanings layered over each other. Her fingers, stiff with ice, gripped tighter at the corner of Flynn’s sleeve, like he might anchor her.

“I should’ve better considered the armor that my guards wear.” A concession, even as she claimed the guards as her own. Amaya should’ve put more thought into how they would be received. She’d spent her life considering optics and implications, and she’d been careless to not anticipate how their party might look, shining golden emblems and a foreign Prince entering a space that hadn’t been meant for them – even if they were with her.

It was painful, but Amaya was too smart to not know the truth of her situation: she wasn’t real to Lunarians. Which meant Flynn was the only presence they recognized, in all his Aurelian glory, for better or ill – and they would be all too happy to make an old enemy of him.

He’d stubbornly let them, too rigid in his ideals to learn how to bend.

“But as my husband says,” another claim, another disagreeable reality that made Amaya too solid and put her at risk, ice crawling up her hand like fear, “we are simply here to mourn.” She paused, glancing over her shoulder. Her water droplets glistened in the moonlight atop the black cloth. “They deserve what respect we can give,” she murmured. Her gaze flicked up, back to her guard. She watched the thoughts flicker behind his eyes, even as he held himself still.

An idea came to her then. Amaya second-guessed herself, fear making her hesitate — the evidence of her failures lay still on the table before her. But she needed to give them all a reason to not see each other as adversaries – so they wouldn’t take a torch to Flynn at the first opportunity. She turned back to the Priestess and her sharp eyes.

“It’s true though, that I have brought newcomers into Seluna’s temple. I’m afraid they are as of yet, still ignorant of our practices.” Our. Amaya was as Lunarian as they were, no matter who her husband was. “But… if you have a moment, I wonder if you might aid them – help them learn the ways we respect our dead.”

Amaya, face calm as her heart pounded and her hands chilled, watched the Priestess. For a moment she saw a younger face – waiting for Amaya to pull herself together.

“Who better to teach them?”

---

_{Interactions: Kat @SpicyMeatball, Persephone @PrinceAlexus}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

---

_{Location: The Eye of the Beholder}

---

---

Tia rubbed her hands together and tried to breathe a warm puff of air into her palms as she made her way down the path. Her mind spun – so much to do, so many responsibilities, so many to answer to…

The gentle crunch of snow under her feet was a welcome distraction. The novelty of it hadn’t quite worn off, that satisfying press and shift of powder giving way to her weight. Hands still clasped in front of her mouth, she set her dark gaze up – to the winter landscape that still seemed like a dream. The contrast of the dark chill of the Lunarian landscape, the soft orange glow of torches and windows filling the air with a warm, dreamy haze, the snow – it was snowing. Tia smiled as she watched the snowflakes fall, staring in wonder. Her breath billowed out from the cracks between her hands and her smile grew.

Her steps had a little extra bounce in them as she listened to that crunch, crunch, crunch. There was something almost giddy about how the cold seeped into her skin, brisk and biting. The way it numbed her ears, and the tip of her nose, and her skinny fingers, urging her forward towards the promise of warmth – like it was a race, and it wanted her to win. She thought of throwing herself into a nearby snowbank, a soft, smooth hill of glittering white. She refrained, of course – but maybe she could convince the twins to play with her behind the temple when they were all off-duty.

Tia’s growing smile faltered as she saw two figures on the path – one of them holding a basket.

The woman from the spring was speaking with someone else. It was another woman, beautiful and bright, with hair like a sunrise, a scarf of her own, and –

A dog.

But Tia was a professional. She did not coo and hurry over to the big and bouncy dog with its warm fur and wagging tail – no, she remained composed and decorus as she neared, not allowing her steps to stray on the path. Lowering her hands from her face, Tia clasped them together in front of her, hiding them in her long sleeves. Her fingers gripped nervously at each other as she approached.

Part of her (the part that wasn’t fantasizing about the dog’s fluffy fur) wanted to veer off-course and throw herself into an alley, if only to avoid an awkward encounter with the woman from the spring. Tia’s face warmed as she remembered how she’d all but fled from the springs, leaving the woman alone with the unnerving naked man. She seemed well… and the man was nowhere to be found. And she was smiling as she spoke with the red-haired woman – at least she was still in good spirits.

And she still had the basket of Ranni’s cookies in her hand. Briefly, Tia considered asking for it back – and promptly shot that idea down. No, it was her own carelessness that had led to the loss of Ranni’s cookies. And it was no great loss – there were more at the temple, they could get a new basket, and the woman had seemed to enjoy the taste well enough. As long as the cookies were eaten and appreciated, Ranni would be pleased with any outcome.

Tia’s heart beat just a bit harder as she neared the two women on the path, nervous about the encounter after the ordeal at the springs. But – a pass, a look, a small smile and nod, as collected and gentle as was expected of her as a High Priestess. She didn’t even stretch her hand out for the dog to sniff as she walked by the little party.

Tia released a heavy breath, a cloud billowing out of her mouth as her expression dropped. But she didn’t let herself linger in that relief – not when the raucous sounds of the inn grew louder with each step. Tia looked up at the building dominating the heart of Dawnhaven. Warmth and noise practically leaked out of it, shadows flickering in the windows hinting at the bustle inside.

She’d never been to the inn before, but it seemed as good a place as any to begin her search for Ivor. She didn’t know where he lived, but he was hard to miss. If he wasn’t here, surely someone knew where he might be. Tia rubbed her cold hands together as she approached the door.

When she pulled it open, fingers flinching against the cold metal of the handle, she found herself overwhelmed – the heat and press of bodies, so many voices cluttering the air that it was like a discordant orchestra, frenetic movement and life... it was a far cry from the quiet peace of the temple. It was more people than she’d seen in a single location since leaving the capital – and more blight-born than she’d ever seen in her life.

A familiar fear solidified in her heart, the scarf around her neck suddenly too heavy, too sticky against her skin. Tia found herself rooted in place, standing in the open doorway as it all flooded her senses. She blinked with wide eyes, looking every which way and unable to find something to focus on – not when something else flickered to catch her attention with every heartbeat. But then, she found a hulking body curled over a table that looked tiny in comparison – Ivor.

“Ey! Close the door, you’re lettin’ in the cold!”

Tia jumped, catching the eye of an annoyed man. With an apologetic bow, she hurried inside and pushed the door closed behind her. She took a moment to dust off the snow coating her hair and shoulders. Then when Tia turned around, she found Ivor once more. His back was to her, but there was no mistaking him – she let out a sigh of relief that she’d actually found him so quickly. She was almost never that lucky.

There was someone else seated across from him, with fiery hair, piercing eyes, and a flat expression – the blight-born woman from the temple yesterday. Her presence made Tia hesitate. She remembered the intense heat of her gaze, the sharp points of her teeth that she’d flashed at the nobleman when he’d accosted Sya. The memory sat heavy in her mind – another example of Tia’s failure to keep peace at the springs.

Hesitating at the door, Tia bit her lip. The woman had been intimidating to say the least, and Tia didn’t want to interrupt if she was speaking with Ivor. But the weight of Tia’s secrets pressed on her – made all the heavier by the fact that she’d failed to tell Ivor that they were secrets at all.

If the woman was a friend to Ivor, then she couldn’t have been so intimidating, right?

Well… maybe not to him.

A hand absently strayed to her scarf, tugging the fabric more securely around her neck. Another breath. A little straightening of her spine.

A last moment of hesitation.

Then Tia pushed forward, navigating to the pair of blight-born. She nearly stumbled when the crowd spat her out at their table. Leaning to poke her head around Ivor’s arm, she met the woman’s eye and gave her a small, nervous smile and bow – an apology for the interruption. Then she turned her head to look up at Ivor. This smile came a little easier as she waved hello to him.

She didn’t say anything. She doubted she’d be audible anyway, over the crowing of a man with four arms dancing on a table. Somehow this establishment made perfect sense when she thought of Sya.

---

_{Interactions: Thalia Evercrest @Qia, Ivor @Beard Dad, Kira Rykker, Nyla Zafira @The Muse}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Collab between @c3p-0h and @The Muse
Location: The Aurelian Commander’s Quarters}

---

“Oi – Azkona!”

The door to the Commanders’ (soon to be combined) quarters swung open.

Elio’s frame filled the entryway just long enough to block out the guard’s very expressive face. Then the door slammed shut behind him with a definitive thud.

“Evening, gentlemen.” It was noon. Elio looked between the two Commanders, clearly caught in the middle of something. Quick, assessing eyes flicked over them. He gave a breezy smile. “We have business.”

“Fucking hell,” Barrett muttered, letting out a heavy sigh. He dragged a hand down his face as he leaned back in a creaking chair beside the table. Legs spread, boots planted wide on either side, not bothering to hide his irritation. “We’re busy. Get out.”

Facing the hearth with his arms crossed, Volkov turned just enough to glance over his shoulder. Blue eyes narrowing, he said nothing, assessing the stonemason with quiet scrutiny.

“That an order?” Elio crossed his arms, leaning back against the door. He kept his eyes trained on Barrett – let Volkov ogle. Giving the Aurelian his most irritating smile, Elio went on, “Afraid I’m no good with those.”

Barrett scoffed, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. He knew damn well the stonemasons aversion to authority. Elio’s eyes flashed, smile growing.

Volkov turned to face them fully—no amusement to be found. “What do you want, mason?”

Elio’s gaze cut to the old man. His eyes hardened, the curve of his lips growing a little sharper.

“What you want,” he replied flatly. He turned his attention back to Barrett, some lightness returning to his voice. “Peace and order in the streets of Dawnhaven, and all the troublemakers in a cell.” His amber eyes narrowed as he looked between the two commanders. “After the cell’s been built.”

Barrett leaned his head back, brown eyes drifting to the ceiling. He’d been expecting this.

Volkov raised a brow, casting a glance toward Barrett—who had warned him this was coming—before turning his gaze back to the dark-haired man who stood too comfortably in Barrett’s (soon to be their) quarters. Arrogant. Haughty. Taking up more space than he should.

“The cell is built,” Volkov said plainly. Barrett shifted in his chair, turning his narrowed eyes back on Elio. Waiting.

The mason blinked at him, feigning surprise.

“Oh, did we just need the one?” Elio tilted his head, nodding. “My mistake then. I won’t worry about the unfinished roof, or the rest of the inoperable cells. I guess since you managed to lock up the most incapable treasonist on the continent, you don’t have to worry about anyone else.” He paused then and looked up to a ceiling in thought.

“Though… didn’t someone get close to proper regicide recently?” His amber eyes were sharp as they fell on Volkov again.

Volkov’s gaze sharpened, his patience already worn thin for the day. “Perhaps if you worked faster,” he said coldly, eyes locked on Elio, “instead of spending hours over the perfect placement of a single stone.”

Something sparked in Elio’s blood.

Barrett sighed heavily again, not in the mood to trade barbs. “Do you have a better suggestion then, Azkona?”

“That’s not my job,” he said, voice low. But his eyes were still on Volkov. “He’s in my way. I don’t care if you kill him, set him loose, throw him down a well. I just place the stones. Perfectly.” Elio pushed himself up from the door in a slow, smooth motion. His arms unfolded, hanging loose at his sides.

“I could go faster, it’s true. But then I might make a stupid mistake — like debriefing sensitive information with some random blighter that just blew in, and a soldier who’s clearly cracked in the head.”

Volkov’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile as his eyes narrowed further. There was a flash of something violent behind his gaze—rage barely contained—but he held his silence, jaw tightening.

Barrett’s eyes flicked to Volkov, a question darkening his expression. “What sensitive information?”

“I’ve killed men for less than that tone.” Volkov ignored the Aurelian Commander, his eyes fixed on Elio. “So unless you’re volunteering for the next cell, mason, I suggest you leave. There are plenty of stonemasons we can hire instead.”

“And I’m sure once you manage to get a message to the capital and the snow clears enough for someone to make it here, they’ll do a wonderful job.” Elio took a step forward, his smile just as wicked as Volkov’s. “Reckon I got at least four more months of running my mouth.”

“Enough, Barrett snapped, rising to his feet the moment Elio stepped closer. Not in fear, but with the tension of someone who knew when the room was a second away from becoming a battlefield.

“Azkona, the prisoner stays until the Prince decides what to do with him. Work around him or don’t.” He held Elio’s gaze, making sure the message landed. “We’re not doing this today.”

Elio’s posture was still rigid, muscles coiled as he faced Volkov. But his gaze was on Barrett. There was a long, charged silence.

His eyes flicked up and down the Commander’s form.

“Another day, then,” he finally said, weight shifting back on his feet.

“Perhaps you can invite the prisoner to warm your bed, too.”

Elio stilled. He’d just been turning away when Volkov’s voice cut through the room. He ran his tongue over the sharp edges of his teeth. His fists curled at his sides. Then he rounded on the Commander.

“I would, but it’s a little crowded right now with all your men.” Elio bit his lip, humming in appreciation. “Fit and sloppy — cheers for that,” he bit back with a short, upward nod of his chin.

Volkov barked out a low, humorless laugh. “So it’s true. Perfectionism isn’t why the cells haven’t been finished.” A thin, venomous smile tugged at his dry, cracked lips. “You’ve been… distracted. Maybe it’s time you refocused—got your priorities in order.”

Elio was about to refocus every piece of stone in the room up his old, chapped –

“Alright,” Barrett’s jaw clenched as he stepped forward, placing himself between the two. “You’ve made your points.” He cast a hard glare over his shoulder at Volkov, who stared straight at Elio.

“Azkona does good work, and you know it.” he said, voice low. “We’re not replacing him.”

Slowly, Volkov’s eyes slid to the Aurelian Commander. Cold. Unyielding. But silent.

After a few beats, Barrett finally turned back to Elio, his expression tight. He gave a sharp nod toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Jaw clenched, knuckles white, Elio stared at Volkov with eyes aflame. The heat didn’t dim as he moved his gaze back to Barrett.

A shifting of his muscles that was less of a release and more a careful repositioning – a too-slick smile – a voice as smooth as the edge of a blade.

“You’re in charge,” he said with a shrug. The Lunarian Commander’s eyes narrowed. Elio turned his back on Volkov and crossed back to the door. He yanked it open with more force than necessary, not bothering to glance at the irritated guard standing in the cold.

Barrett followed, leaving the Lunarian Commander to simmer alone.

“The prisoner’ll be dealt with.” he said to Elio’s back. “Just give us some time.” A beat passed. Then, drier, he added, “I’m not thrilled about this either.”

“Well it’s not like we thought we’d need a working jail so soon,” Elio spat, a hard edge to his voice. No, instead of a jail, they’d wasted their time requesting frivolous things from him, like roads, and building foundations, and a fucking tower. He stalked down the path he’d laid — he didn’t need to look behind to know that Barrett was keeping pace. “Dawnhaven being such a shining beacon of hope and unity, and all.” Elio hoped all those Aurelian banners in the room gave Volkov a sunburn, the frigid bastard.

“Delusional.”

Barrett didn’t answer right away, refusing to fan the flames. He knew Elio ran hot—like many of his own soldiers. His boots crunched in the snow as he followed behind him, breath forming white plumes in the frigid air. After a few more steps, his pace began to slow.

“Don’t let him get under your skin, Azkona.” His voice wasn’t unkind—just tired. “You do good work. Everyone knows it.” He affirmed, coming to a gradual stop, watching Elio’s retreating back. “Volkov’s just a miserable prick. You know that.”

Barrett lingered a moment longer, then turned quietly, making his way back toward the commander’s quarters without waiting for a reply.

Elio finally slowed enough for a stop as he heard Barrett’s retreating steps. Hands fisting at his sides, he clenched his jaw again. Then Elio turned on his heel.

“That soldier I mentioned,” he called after Barrett. His deep voice carried across the distance, flat and quick. The Commander slowed, half-turning to listen. “He’s a risk.” Elio saw Aliseth’s dead stare, heard his cold voice — something was wrong. Something tight coiled in his chest like a warning. “He was in the attack yesterday. It fucked with his head.” The feeling wasn’t just a warning — it was worry. Elio saw Aliseth’s reluctant smirk, heard his quiet laugh. There’d been no trace of them yesterday. “You keep a sword in his hand, keep throwing him at threats, someone’s gonna get hurt.”

Elio wanted to punch something.

Barrett’s brow furrowed in thought as he turned back to fully face him again. “You know Kain?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “He said he can’t remember much of the attack. Volkov told him to seek out a psychic user. Has he?” His gaze lingered on Elio, searching his face for any hint of the answer. He had not heard if anyone—Volkov—had followed up on the order.

“Kain needs to be pulled off duty,” Barrett said after a beat, half to himself. Elio let out a breath. “I’ll speak to Volkov.”

He paused, studying Elio for a moment. “How do you know all this, anyway? You and Kain are close?”

Elio huffed, gaze moving to the shadowed treeline. He felt the scruff of a beard against his neck, calloused hands against his back.

“Ran into him yesterday,” he gave as an answer instead. His voice was softer, but it carried all the same. “If he saw a psychic user, it didn’t do shit. Claimed the dead guard was Hale when he’d just seen him an hour earlier, roughed up some random blight girl, was dragging that Sage Hightower around, barking orders at other guards, threw a punch unprovoked…”

Well… mostly unprovoked.

“Don’t think Volkov’s order really sank in,” he said, his eyes cutting back to Barrett.

Barrett’s jaw tensed, frustration evident. Annoyance flared—at Volkov, at the discourse of it all, at the thought of the Sage being treated with disgrace, at the never-ending pressure of working with men who made every step harder than it should be. But he bit his tongue, unwilling to undermine the Lunarian Commander in front of Elio—not after the Prince had just told them they needed to be more unified.

“I’ll see to it,” Barrett said, giving Elio a single, sharp nod. Then, after a beat, he added, “Is the blight girl the one Volkov spoke of “sensitive information” in front of?”

Elio paused — just for a moment. He thought of that skinny, fucked up blight girl, wings hanging off her back and horns sprouting from the top of her head as she sipped her soup like a proper fucking lady.

“Hell if I know,” he replied with a shrug. Elio liked Barrett well enough, but he was still a guard — and Elio wasn’t about to sell the girl out for making the mistake of blabbing info when it’d served him well. Let Barrett think Aliseth was the leak. All the better if it got him thrown on the bench quicker — before he got himself killed. “Ran into her at the inn. Apparently Hale gave her a welcome and Kain gave her his boot.”

Barrett watched Elio for a breath, assessing him, then nodded. “Very well. Thank you,” He took a step back, hesitating. “I’ll try to make sure the prisoner is out of your way sooner rather than later.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back toward the commander's quarters.

Elio watched Barrett march away, following his cobblestone path. A small, satisfied smirk eventually found its way to his lips.

“Pleasure doing business,” he murmured to himself.

Turning, he continued down the road, swagger in his step.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

---

_{Location: The Sun Temple}

---

---

The murders!?

Tia’s eyes widened in alarm as she looked up at the guard.

“The murders,” she affirmed, nodding.

What had she missed yesterday? No wonder Dyna had looked so stormy when she’d returned – there was apparently a killer on the loose. Distraught, Tia thought of the poor souls who’d been taken. Dawnhaven was such a small community… who would do something so awful? Why?

Tia’s thoughts ground to a halt when she realized – the Princess had needed healing yesterday. Had she been involved? She must’ve, or else why would they have thought to call on Ranni – on her?

Anxiety pressed in on Tia as the gravity of the situation only grew. And she was still looking up at the guard, her panic on full display. The guard looked back at her, curiosity and concern in his eyes, and Tia could practically feel the way all her secrets were clearly readable on her face.

She tried to give him a smile. It was strained.

“Pardon me,” she squeaked, her voice rasping harshly in her throat. Then Tia fled walked briskly back through the main chamber, down the hallway, and into her room, shutting the door behind her.

Now was not the time for a panic attack.

Tia, breathing at a normal rate with a steady heartbeat, stood in the middle of her room. Actually, no. She was pacing. But other than that she was fine. Her breath was just a little quick. Her heart was barely deafening.

Now was not the time for a panic attack.

Think. Tia had to think. People had been murdered. The Princess had been attacked. Her visions were… fine. They were fine and could be addressed later when she figured out how. The gemstone was being dealt with. Ivor.

Tia had to make sure Ivor didn’t loudly share the story of their cave diving adventure over a pint of ale.

Latching onto the first actionable plan she could find, Tia moved to her bedside table and pulled out two sheets of parchment. Stretching her hand, she began writing hurried notes.

The first went to the twins’ room – Tia curled Ranni’s little gecko around it on the bed, taking too much time to carefully arrange the display. But the little thrum of joy when she looked at her finished handiwork felt worth it.

Thank you for the cookies! They were delicious~ I accidentally gave the basket to a visitor but there should still be some cookies at the front for Dyna. Sorry! TT-TT

The temple has been mostly quiet. I have to head into town for a bit but I promise to be back soon (for real this time… sorry, I know we all need to talk).

Love, Tia

When Tia reemerged into the main chamber of the temple, the fire popping judgmentally as she passed, her nerves were muffled under a blanket of calm, polite, professionalism. This time when she smiled up at the guard, it was decidedly less frantic. She offered him the second note in a hand that almost wasn’t trembling.

The Church thanks you for your care and vigilance. I have matters to attend to in town, but I expect the other Priestess, Ranni, and the Champion of Aelios, Dyna, should return soon. For your awareness, Priestess Ranni is a blight-born. I trust that she will be treated with the same deference and respect that you have shown me. Another blight-born, Dr. Moreau, may also return – the temple has been housing her until she can find more permanent accommodations. Thank you for your diligence in ensuring that the temple may remain a sanctuary for all.

Please help yourself to a cookie!

Tia gave him another smile, and a short bow. Then she slipped out the temple door and into the snowy streets of Dawnhaven. Tia really hoped that when she returned, she wouldn’t be covered in blood.

Again.

---

_{Interactions: Kale Grall @Theyra}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Collab between @Queen Arya and @c3p-0h
_{Location: The Aurelian Guard Camp}

---

The Champion's eyes flicked over to approaching footsteps, her attention stolen from the Prince and Princess as they entered the tent. It only took a brief moment for her gaze to flicker over the man, and evaluate him as an incoming irritation. Something about the way he carried himself, an… ego perhaps? A mannerism that reminded her of the various men who'd so often strutted around as if the world revolved around them. Mentally, she braced, wondering if this would be the type to demand work from her or the type to try to take her home.

Still, none of these thoughts showed past neutral expression.

As he finally drew near and spoke, the Champion already felt irritation creeping in. The Lunarian, no doubt with both his attitude and lack of recognition for a Champion, started in with not-so-subtle undertones about the Prince.

”Perhaps.” She said, keeping a neutral tone even as her gaze added a condescending nature to her words. ”Such behavior has more to do with the Princess’ will, as opposed to the Prince.” Dyna replied simply, finding irritation in both his jab at the Prince and implication that the Princess had no will of her own…

This was going to be a dreadful conversation no doubt.

Amber eyes narrowed slightly as Elio took her in – her look so aggressively Aurelian it bordered on offensive, her practiced posture, how her gaze flicked over him like they were taking stock before turning away again. Her words washed over him, with their carefully restrained bite.

The corner of his mouth twitched up.

She was new to Dawnhaven, Elio could figure that much – he would’ve heard about someone being blinded by the reflection off her armor by now if she’d been here more than a week. And what did this one know of the Lunarian Princess’ will? Most Lunarians barely knew a thing about her. The King and Queen were practically forces of nature, a felling earthquake and the first sunrise of the year – but it was like Princess Amaya barely existed at all. Hell, Elio had probably seen her more in the two months he’d spent in Dawnhaven than he had his entire life in the capital.

Briefly, a memory flickered. It drifted through him like the biting winter air.

Elio folded his arms, leaning casually against a nearby tree as he kept his attention on the Champion. He wondered idly at that careful control of hers.

It wasn’t like he had anything better to do as he waited for the royals to finish up with the Commanders, unless he wanted to barge in and interrupt.

Which, hey, could be fun.

“You’re probably right,” Elio said with a shrug. His voice carried the same lightness, the same subtle layer of humor as he poked at her. “The Princess is probably a consummate shut-in, and discovered the thrill of near death experiences. Seems she can’t help but chase the next one.”

The fun thing about having sex with lots of unhappy wives was that one learned to notice the same patterns popping up over and over again.

“Makes much more sense than a domineering husband.”

Or a straying one, keeping her close to compensate for a guilty conscience.

Dyna listened to the man's words, realizing he'd be one of those to try to play word games with her, feeling innately more clever and superior. ”I meant that her will might have been to go out today. For whatever reasons, I will not pretend to know them.” She said bluntly, finding herself wondering if it was worth it to continue dealing with this man, or simply excuse herself to the temple already.

Elio’s smile grew the slightest bit as some of that decorum of hers slipped away. His eyes caught on an emblem shining against her armor – the Church of Aelios. He wondered what she did know.

“Isn’t that what they like to teach in all the churches, though? Pretending to know? Something both kingdoms have in common, at least.” Perhaps not one of his subtler jabs, but if it cracked her enough to crack him, all the better – Elio was still feeling a little pent up. And maybe that armor was actually worth something. Her stance was promising at least, and the way she kept her attention on him even as she feigned indifference. “Right up there with inscrutable heirs to the throne.”

Dyna’s body tensed for half a second, barely noticeable before she reigned in control as the man jabbed at the church. Yet, the Champion bit her tongue. Playing into his games could only serve to spell trouble for her, and so Dyna shook her head in response. ”An… interesting point of view. I’m afraid we don’t agree on that, and I have other tasks I should be attending to. Excuse me.” Dyna said, not allowing anything beyond a cold professionalism to show in her voice as she moved to step past Elio.

Any longer, and she’d start considering the merit of striking him.

Elio didn’t respond, unmoving as he leaned against the tree. His eyes weren’t on the Champion as she navigated the space around him – they instead caught on a flicker of movement in the distance.

The door to the Commander’s quarters opened and out stepped the royal couple.

Astaros was such a shining golden Prince that it was a cliché. His immaculate hair glinted in the firelight as he held the door open for his little wife and escorted her down the path. His face was stern and pensive. Hers was cool and relaxed. Elio took her in for a moment – it was rare to see her at all, let alone with so few others around.

She was beautiful, there was no denying that – and seemingly devoid of inner thoughts. A carefully painted doll, draped in lace and silk, with a blank face and pretty eyes. Elio liked to think he was fairly good at reading people, if only to better find ways to get under their skin. But the Princess always seemed so… carefully calm. Elio felt a familiar curiosity stirring – along something a little more devilish.

The image shifted. He saw wide eyes, bright and blue. Too overwhelmed to be cautious. Too young to be guarded.

His gaze flicked away from the Princess – to find her husband glaring at him. Elio’s smirk grew. Stifling a laugh, he looked back to the Champion as she passed his space. But he’d caught the way the Prince had begun to move the Princess in a wide arc around him

There’d been a tension there, in their bearing – in the way he practically seemed to hover over her, her hand tucked against his, walking closer together than strictly necessary. The scant few times Elio had seen them in public together, there’d always been a stiffness in the space between them. They’d given a stilted performance of a relationship, like each touch was something to be suffered through and carefully measured. But now…

Feeling a little possessive?

“Another commonality,” Elio finally murmured to the Champion’s retreating figure. He stayed motionless and mountainous as the different figures orbited him, careful to not venture too closely into his space. Then he was alone. Leaning against the tree, he watched the snowflakes fall and replayed the sight of the royal couple in his mind.

Elio pushed himself upright, idly rolling his shoulders. Then he made his way down the path towards the Commander’s quarters. It was time to get that gardener a different plot of dirt to plant himself in – or at least to bury him under.

He had work to do, too.