Mjolnir

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#c7b29b ....|..... outfit .....|..... #54998e ....|..... outfit .....|..... #a4ded2 ....|..... outfit .....|..... kacper’s cabin}

Sloane stood up from the table first and started gathering up the dishes. "The cook doesn’t clean up," she countered Kacper’s incredulous look with a gentle sort of stubbornness before he had the opportunity to argue. She stacked the plates methodically, putting the emptied bones, and scraps all onto the top plate, then gathered up the silverware, and napkins into one of her hands. When he attempted to take the stack of dishes from her, she quickly scooped them up, and side stepped out of reach. With her hands full, she stuck her tongue out at him teasingly, then made her way back over to the kitchen and set down the plates gingerly on the counter beside the sink.

The soft thuds of her feet filled the quiet as she searched for the trash, eventually finding it tucked out of sight in one of the cabinets in the island. Sloane took one of the forks and carefully scraped the last remnants of food into the can, followed by the dirtied napkins, and cleaned bones. She closed the cabinet with the gentle bump of her hip before turning back toward the sink. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth gently, lost in silent focus as she stopped the drain, and turned on the faucet. Her fingers wiggled beneath the flow of water, adjusting the taps until the temperature was a tolerable heat. As the basin began filling, she put a small splash of soap into the rising water before setting the dishes into the sink.

Once the water level was high enough, she turned off the faucet, and set to scrubbing every plate and piece of silverware, with a meticulous and methodical sort of patience, making sure to clean every piece thoroughly. Everything about the sight was a strange sort of contrast. Sloane stood with the same sort of poise as she ate, straight backed with perfect posture, that made her look like she didn’t belong slaving over dirty dishes. But there was still small fractures in her perceived perfection, like the small tears in her tights from a needy kitten, the stray hairs that fell alongside her temples and dangled in her face, or the subconsciously innocent way her right foot rubbed the back of her left calf as she worked. Everything about her looked like a privileged girl who never did a chore a day in her life, yet she did the dishes with a surprisingly practiced ease.

Kacper’s first reaction was pure disbelief. He looked at her the way a man might look at someone who had just calmly announced they intended to walk barefoot into a blizzard for fun, his brows climbing and his mouth parting around the beginning of an argument she cut off before it ever had the chance to form. The second she sidestepped him with the plates and stuck her tongue out, though, the indignation cracked clean through. His expression softened so quickly it almost embarrassed him, some helpless mix of fondness and surprise pulling at the corners of his mouth as he watched her move through his kitchen like she’d been doing it for years, not hours.

There was something about it, the neat stack of dishes, the careful scrape of bones into the trash, the way she stood there in her burgundy sweater and torn tights and perfect posture, all polished edges and tiny imperfections, that made that odd little twinge in his chest return with a vengeance. She looked like she belonged in candlelight and libraries and velvet armchairs, not elbow deep in soapy water at his sink, and yet the practiced ease of her hands made it clear she was no stranger to taking care of what needed doing. He did not know what to do with how much that moved him.

So instead of fighting her, he got up. Quietly. Without making a scene of it. He fed a few more logs into the fire first, the flames waking with a soft crackle and brightening the room in a fresh wash of amber. Then he paused long enough to scratch Rocco behind the ears as the dog hovered hopefully at his knees, tail thumping once in sleepy approval before padding off toward Katryna.

She, for her part, took one look at Sloane voluntarily handling cleanup and made the morally questionable but entirely understandable decision to accept the gift with zero shame. “I’m not moving unless the cabin catches fire,” she declared from the couch, already curling into the cushions as Rocco climbed up to join her like he’d been invited to the throne.

Kacper snorted softly under his breath, shook his head, and moved into the kitchen with a quieter sort of purpose, slipping into the space beside Sloane with enough care not to crowd her. “Fine,” he murmured, voice low and warm as he reached for the bottle in the cupboard, opening it deftly and adding a generous amount to a kettle on the stove, flicking the burner on before grabbing a towel. “You wash. I’ll warm the cider… and dry.” It was the closest thing to surrender she was getting from him, but the look he cast her from the corner of his eye, soft, amused, and far too gentle, made it clear he didn’t mind losing this one at all.

Sloane looked up as she felt a presence slip into the space beside her. She knew it was him before looking and fought the temptation until she finished scrubbing the plate in her hands. It was only when she reached across in front of him to set the dish in the drying rack that she finally glanced up. Her smile was a little bashful and most definitely stubborn as she contemplated arguing further, but it seemed that Kacper wasn't going to budge further. So she conceded with a soft sigh and a small shake of her head. As she grabbed the next dirty plate and submerged it into the sink, her knit sleeves had traitorously started slipping down her forearms. She quickly pulled her hands from the sink and gave them a small shake before turning toward him with a warm, and surprisingly unguarded smile. "Can you push up my sleeves, please?" She asked with a chuckle as she held up her soap covered hands in front of her, revealing the fuzzy burgundy sleeves that had nearly fallen down to her wrists.

He stepped closer at her request. Close enough that the warmth of the sink water still clinging to the air mixed with the subtle, maddeningly soft scent of her shampoo and the faint sweetness of whatever fabric softener lived in that sweater. His hand lifted toward her wrist first, fingers catching the fuzzy cuff and easing it gently upward, careful not to smear soap against the knit as he rolled the sleeve up. The brush of his knuckles against the inside of her forearm was feather light, but it still sent that same stupid little flutter through his stomach, quick and bright and impossible to ignore. Her skin was warm. Softer than it should have mattered that it was.

He focused very hard on the sleeve.

He rolled the second sleeve next, thumbs brushing lightly over the slender line of her arm as he pushed the fabric securely above her elbows, a touch more careful than strictly necessary. By the time he finished, his hands lingered for the briefest fraction of a second before he forced himself to pull them back and reached for the towel instead, because he was already in enough trouble without standing there looking dazed over someone’s soft arms. Still, when he glanced at her again, there was a crooked little smile tugging at his mouth, warm, amused, and just a touch too fond.

“There,” he said, lifting the dish towel like a peace offering as the cider began to warm behind him, filling the kitchen with that rich, autumn sweet smell. “You wash. I’ll dry. Teamwork makes the dream work… or something like that.”

She remained silent and still as he fulfilled her request. It was simple, mundane even, but for whatever unknown reason it carried a weight that sat heavy and charged in the vacuum of space between them. Sloane’s gaze had remained fixed on his hands as he pushed the fabric up her arms as if the sweater, or perhaps herself, was made of porcelain. She tried not to notice when his fingers brushed her skin, but her eyes snapped to them whether she wanted to or not. The silence was deafening. Their breaths were quiet, missable, and not quite steady, but in that suspended moment they were so loud it muffled the other noises of the cabin. The pets stirred around them and Kat groaned with a stuffed content, yet it all went unnoticed. There was a temptation to speak, but an even bigger draw not to, like the silence that hung between them was more fragile than the fabric he handled.

It was only when he finished that Sloane let her eyes slowly drift up until they met his gaze. "Thank you," she replied quietly, with an unintended softness that she quickly cleared her throat to try and mask. She turned back toward the sink, plunging her hands into the warm, soapy water as a way to ground herself or snap her back to reality… something. Her fingers searched along the bottom of the basin until she found the sponge. "You still shouldn't be cleaning or drying after doing all the cooking," she argued futilely, with a brief sidelong glance and a meek smile.

Kacper’s mouth curved the instant she thanked him, small and instinctive and softer than the usual crooked thing he wore like armor. It was a smile that stayed even as she turned away, though the tips of his ears betrayed him completely, warming pink beneath the dark fall of his hair as he reached for the first plate. The towel moved between his hands with practiced ease, his fingers tracing the rim, the center, the underside, methodical in a way that almost seemed reverent. For a moment he said nothing at all, only stood there beside her in the warm hush of the kitchen while the cider slowly heated behind them, the scent of spice and apple unfurling into the air like something meant to soothe. Then, with a small shrug that tried and failed to make light of it, his voice came quieter than usual, stripped of most of its sharp edges. “I like cleaning,” he admitted softly, almost shy despite himself. “It’s… something I have control over. When we were kids…” His words trailed off, and his eyes dropped to the plate in his hands with an intensity that was almost absurd, as though the ceramic might offer him an easier answer than the truth.

The silence stretched for a beat, not awkward this time, only careful. He dried the plate a little longer than necessary before finally setting it aside and reaching for the next, his shoulders held deceptively loose despite the tension quietly threaded through them. “We grew up in an orphanage in Szczecin,” he said at last, the city’s name shaped differently in his mouth, accented and heavy.

“And orphanages in Poland are about as nice as they are everywhere else.” Sarcasm bled through the words, but it was thinner than his usual bite, less a shield than an old habit. His jaw flexed once, and he dragged the towel over the next plate with the same measured precision, every movement too controlled to be casual. “Cleaning was one of the only things I could control back then,” he finished, quieter now, the confession set gently between them as if he wasn’t sure yet whether it was safe to leave there. “So… I guess some habits stick.”

Sloane slowly turned her head toward him, catching the hit of pink along his ears before her gaze drifted over his features, studying his face, and the way his expressions softened into something more authentic and pensive. Her hand slowed as it glided the sponge along a plate, submerged deep in the water, lost beneath a foaming layer of bubbles that clung to her forearms. She nodded silently, listening intently as a quiet, sympathetic warmth settled behind her eyes and tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I’ve never been to an orphanage," she confessed softly, her words mixing with the soft sloshes of water and the rhythmic hum of the towel running along porcelain. Her only exposure to orphanages came from movies and stories like Annie and Oliver Twist. She could only hope that their experiences were better than that. "But... There are worse things than being tidy," she mused, her smile softening as she pulled a cleaned plate from beneath the suds and held it out toward him.

Her fingers ran along the bottom of the basin until they brushed against another plate. She held it firmly in her left hand while her right took hold of the sponge and started working it along the surface in small circles. "I can understand though," Sloane added with a small, subconscious lull of her head tilting a fraction closer to him as she spoke. "School was like that for me." Her gaze remained fixed on the vanishing suds as the water shifted with her every movement. "My home life wasn’t… great, but my education was the one thing I could control," she added pointedly, mirroring his wording and sentiment as she continued. "I could pick and choose what I wanted to learn and how much. And books…"

Her words trailed off as her tone slipped into something warm and fond while her smile grew bright and unbidden, veiled behind brown locks that slipped from behind her ears. "They were my solace. When life became unbearable I’d escape into stories and brighter worlds where there was always a happy ending." She lifted her arm, using the back of her hand to brush loose hair out of her face, leaving a small trail of bubbles along her forehead before returning to scrubbing. "Or at least my favorites were the ones with happy endings," Sloane added sheepishly as she lifted another plate from the water and held it out toward him.

Kacper took the plate from her with that same careful precision, drying it in slow, deliberate passes while he listened to her speak, every word seeming to settle somewhere deeper than he wanted to examine too closely. There was something in the way she said school, the way her voice softened around books, that made him understand instantly, too instantly, what she meant without needing the rest spelled out. Control. Escape. Sanctuary dressed up as routine and pages and structure. His gaze flicked to the little streak of bubbles across her forehead again, and despite the weight of the conversation, despite the old ache of memory stirring in his ribs, the sight tugged a helpless smile from him. He shook his head faintly, the towel moving over the rim of the plate as he exhaled through his nose. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said, tone dry but quieter than usual, stripped of its harsher edges. “It was an old manor abandoned in 1939 during the war, and repurposed into an orphanage with no renovations. Winters were dreadful, and it was always the same meals.”

He wrinkled his nose at the thought, the expression so immediate and boyish it almost made the memory look smaller than it was. Almost. “Bland porridge, watered down stew, and stale bread, if we were lucky,” he added, shuddering with exaggerated offense as if the ghost of those meals still lurked somewhere nearby, waiting to strike again. “I swear I can still taste it if I think too hard.” But the dramatics softened at the edges the moment he spoke of something else, something warmer, and it showed plainly in the way his face eased, the way his shoulders lost a little of their old tension. He set the dried plate aside and reached for the next one she offered, his fingers brushing the towel along its surface while fondness bled through his voice uninvited. “I learned how to cook once we were adopted. Our father hired a chef to teach me.” There was pride there, yes, but gentler than his usual swagger, something rooted in gratitude rather than ego. “Best thing he ever could’ve done for me, honestly.”

Sloane’s expression subconsciously mirrored his, brows creasing and nose scrunched at the mention of what constituted a ‘normal’ meal in an orphanage. At one point she even made a quiet little bleh noise and stuck out her tongue. While she did harbor some animosity when it came to being raised within a privileged bubble, she was thankful for the private cook and never having to know what porridge tasted like. "Maybe I should call you Oliver Twist," she mused while lifting the plate from beneath the bubbles to better run the sponge along the porcelain. "So, your enjoyment for cooking comes from a childhood of depressing food?" she asked rhetorically, sparing him a soft sidelong glance. In another life, if she had been in his shoes, she’d like to think she would have a similar inclination… A need to make the world taste divine when she held the power beneath her fingertips. She saw it all the time, adults clinging to the small comforts they didn’t have as children. For Kacper that was a warm delicious meal. For her?... She was still figuring it out.

Kacper barked out a laugh before he could stop it, the sound warm and sudden in the cozy hush of the kitchen, bright enough to cut clean through the heaviness that had lingered there moments before. The grin that spread across his face was quick and crooked and a little too delighted by her teasing, like he was absurdly pleased she’d met him there instead of tiptoeing around the uglier edges of the truth. He set the dried plate aside and angled a look at her from the corner of his eye, one brow lifting in mock offense that never quite reached his mouth. “Oliver Twist is rude,” he informed her, though the laugh still clung to the words. “Accurate, though.”

He shrugged one shoulder, easy and loose, like the answer was obvious enough not to warrant embarrassment. “Yeah,” he admitted, glancing down at the next plate in his hands as the towel moved over it in neat, practiced circles. “I think if you spend enough years eating food that tastes like wet sadness, you either stop caring entirely… or you get very invested in making sure it never happens again.” His nose wrinkled faintly, dramatic as ever, before his grin turned a touch smug. “It’s also why I’m so clean.” He flicked her a knowing look then, something playful and lightly self aware settling into his expression. “Apparently my childhood trauma came with seasoning and disinfectant.”

Sloane’s smile softened into something a little unsteady around the edges and pensive as her gaze fell to the soapy plate in her hand. Still, even as her own thoughts warred in her head, trying to sift through the truth to find what she could share, her grin never fully disappeared, not really. "My childhood trauma had…" She paused, squinting her eyes and pursing her lips for a second. "Very different side effects." Her eyes lifted from the dish, peering over at him from beneath loose hair that fell from her barrette.

If she were given the choice, she would much rather have a pension for food and being a neat freak over the fear of letting people in and flinching whenever someone touches her. The grass was always greener, she supposed. But she couldn’t imagine someone who would look at her lawn with longing. "I think, in the grand scheme of things, a passion for cooking and cleanliness is definitely one of the better outcomes," Sloane added with a gentle sincerity that didn’t travel much farther than the quiet sloshing of water and the growing bubbles of the kettle nearby. Then, before the conversation could slip into that dangerous far too serious hole again, she punctuated her comment with something light and playful. "You’ll make a lovely housewife someday." Her smile grew, settling into the comfortable mischief and banter that had already begun to sew between them.

Kacper snorted so abruptly that it hurt a little, the sound warm and rough around the edges as it broke free of him and scattered the last of the heavier mood she’d so deftly dodged. The corner of his mouth tipped upward first, then the other, until that familiar crooked grin was back in full force, boyish, wicked, and just a little too pleased with her for handing him something he could actually work with. He angled a look at her from the corner of his eye, then deliberately winked, shameless as ever, his brows lifting and waggling with exaggerated suggestion that made the whole gesture impossible to misunderstand. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low and honey warm with mischief, “Keep talking like that and I might start trying to prove just how good of a housewife I can be.”

Sloane’s cheeks grew warm and flushed before she could help herself. But even in that strange sort of bashfulness that left her chest feeling like someone had released butterflies loose in it, her smile remained and her gaze still lingered on his. She caught his implication—as if the dramatic eyebrow wiggle could be missed—and even had her own playfully comeback ready and waiting. Then, for whatever reason she couldn't quite explain, she let it drift away, instead responding with a quiet laugh as she turned her attention back toward the current dirty plate clutched in her hand… before her mind or mouth could run away with thoughts she couldn't humor.

Kacper caught the blush the second it bloomed, bright and immediate across her cheeks, and the sight sent a ridiculous, private sort of satisfaction curling through him before he could stop it. Something warm and smug unfurled low in his chest, a dangerous little thrill that made the corner of his mouth twitch upward as he busied himself with the plate in hand, pretending he was far more interested in porcelain than the effect he’d just had on her. He tried to brush the thought aside as quickly as it came, folding it up neatly and tucking it away to analyze later. Still, the grin lingered at the edges of his mouth, impossible to fully hide.

The cider behind them had begun to whisper against the kettle, the scent of apple and spice thickening in the air until the whole kitchen felt wrapped in something almost autumnal, almost safe. Kacper turned slightly toward her then, plate in one hand, dish towel slung loose over his shoulder now like he’d forgotten it was there. His eyes landed fully on her, curious and intent and softened by the low amber light and everything she’d just confessed. The question came quieter than most things he said, but no less sincere for it. “What’s your favorite book?” It was such a simple thing, and yet the way he asked it made it feel like an offering, an open door, an invitation to tell him about the place she went when the world got too sharp.

His question ignited a bright, unbidden smile that curled proudly up into her cheeks still rosy from the warmth of the water, or perhaps his insistence in helping when he didn’t need to. Her lips pursed as she mentally ran her fingers along the spines of every book that lined the shelf in her cabin. Romance to fantasy, middle grade chapter books to literary classics. All of them were wonderful and cherished in their own way. Her hand dipped beneath the water, running along the bottom of the sink until she found the drain and popped it. The gargling of the sudsy water swirling down the drain filled the kitchen as she weighed the various titles against one another. It was only when the last drop vanished, leaving behind errant bubbles that Sloane turned to face him, wet dripping plate still gripped loosely between her fingers. "When I was younger it was The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. As I’ve gotten older I’ve really grown to love Little Women."

There was a moment of silence between them, but no tension. It was surprisingly comfortable, filled with unguarded smiles and eye contact that lingered long enough that made her want to look away, but there was also a magnetism that kept her frozen in place. That was until the kettle’s whistle grew sharp, piercing the quiet like a blade. Rocco’s head popped up across the cabin, tilting curiously at the strange noise, while Sloane flinched, startled out of whatever daze held her in space. Her smile faded slightly as her gaze fell to the plate still clutched in her hand. She cleared her throat, inhaled softly, then looked back up as the weight of reality settled squarely back onto her shoulders. "I can finish," she commented quietly, reaching up to take the towel from where it rested over his shoulder. She flashed him a weaker, less convincing smile before turning back toward the sink and started drying the last remaining dish.

Kacper’s smile lingered when she answered, softening into something quieter, more thoughtful, as if he was carefully filing those pieces of her away somewhere private and important. “I’ve only read Little Women,” he admitted, voice warm with a touch of sheepish honesty as he turned away to rescue the kettle before it screamed itself hoarse. “Never really got into Narnia. I’ve seen the movies, though.” He glanced back at her over his shoulder as he pulled the kettle from the heat, the corners of his mouth lifting again. “But Little Women… yeah. I can see that.” There was no teasing in it this time, only a quiet sort of agreement, like somehow the book fit her in his mind the same way her love of libraries and happy endings already had.

The cider poured in slow, amber ribbons into three mugs he pulled from the cabinet, each one looking like it had been shaped by hand rather than stamped out in a factory. They were sturdy little things, round bellied and slightly flared at the rim, the glaze a deep, glossy teal that caught the firelight in ways that reminded him of the ocean and storms. Near the base and curling up in uneven ribbons along the sides, the raw brown clay was left exposed in earthy swirls, warm and rustic against the cooler blue, while tiny grooves and ridges textured the surface as if the potter’s fingers had left their memory in the glaze. They were beautiful in the kind of unpretentious, tactile way that made you want to wrap both hands around them and keep them there. Steam curled from each mug as he divided the cider evenly, the scent of apple and spice unfurling richer now, threading through the cabin and settling over everything like a blanket.

Sloane took her time drying the last plate, sweeping the damp towel along the porcelain as the cabin quietly separated itself into different little bubbles: Kacper beside the stove, meticulous in his pouring like a master brewer, Katryna along the couch, 2 seconds from a food coma and half buried beneath Rocco, and Sloane, burgundy sweater pressed against the damp edge of the sink, cleaning dishes as if she needed to earn her keep. It was a silence that didn’t last for more than a minute, if that, but it was long enough that her mind, traitorous and self-loathing, started slipping back into that dark shadow. All the doubts, concerns, and fears were creeping around the edges like monsters shifting through the night just out of sight. With a practice soft of order, she draped the towel over the side of the sink, smoothing out any wrinkles so that it laid flat and perfectly centered to dry. When she finished, her gaze drifted toward the door as the thought of retreating tempted her better judgement.

For them… not her.

That’s what she had to tell herself. But before she could will her feet to move from the warm comfort that enveloped her in that cabin, she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Something else rose up in her chest, something that made her breath catch, something she didn’t know how to categorize or label. She cleared her throat, taking the additional moment to tuck her wandering thoughts neatly back into the shadows as she dried her hands with the edge of the towel, then carefully unraveled the sleeves of her sweater until they rested loose and warm around her wrists.

By the time Sloane had finished drying the last dish, he was already turning back toward her. He held one mug out first, offering it to her with both warmth and care, the steam ghosting between them in pale ribbons. Once she took it, he grabbed the second mug and carried it over to Katryna, who had managed to sprawl across one side of the couch in a way that suggested she had no intention of moving anytime soon. Rocco was draped half across her legs like a particularly heavy blanket, and she made a quiet, appreciative hum when he handed her the cider. There was plenty of room left beside her, an open stretch of cushion warm from the firelight and softened by blankets, but Kacper didn’t even look at it for too long, it felt like it would be… kinder, for Sloane to have the spot, like she wasn’t an insider joining them, like she belonged. He just took his own mug and settled into the armchair diagonal from them, one ankle hooked over his knee, the ceramic cradled between his hands as the cabin exhaled around them into something golden and calm.

Sloane’s smile grew like a small weight was lifted with the simple gesture. She reached out, taking the warm cider gingerly in both hands. There was a fraction of a second where the tips of her fingers grazed his, but before she’d allow either of them to notice, the mug was already cupped between both of her palms and out of Kacper’s reach. She trailed behind him toward the living room, unable to muffle the quiet laugh that escaped at the sight of Katryna happily stuck beneath Rocco and half melted into the sofa. Her pace slowed, hovering at the edge of the room as if crossing the invisible threshold was another hurdle she didn’t quite know how to conquer or where she fit.

It was difficult not to notice the way Kacper didn’t hesitate to drift over toward the armchair, leaving the spot opposite Kat open and available on the couch. She hesitated a second before taking a step forward, but then her gaze drifted over toward the hearth and Onyx. The small black kitten sat surprisingly patient, waiting for her to return to him with big round eyes and a slightly judgemental expression like the cat was far wiser than he had any right to be. She almost laughed as she changed course and redirected herself toward the small creature. Sloane lowered herself to her knees with an effortless sort of poise that showed a practice art of navigating the world in skirts and dresses for most of her life. Once she was seated on the warm wooden floor, she adjusted until her legs were stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. She hardly had a moment to get settled before Onyx rose from the pillow, stretching with one paw extended toward her, then another, until the small mass of black fur had turned her skirt into his own hammock and promptly curled back up into a ball.

Kacper had barely settled into the armchair before his attention snagged on her again, helplessly and without permission, following the soft drift of her movement as she hovered at the edge of the room and then quietly chose the floor instead. Something in him eased at the sight, at the graceful way she lowered herself beside the fire, at the way Onyx immediately claimed her lap like there had never been any question of where he belonged, at how naturally she seemed to fit there in the warm amber light with the kitten tucked into the folds of her skirt and the cider cradled in her hands. She looked less like a guest and more like something out of one of the stories she’d just confessed to loving, all soft edges and firelight and a kind of fragile peace he almost didn’t want to breathe too hard around. His smile came without thought, small and genuine and lingering as he watched Onyx curl back into himself with the smug certainty of a creature who knew he’d won.

Then Opal spotted the injustice.

The little cat trotted across the room with sudden, offended purpose, white paws nearly silent against the floorboards as she made a beeline for Sloane like a lady storming into a parlor to demand proper attention. She wound around her in quick, tight circles, purring so loudly it was almost comical, rubbing her face insistently against Sloane’s calves and the side of her hip before finally rearing up with both front paws braced delicately on her thigh. Her chin tipped up, blue eyes fixed on Sloane’s face with shameless entitlement, and then she let out a pointed little meow that sounded suspiciously like an accusation. Kacper snorted into his mug, shaking his head as he slouched a little deeper into the armchair, amusement curling warm and easy through his chest. “They’re both shameless,” he said, voice low with fond disbelief as his gaze flicked between the jealous white cat and the black kitten already asleep in her lap. “Not a single ounce of dignity between them.”

Sloane shook her head, disregarding his comments as she carefully set down her mug on the ground beside her to free up her hands. "You deserve love too," she muttered affectionately as she gently scooped up the determined little kitten and promptly cradled her in her arms like she had with Onyx before dinner. Once Opal had settled, curling into her own little ball against the soft warmth of her fuzzy burgundy sweater, Sloane reached back out toward the mug. She turned it slowly along the hardwood floor until the handle was angled toward her, then slipped her fingers around it and brought it to her lips. After blowing on the warm liquid once or twice, she took a sip. It was delicious, tasting like autumn in a mug. The most dangerous part was she couldn't even taste the alcohol… which she made a point not to drink more than one cup full.

After letting the silence sit comfortably for a minute or two, and her drink slowly dwindled to less than half, Sloane exhaled softly and set the cup aside. "So… was it just Pandora's box? Or Were you wanting the highlights since I arrived this past summer?" She didn't look up, not yet. No matter how she painted it, the topic wasn't a particularly happy one, but it was the reason she was there. They invited her under the pretense of sharing information, she couldn't very well hide from it or resend her promise. The tip of her thumb lightly tapped against the handle of the mug before she finally looked up, allowing her gaze to drift between the siblings. "It's not coffee but... I did give my word that I would answer your questions."

Kacper let the question settle for a moment instead of jumping to fill it. The fire cracked softly across the room, a low, steady pulse beneath the quiet, and he lifted his mug to his mouth while he thought, letting the cider roll warm across his tongue. It had cooled just enough to drink without burning, still rich with apple and spice, the scent of it curling up beneath his nose as he stared into the amber surface for a beat too long. When he finally spoke, his voice came lower than before, gentled by the hour and the weight of what she was offering. “Seems like this place has a lot of history,” he said, gaze drifting from the mug to the firelight dancing over the floorboards. A quiet breath left him, more measured than weary. “Better be anything important that we’ve missed. Not just the Pandora shit, if you don’t mind.”

His eyes shifted then, catching briefly on Katryna where she’d gone still on the couch, her face turned toward the hearth, the glow gilding the thoughtful line of her brow while Rocco slept heavy across her legs. Something in Kacper’s expression tightened, not fear exactly, but focus, the sort that sharpened him from the inside out. He took another sip, set the mug down against the arm of the chair, and leaned forward just a little, forearms braced on his knees. “I like knowing what I’m getting into fully,” he continued, the words simple and plain in a way that made them land harder. “So… why is that River guy so determined to train us like this?” His gaze found hers and held there, steady and intent.

"From what I know… Camp was always intended to be a place where we train. Safe, in theory. Demigods don’t have the easiest lives and rarely make it past thirty," Sloane answered his question simply, with the facts as she knew it. Then she sighed as whatever light was once on her face melted away with the weight of everything she was about to relive. "Alright." She nodded her head slowly and took one last sip of her cider. She set the mug down on the ground beside her with a soft clink, then shifted gently, setting Opal down in her lap beside Onyx. Both of the cats curled into one another, creating a warm, purring yin yang against the plain of floral fabric.

Sloane wet her lips as the tips of her fingers ran along her temples and tucked loose hair back behind her ears. "Where do I start?" she whispered, the question more rhetorical and for herself as she mentally catalogued various events into what felt like the easiest order to digest. "Ummm… Well, I don’t know much about what happened before my brother and I arrived." Once she started, her gaze never lifted higher than the legs of the coffee table, often settling on the sleeping cats, the tears in her tights, or the small bit of amber liquid growing cold in her mug.

"The previous leader—Ajax, son of Zeus—had become lax in his duties, from what I’ve gathered. Camp was a lot more… camp-like. Lots of parties and drama, not much training. And his sister, Alex—" Sloane’s eyes widened briefly as her brows rose and her head tilted to the side slightly. "—caused a lot of problems. At some point—I’m not entirely sure why—she killed another camper. A daughter of Hades." She paused for a second, letting the first bombshell drop and settle before continuing. "Then there was some sort of war… Something to do with Hades. I don’t know. I’m not sure if it had to do with his daughter’s death or if it was a long time coming. I only know what I’ve gathered from the more seasoned campers and even they don’t fully seem to know."

Sloane idly bounced her foot while stroking Opal in a slow, grounding rhythm. "It was sometime shortly after my brother and I arrived that the entirety of camp was taken to Alex’s trial. She was found innocent—somehow—and permitted to return to camp... Everything after that kind of spiraled into soap opera territory." She sighed softly, nodding her head slowly as if making a mental tally of every occurrence. "There were a lot of fights. One where Alex almost killed another girl—Andy." There was a pause as she tried to figure out how to dive further into any of that, but opening the can of worms that was the Ajax-Alex-Mason-Andy chaos was an entirely separate conversation that would take more time, more alcohol, and someone more versed in that whole situation than herself. "After that, Ajax and Alex left camp. I’m not sure how being murderous and violent got them a one way trip to Olympus. I guess Zeus bullshit. I don’t really know."

"Everything kind of reached its breaking point not long after that when…" Sloane’s voice trailed off, gaze fixed on the golden glow of the fire painted across the floor. She mulled various words around her mouth, deciding how much she wanted to share or keep close to the chest before sighing. "When... A friend of mine, Liam, nearly killed my brother." The sentence filled the silence in slow, measured beats, landing with a weight everything before that moment lacked. The heaviness in her tone wasn’t around her brother dying, but in the frayed, almost pained way she said friend. Rocco’s head snapped up from Katryna’s lap with a sad sort of whine at the mention of Liam’s name. The sound hit Sloane in the chest like a dagger. She tucked her lips between her teeth, biting back whatever might have spilled out if she didn’t keep it reined in.

She cleared her throat and crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could keep the emotions and pain suppressed beneath her ribcage where no one could see. "Poseidon, and a handful of other Gods, came to camp and ended it before it became deadly. He had a lot to say about how camp had spiraled out of control, lost its purpose, and how Zeus had failed." Her fingers rapped against her bicep as tension slowly settled across her shoulders, tightening her expression, and making her body go rigid. "He said we needed a lesson in discipline..."

Sloane could feel herself growing restless. She wanted to pace, to shift how she sat every other minute, or just get up and leave… If it wasn’t from the warm weight of sleeping kittens in her lap she might have. But she gave them her word. That meant something. The tension was visible along her throat as she swallowed and drew in a deep breath. "Our punishment was going through these… trials? We were forced to face our deepest fears, secrets, or traumas in an illusion in front of the whole camp." She clicked her tongue and her arms tightened across her chest. "Poseidon said Liam’s judgement was clouded… because of me. So, he made me go first…" She nodded her head slowly as the images she had tried to erase from her mind came flooding back: Rocco dead on the ground in front of her, Sylas compelling Liam to slit his own throat, and blood… so much blood.

Her eyes snapped shut, right hand raising to pinch the bridge of her nose as she tried to shove the memory back into the recesses of her mind before it lingered and seared itself into the back of her eyelids. "Things… calmed down after that." Rather than dwelling, Sloane forced herself to continue, keeping her eyes closed for a moment longer as she attempted to mentally get herself back on track. "Poseidon sent his son, Nick, to lead us in Zeus’s absence. But he was only here for a day… Maybe two before Pandora’s box."

It was only then that Sloane’s arms unlaced themselves from across her chest. Her hands pressed against the ground on either side of her as she sat a little more upright. "It happened in the middle of the night…" she began, trying to paint the picture best she could from her own experiences and what she heard others went through. "It felt like an earthquake. But it was like all hell was unleashed on camp. There were monsters everywhere, natural disasters… I don’t even know everything that actually happened. I didn’t make it out of my door before a harpy scooped me up. I was banged around the forest before finally getting free out over the lake. I broke my wrist from the fall… Then there was a dragon—I wish I was kidding—" She held up her hands in surrender, knowing how crazy it all sounded. "It got a hold of me at some point, dropped me in the middle of the field which was swarming with monsters."

There was a long pause as Sloane didn’t really stare at anything, getting that far off sort of look in her eyes. She could tell them both the truth, about how the box was a gift from her mother, how it was all her fault for giving it to her brother, how they should stay far away from a daughter of chaos if they knew what was good for them… She tried it once on Kacper and it didn’t work. But maybe... maybe with Pandora’s box to back her up, he would listen. She humored the thought for longer than she should have, long enough that the silence was growing heavy and tense, asking for someone to break it with a question she couldn’t answer.

But the fear of losing more friends, or potentially selfish self-preservation kept the truth locked away. That was enough confessions for one day. "I was the one who closed the box," she added, because that was a fact that half of the camp already knew about, one she couldn’t hide even if she wanted to. "I was attacked in the process, I don’t know by what but… it didn’t kill me," she added with a weak shrug and a halfhearted laugh.

"Camp was basically destroyed… Nick and two others were found dead. A couple others left camp afterwards." Sloane’s voice had grown heavy and tired. There had not been a single day since that fateful night that the events of Pandora’s box or Liam’s absence didn’t cloud her mind. The weight of it all had shifted from a burden to something she had learned to carry with her every day, a part of her that she didn’t know how to remove even if someone offered to help lift it for her. While camp had granted her a sense of independence, the emotional toll nearly made her wish for simpler times of private schools and Sylas’s cruelty when their father’s back was turned.

"That was three months ago. Most of us have been healing or rebuilding camp since," she concluded. Sloane exhaled, letting the knot that was holding her together finally unraveled. Her poise of strength and control released, and her shoulders rolled forward slightly like she was allowed to relax after standing at attention. There was a part of her that still remained closed and guarded, deep inside her chest like a clenched fist, but that part of her had to hold on until she was back in her cabin… Until she was alone. She refused to let herself fall to pieces in front of him twice in one day… Or twice ever if she had anything to say about it.

Then, for the first time since she started, Sloane looked up and met each of their gazes… uncertain of what she would find staring back at her.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Sloane finished, the fire crackling low and steady, the only sound that dared fill the space she’d left behind. Kacper hadn’t moved for most of it, barely even blinked, his mug long forgotten in his hands as the cider cooled untouched. Each piece of her story had settled into him slowly, heavily, like stones dropped into deep water, and by the end of it something in his expression had shifted, sharpened, unsettled, pulled taut beneath the surface. When she said she had closed the box, his gaze flicked to her properly then, not with disbelief, but with something quieter and far more dangerous. Awe threaded through worry, admiration tangled with something that looked almost like fear on her behalf. His jaw tightened, a breath leaving him slow and unsteady as if he was still catching up to the reality of what she’d just handed them.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before turning his head toward Katryna like he needed to anchor himself to something familiar, something solid. “Kat… go home,” he said, the words low and firm, not harsh but carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t dismissal, it was instinct, protective and immediate, like if he could remove her from the board he could control at least one piece of the chaos Sloane had just described. But Katryna didn’t even hesitate. The pillow hit him square in the face with a dull thump, her aim perfect even from the couch.

“Absolutely not,” she shot back, voice edged but steady as she pushed herself upright, chin lifting in quiet defiance. “If you stay, I stay.” There was no room for argument in it, no softness to negotiate with, only certainty. Then her gaze slid to Sloane, something sharper flickering behind her eyes, newly protective in a way that mirrored her brother, just expressed differently. “And I’m not leaving her now,” she added, quieter but no less firm, her shoulders settling like the decision had already been made long before she spoke it aloud. “So… we’re staying.”

"You both should leave," Sloane argued with an almost startling level of calmness, quiet and finite like it was the only sane option. "You should leave, go back to your kind adoptive father, and forget all about this place… Before camp takes pieces of you too." While she was a daughter of discord, capable of surviving chaos even when it hurt, they were still untouched by any of it. The Gods' fury or the unfortunate side effects of proximity have been kind to them so far. But it was only a matter of time before hell came for them all once again and the best answer was not being here when it arrived. Sloane might have been stuck choosing between torments, but that didn’t mean they had to drag themselves along with her.

The words settled heavy in the room, but Katryna didn’t waver. Her hand stilled in Rocco’s fur, fingers pressing just a little tighter as she lifted her chin, exhaustion sharpening into something unyielding. “Not without you, like I said. You’ve been through enough, if you’re not leaving,” her gaze cut to Kacper, fierce and steady, “Then neither am I.” It wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic, but it rooted itself in the floor like something that wouldn’t be moved, her decision already made before Sloane had even finished speaking. The firelight flickered across her face, catching in the hard line of her mouth, the quiet defiance that lived there.

Kacper made a rough, frustrated sound under his breath, dragging both hands down his face before shoving them back through his hair, gripping hard enough to pull. His chest felt tight, crowded with too many things at once, anger at the gods, at the camp, at the story she’d been forced to live through; something sharper at the thought of her standing alone in it, closing that damn box while everyone else broke around her. He stared at the floor for a beat, jaw clenched, trying to swallow it down, but it didn’t settle. When he finally looked up, it was with something raw still lingering behind his eyes, something that hadn’t quite smoothed back into his usual ease. “Fine.” The word came out sharper than he meant, his hands dropping back into his lap as he exhaled through his nose, quieter this time, steadier. “Then we stay.”

Sloane sighed, something defeated and worn, made of reluctant acceptance because there was nothing she could do… Nothing that she was comfortable doing. She wasn’t her brother. She couldn’t treat people like puppets and play with their minds, not without consent and circumstances more dire than her own failed warnings. Kat and Kacper were two sides of a coin… of a very stubborn and unyielding coin. Her gaze fell to the innocent balls of fur curled around one another her lap before letting her forehead rest in the palm of her hand in resignation.

Silence followed again, but it was different now, denser, threaded with understanding rather than uncertainty. Katryna’s attention drifted back to the fire, her brows knitting slowly as she replayed pieces of the story in her head, fitting them together in ways that didn’t quite sit right. Her fingers absently curled into Rocco’s fur as she stared into the flames, watching them bend and fold in on themselves. Then, after a beat, her lips parted, the name slipping out softer than the rest. “Alex…” she murmured, almost testing the shape of it, like it belonged somewhere just out of reach. Her expression tightened faintly, something flickering behind her eyes as if the name tugged on a thread within her mind.

She shifted slightly, gaze still fixed on the fire, but her voice turned toward Sloane without fully looking at her. “Does… is Andy still at the camp?” The question came quieter, more careful, as if she already suspected the answer might matter more than she wanted it to. Across the room, Kacper hadn’t taken his eyes off Sloane again, the weight of everything she’d carried settling heavy in his chest, but at that he threw a sharp look at his sister.

Sloane’s brows furrowed slightly, catching the sidelong glance that spoke of something she was not privy to. The question about Andy, given everything she shared was… vexxing. But just as she never liked being put on the spot, poked and picked at until answering was her only form of relief, she wasn’t going to do that to Kat. "Yes. She is," she replied plainly with a small nod of her head. "She was—Oh, that’s right. You weren’t here yesterday. Umm…" Her head tilted back slightly, gaze lifting to the ceiling as she tried to recall any identifying moments to pick her out of the crowd during training. "She was like our psuedo leader after Pandora’s box." Then it dawned on her, something small but it might have been memorable enough to put a face to a name. "She was the one River had time his run… If that helps."

Kacper’s shoulders tightened the moment Kat went still, the shift subtle but immediate, like he felt something turning before it ever reached words. The silence stretched for several long minutes, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional sip of cider, until Katryna’s eyes fixed on the flames like she was watching something inside them move. “Sometimes,” she said suddenly, voice quiet enough to make the room feel smaller, “I have dreams—”

“No,” Kacper interrupted, sharp and fast, the word snapping out of him before he could soften it.

A single word cut through the room with an edged precision that stole Sloane’s attention. It was sharper and guarded unlike the secrets and uncertainties that had been laid bare throughout the day. It took her by surprise, like a door that had previously been open shutting abruptly without warning. But she didn’t say anything, didn’t let it show across her face, although there was a subtle rigidity that set in her spine and shoulders, like a cold chill had swept through the room and down her back.

But Kat went on as if he hadn’t spoken at all, her face cooling into something distant. “It was a warm and sunny summer day,” she said, voice cold, detached. “I could hear footsteps quietly crunching in leaves, so… seasons were changing. A soft breeze, cool, and I—I could see the cabins.” She shivered then, small but visible, while Kacper ground his teeth together so hard it was audible.

Katryna kept staring into the fire until the flames blurred into shapes that weren’t there. “There was a clearing, and… a woman, well, three women.” Her eyes finally raised to meet Sloane’s, blank in a way that was almost doll-like. “Andy, Alex, and the dead girl.” She shrugged one shoulder, loose and deceptive, then looked away as nausea flickered across her features. Her fingers tightened around her mug before she took another sip of cider, as if warmth could force the vision back down.

Kacper sat rigidly beside them, distress slowly giving way to resignation, his jaw still set but his eyes tired now. He hated this part. Hated the dreams, the way they touched Katryna and left her somewhere distant, somewhere he couldn’t follow. Kat’s voice softened as she looked back into the fire. “There have been more dreams, but I… I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but you shared so much, so… but I never understood that one, not until… well, now.” She trailed off, the unfinished thought lingering between them like smoke.

Sloane’s gaze had settled on Katryna, taking in her every word with an attentive silence. She had never heard of visions in dreams or knew what it meant, but the siblings were also her first experience around offspring of Hypnos. She was smart enough to know it was uncommon, if only because of Kacper’s reluctance to make the information known. Her hand idly stroked the cats’ backs, alternating between black and white fur as she let the truth sink in with the same sort of patience and reverence they offered her.

It was only when the silence had grown heavier than the confession that she finally inhaled softly and spoke. "There is some knowledge that is too dangerous for me to share. But I understand the gravity and risk of secrets more than most. I wouldn’t tell anyone what you’ve shared with me in confidence… You have my word." She held Kat’s gaze with a solemn sort of severity that gave credence to her words more than promises could. It was a shared glance that spoke of the burden of carrying secrets like the weight of the world on their shoulders. Sometimes having another person help with the load could make all the difference… and Sloane didn’t mind lending her strength where she could, regardless of how negligible it was.

"But your dream…" She carefully redirected the conversation back to Kat’s confession, but more importantly the vision laced within it. "It sounds accurate, for what I know." Sloane’s head lulled slightly to the side, brunette hair sweeping off her shoulder as she tried to recall Olympus like it had happened years, not months ago. "Andy testified at Alex’s trial and I recall her mentioning that she was the one who found Alex standing over Jennova’s dead body." She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "I’m not sure if it helps knowing your dream was likely correct but…" Her voice trailed off, not really knowing what else to say or if her confirmation would give any comfort. But for good or ill, Kat should know the truth.

Katryna’s shoulders eased by degrees, the tension in her spine unwinding as Sloane spoke. The firelight softened across her features, pulling her out of that distant place and back into the room, into herself. A small, almost shy smile found its way to her lips, fragile but real. “Thank you,” she said, voice quieter now, warmer, before flicking a pointed look at her brother. “Our… mentor told us we couldn’t tell anyone. Kacper’s just a stickler for rules sometimes.” She shook her head, the motion slow and tired, a breath slipping out like she’d been holding it too long.

Kacper made a rough, unattractive huff at that, dragging a hand down his face before turning toward Sloane. His expression had shifted again, the edges of it worn thin, something uneasy sitting just beneath the surface. “It’s not because I don’t trust you,” he said, the words coming out quick, almost urgent, like he needed them understood before anything else could settle in their place. His gaze held hers, steady but strained, the flicker of worry in it hard to miss. “I just… I don’t know what pissing off a godly parent looks like, and I don’t want her to be the one to find out.”

The last of it landed heavier than he intended. His shoulders dropped a fraction after, the fight leaking out of him as he looked away, jaw tightening before he exhaled slowly through his nose. He leaned back into the chair, hands folding loosely in his lap around his mug like he didn’t trust them to stay still otherwise.

"I understand," she replied quietly, her voice nearly lost beneath the crackle of the fire and the deafening silence that clung to the room like an unshakeable omen. Sloane was familiar with the wrath of the Gods, more than most. She knew the price and the mark it left behind. She also knew she had no right to feel… offput by the reluctance to be honest with her, not when she kept her own secrets close to her chest. Fear had a way of keeping lips sealed, even when the prospect of one single person knowing the truth was a godsend. It was different from wanting to preserve face. They were deep in a world with deities they could never claim to understand. Nothing was normal. Not for them.

Sloane struggled to hold Kacper’s gaze for more than a second, instead finding it easier to ground herself at the sight of Rocco fast asleep or looking out the window where the early night’s sky—night. Her eyes widened as she searched the walls of the cabin until she found a clock. Nearly eight o’clock. "It’s late… I should go."

Her gaze fell to the pair of cats still nestled together along her legs. Reluctantly, Sloane’s hands slipped beneath Onyx, gently prying him from the warmth of her lap. The small creature yawned, stretched his paws straight out, and gave her an annoyed little mew of protest. She gently set him down on the throw pillow that was still on the ground beside her, then did the same with Opal, guiding the pair to resume their nap together in the warm glow of the hearth.

After giving both of the kittens a kiss on the head, she stood up and carried her nearly empty mug over to the sink. She took a second to clean the cup, not bothering with filling the entire basin, but gave the ceramic a thorough rinse with a splash of soap before setting it aside to dry. Without a word, she grabbed the basket she brought with her, finding its weight significantly more manageable absent the food she brought. Her gaze drifted toward the sandwiches that still sat displayed on a plate, uneaten and forgotten in lieu of the grilled ribs and fresh made potato salad. The sight made a small twinge tug at her chest in a strange mixture of both embarrassment and gratitude.

She gravitated towards the door and set down the basket beside her bag. Sloane took her time carefully stepping into her boots, holding the shoe open as she slipped her one foot inside, and then did the same with the other. She crouched down with a learned sort of poise that was almost graceful in its movements and modesty, and slowly zipped her boots shut, snug around her ankles. After standing back upright, she grabbed her wool coat from where it hung beside the door and started pulling it back on, sliding her arms into the sleeves as her gaze found its way back to Rocco. "Time to go, buddy."

The dog groaned and stretched dramatically against Katryna’s legs before conceding and standing up with a big yawn. He gave his napping partner a parting lick to the cheek before jumping down from the couch. The pup took his sweet time crossing the room, stopping every few steps to yawn or stretch as he made his way to Sloane’s side with a lazy wag of his tail.

Katryna pushed herself up from the couch with a long, weary stretch, mimicking the dog, grinning at his cuteness, her joints popping softly after hours curled in warmth beside the fire. The movement tugged her oversized hoodie crooked over one shoulder, and she absently fixed it while looking down into the empty ceramic mug still cradled loosely in her hands. “Yeah,” she sighed, voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m gonna head back too. Need to start a fire, get the place warmed up before I freeze to death in my sleep.” She shuffled past Rocco on her way to the kitchen, pausing long enough to bend down and press a kiss to the top of his head. The dog’s tail thumped lazily in response, eyes half-lidded with sleepy contentment.

Kacper stood a moment later, quieter than he had been earlier in the night. Something heavy still sat behind his eyes after everything Sloane had shared, a tension he hadn’t fully shaken loose no matter how much easier the conversation had become afterward. He watched her pull on her coat, watched the practiced neatness of her movements, and the thought of her walking back alone through the cold scraped at him harder than it should have. “I’ll walk you back,” he said easily, already reaching for his own coat hanging by the door, though his gaze never drifted from Sloane long enough to acknowledge anyone else. The words sounded casual, but there was a quiet insistence beneath them, something protective he no longer bothered trying to disguise.

"It’s ok. It’s not—" Sloane tried to argue, but he was already pulling on his coat with that severe stubbornness she was quickly learning was rooted deeper than any tree. She sighed softly, conceding only because of how ridiculously close her cabin was. If she lived halfway across camp she might have put up a bigger fight, but after everything, she was too tired… mentally and physically.

Kat lingered by the sink, rinsing out her mug beneath warm water while softly humming to herself under her breath, giving them both the sort of privacy that only siblings understood how to manufacture without comment. Steam curled around her fingers as she set the cleaned mug carefully beside the others to dry. Then she glanced back over her shoulder, tired but smiling softly all the same. “See you in the morning.” The fire crackled low behind them, casting gold across the cabin.

Sloane slipped her bag over her shoulder and scooped up the empty basket in one hand. She took a step toward the door, then stopped and looked back at Kat with a small smile that mirrored hers. "Thank you… For trusting me enough to share." Two fingers raised from the handle of the basket in a small wave. "See you tomorrow." With one last deep inhale to prepare for the cold, she opened the door letting Rocco run outside ahead of her, then stepped out behind him, grimacing as frigid wind stole her breath.

End of part 2.

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Descendants

The room grew quiet and restless as noon grew close, then ticked by. Tobias waited for a few more minutes, but when Jules didn’t make an appearance after ten minutes, he decided lack of punctuality was her problem and she could get the information from… someone else. He cleared his throat and in the silence of the room, it drew everyone’s attention to him whether that was his intention or not. He slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding before pushing off the table and standing upright. "Alright, well…" He nodded his head and dragged his bottom lip between his teeth. "If it isn’t obvious… I broke the rules and left the tower." He then motioned his right hand toward Bellamy who sat in the chair beside him. "This is… Bellamy Drake."

There was a long pause as he let the truth of it sink in, along with any realizations, questions, or whatever else anyone was going to have before he continued. "Imogen used a cerebro to find out Bellamy was still alive and led me to her. She was being pursued by a dozen armed and armored men... I killed them all," Tobias added matter-of-factly, without flinching or remorse. His words fell plain and honest and with a conviction that showed, without ever stating it, that he would do it again without hesitation. "There was also a sniper who got away. But they didn’t have any metal on them, which was… odd. They didn’t seem to expect me because the men were… inexperienced and easy to kill. But the forethought to prepare for me regardless is concerning."

Tobias paused, running through the events of the night in his mind while searching for anything he might have forgotten, but also with no intention of sharing anything beyond their actual encounter. His gaze slowly fell to Bellamy beside him. "Did I forget anything important?"

Bellamy kept her eyes on the table while Tobias spoke, fixing on the grain in the wood so intently it began to blur at the edges, the lines and knots swimming together beneath the sting rising behind her eyes. Hearing it all laid out so plainly, the pursuit, the armed men, the sniper, the bodies left cooling in the dark, made her stomach turn slow and heavy, the memory of rain and mud and blood dragging at her insides until she thought, for one dreadful second, that the sandwich she’d forced down might come back up right there in front of everyone.

And yet, when Tobias spoke of killing them, matter of fact and unflinching, Bellamy did not recoil. There was no fear in her, no sudden flinch at the shape of violence in his voice, because every terrible thing he had done that night had been done in the service of keeping her alive, and somewhere in the raw, broken center of herself, that had carved out a kind of trust she did not think she could ever offer easily again. It was frightening, perhaps, how instinctively she believed him now, how her body had already begun to treat him as something safe despite the blood on his hands, but the truth of it settled in her bones all the same. When he looked down at her and asked if he had forgotten anything, Bellamy drew in a careful breath that trembled halfway through, her fingers tightening uselessly in the oversized sleeves pooled around her hands.

"No," she said first, but the word came quiet and rough, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut for a moment against the sudden rush of memory before trying again. She searched for something useful in the wreckage of the night, some detail that mattered more than the way her father’s blood had spread across the kitchen floor, more than the sound of her own breathing as she hid in the woods like a frightened child. "They weren’t subtle," she said slowly, opening her eyes again and forcing the words out one at a time, as though speaking too quickly might make the whole thing crack open. After a beat, she found it easiest to look at Imogen when she continued, because there was something steadier in that direction, something that felt less like being examined and more like being witnessed. Her eyes burned as she held the woman’s gaze.

"It was daylight. Anyone could have seen… it was like they didn’t care." One shoulder lifted in a faint, helpless shrug before her gaze slipped down to the table again, then back to Imogen as if she needed the anchor of somewhere softer to land. "I don’t think they expected me to be there. I was just visiting for—for my birthday, I…" Her throat tightened, but she forced herself onward. "I’m not much of a threat. But I think they would’ve sent more people if they knew. I probably wouldn’t have made it out of the house, but my dad…"

The last two words nearly undid her. Bellamy swallowed hard enough it hurt, her voice straining thin and fragile as she pushed through the knot rising like ice in her throat. "It was like he knew it was only a matter of time. He had a bag packed… but he gave it to me and gave me a chance to slip out. He… they shot him, that was the last thing I saw." Her gaze dropped and stayed there, fixed on nothing, because the image came too fast and too vivid the moment she stopped fighting it. Blood sliding in a red, terrible sheen across hardwood flooring, the broken shape of one father in the kitchen, the other still standing only long enough to buy her a chance at living. After that the words simply failed her. They dissolved somewhere between memory and grief, caught in the awful truth that sat heavy and undeniable in her chest. There were people in this room who would have given anything for Bobby Drake to be the one sitting here instead, alive and furious and telling this story in his own voice, and Bellamy was one of them. She bowed her head slightly, shoulders curling inward around that grief as if she could make herself smaller beneath it, and let the silence say what she could not, that she was here only because he was not, and there was nothing in the world that did not feel wrong about that.

Imogen listened intently, patiently. Her gaze never once shifted or looked away, letting Bellamy use her as an anchor. While the girl pushed through pain, discomfort, and memory, only compassion and warmth was reflected back from behind sympathetic blue eyes. When words gave way to memories of blood and death, she was tempted to reach her hand across the table and offer a small piece of physical comfort. But just as she considered moving, Tobias took a small step closer and rested his hand on Bellamy’s shoulder without a word, a quiet act of solidarity and warmth that didn’t demand attention. It wasn’t for him, it was for her.

Myla settled a little deeper into her chair, as if sinking further into the black leather would somehow ground her and keep her own memories at bay. Her fingers subconsciously curled tighter around Theo’s hand as Roger’s voice echoed through her mind like a phantom she couldn’t shake. She remembered the sounds of heavy footsteps on old wooden floors, the clicking of guns’ safeties, the crash of bullets into drywall, and the ache of every hit. She weighed everything she experienced against Bellamy’s own story, the similarities and the differences. She was not forced to witness her father’s death. There were no words to soften that pain nor enough empathy in the room to help carry the burden. Myla could offer hollow apologies, but having suffered the absence of her own father for over a year, she knew first hand it was the last thing anyone wanted to hear. They didn’t want sympathy, but solutions… and blood.

June grimaced, and for one awful moment Bellamy’s words tore something jagged open inside her, memory rising in flashes too quick and too violent to fully name. Rain slick brick, the hot punch of a bullet tearing into her side, bare feet slapping through filthy water, the sharp crack of bone beneath her fist, a man choking beneath her hands while her own breath came ragged and feral in the dark. She remembered the way anger had hollowed her out from the inside, cold and ravenous and merciless, remembered blood made thin by rain and bubbles breaking the surface of a puddle while something cruel and unrecognizable in her had smiled. Her father’s absence had sat inside that fury like a blade, Thomas’s name somewhere beneath it, every ounce of grief transmuted into violence so complete it had felt holy in the moment and monstrous the second after. The memory left a bitter taste at the back of her throat, and June’s nails pressed harder into the table as she forced her expression smooth again, every inch of her posture immaculate despite the ugly pull of it all.

It was like they didn’t care. The words replayed in Myla’s mind until it snagged on her own memory and a realization that didn’t strike until that moment. She inhaled sharply, sitting a little more upright before her voice tentatively filled the silence like she was solving a puzzle openly in view of everyone else. "They attacked the Drakes openly," she reiterated. "And I don’t recall ever hearing sirens." Her brows furrowed as her head tilted slightly. "I mean, there are always sirens in New York, but none were coming toward me. There were countless gunshots, someone was thrown from a window… and nothing."

She adjusted in her seat, almost like the conversation and discomfort was sinking into her bones. Her body subconsciously drifted closer to Theo’s, like his warmth and gravity were her center. "I mean it’s obvious they don’t give a shit about law enforcement… but it’s more than that." Myla shook her head slowly, unable to find the words or the answer.

June had set the tablet down the moment Tobias began to speak, the soft clack of it against the polished table sounding unnaturally loud in the charged quiet that followed. She did not interrupt, did not shift beyond the faint, rhythmic tapping of the blunt edges of her nails against the tabletop, each measured click betraying the velocity of thought behind the stillness she wore so well. She listened to every word with the sort of focus that felt almost punishing, her dark eyes steady, her posture composed, while her mind raced backward through all the ways the night might have gone differently.

"Thank you," she said at last, her voice clear and level despite the heaviness threaded through it, her gaze lifting first to meet Imogen’s, then Tobias’s. "It was reckless, but you both did more than all of us last night. You took initiative and did exactly what my dad—" Her eyes flicked then, sharp and grim, to Magni, to Jim, to Theo, to Myla, the unspoken weight of legacy settling over the room like a second atmosphere. "What many of our fathers would have done. Thank you for doing what I didn’t think to do."

Her gaze slid then to Alfred, and the tapping of her nails resumed, quieter now, almost thoughtful, while something passed between them in that strange, familiar silence that had always existed between old loyalty and inherited burden. It was not a spoken exchange, but it might as well have been. Alfred’s stillness, the subtle set of his shoulders, the knowing patience in his face; June’s narrowed eyes, the faint downturn of her mouth, the frustration of conceding a truth she disliked on principle. Her lips curved upward, but only barely, and only into something grim and rueful. "They were right," she sighed, and there was a distinct note of annoyance in the admission, as though she deeply resented the correctness of it. "The team is our best bet." The words settled into the room with the weight of strategy and surrender both before she turned back toward Tobias, all business now, though the frown never fully left her mouth. "How many did you take down? Other than the sniper, were there any distinctive weapons?"

Tobias’s hand remained unwavering against Bellamy’s shoulder like an anchor to ground her as the world was falling apart around them. He remained stoic and steadfast, the only hint of movement coming from his thumb as it moved back and forth in slow, steady strokes against her shoulderblade. He didn’t know how to handle gratitude like he was a hero that deserved it. The weight of it sat awkward and uneasy like a stone on uneven ground. He couldn’t look up and accept the unspoken title of something he hadn’t earned. The best he could do was nod his head, acknowledging her words if nothing else.

When June asked how many, he looked up and answered without missing a beat. "Twelve." Tobias could see them standing beneath the downpour of rain, scattered among the trees, and illuminated by lightning as if they were standing right before him. He could recall the way the lug nuts embedded themselves into their skulls, and the way he turned the last man’s gun on him. But then he remembered the drive back and the quiver in Bellamy’s voice as the realization set in that she had taken two lives. Without thinking or hesitation, he held up his free hand slightly as if he had a temporary lapse of memory. "Fourteen," he corrected. "There were two stragglers." His gaze fell to Bellamy, only for a moment, just long enough for a conversation to pass in a glance, for a silent understanding to be set in stone that he could carry that burden too.

He then looked back up and across the table toward June as he shrugged slightly. "Standard issue pistols. Live ammunition. It didn’t seem like they were interested in taking hostages." Tobias looked up at the ceiling as he tried to recall anything of note. "They wore kevlar. I think the sniper had carbon fiber or something like that. I’m not entirely sure." His gaze fell and he caught a glimpse of the small cuts that speckled his arm, recalling the projectile that didn’t bend to his will similarly to the sniper’s weapon. "And a grenade. I tried to deflect it but couldn’t. There’s probably still pieces of shrapnel on the floorboard of my jeep if that helps."

A sad sort of smile weighed down the corners of Imogen’s lips. She leaned forward in her seat, resting her forearms against the edge of the table as she laced her fingers together. Her eyes squinted for a moment as she compared the various encounters that had transpired over the past couple of days. "Well…" Her voice cut through the stillness of the room in the way a politician’s did, measured and even with a natural sort of authority. "If we’ve learned one thing between June, Myla, and Bellamy—" She nodded her head toward each of the women as she spoke. "—it’s that they’re sloppy when it comes to unforeseen variables." A beat passed as she let her words sink in, tapping the tips of her thumbs together before continuing. "They were after Phil and got June. They wanted Myla, but then there was Theo. And then with Bellamy there was Tobias."

Her hands ran along the cool surface of the table like she was pressing fabric flat before pushing off the edge and slowly leaning back in her seat. "I agree with June," she added quietly with a weight heavier than her words could portray as her gaze drifted past Magni toward her. "I don’t know if I’d call us a team… yet." She sighed softly, brushing her damp hair back behind her ears. "But I think our numbers and this tower are the only things shielding us right now." Her gaze fell to the table, following the grain pattern along its surface as her hand found Magni’s, seeking the comfort of his warmth and strength.

"Teams typically follow the rules." Jim barked sarcastically, his eyes still focused on the dimming screen of June’s tablets as his mind still remained focused on the schematics she had shown. His feigned disinterest betrayed the new concern over this mysterious sniper. The proverbial chess match was escalating beyond the opening gambit now, offering counter plays to their own efforts already. They saved one by showing their hand, and closing an oversight or weakness their secretive enemy had overlooked. When Jim did look up, he didn’t look to Tobias or Bellamy. His gaze was levelled to his sister, bearing that same exhausted look he had since everyone had arrived. "Or do rules only apply to those of us without the right genes?"

The comment made Tobias’s body go rigid. The dig at mutants stirring something visceral in his core learned from years beneath his father’s tutelage. He could ignore anti-mutant sentiments and bluster around the world, but there was something that carved deeper when the slight came from someone he was supposed to be allies with… Someone he was supposed to trust. The muscle along his jaw tensed as his teeth grinded rather than letting his words escape. His hand upon Bellamy’s shoulder flinched, not like a tick, but like a twitch of subconscious control and restraint. With that singular, faint movement, the large conference table and all of the chairs in the room shifted a fraction of an inch closer with the quiet scuff of metal dragged across tile.

Bellamy said nothing, but the breath she pulled in was sharp enough to hurt, her eyes widening as Jim’s words landed with all the cold, ugly familiarity of something she had spent her whole life pretending she could outrun. She knew what the world thought of mutants, but she had not expected to hear it here, inside the walls that had taken her in, and suddenly every careless, cutting thing Jim had said earlier twisted into a harsher shape that made something in her lurch violently. The room gave a quiet scuff as the furniture shifted toward Tobias, drawn by the invisible pull of his restraint, and at the same time the air itself seemed to recoil with her, the temperature dropping sharply enough to bite at exposed skin, a sudden fifteen degree plunge that swept through the conference room like the first inhale before a storm. Bellamy pressed her hands hard against her thighs, fingers curling into tight fists in the fabric as if she could pin herself in place, stop the cold from spilling any further than it already had, and without even thinking she leaned just slightly into the hand at her shoulder, into Tobias, into the solid warmth of him, as though his touch were the only thing keeping her from fracturing open entirely.

Jim continued on before Imogen could offer another explosive reply, his eyes darting back towards Tobias at the front. "They managed to respond to your presence rather quickly, don’t you think?" He let that thought settle for a moment, tapping his fingers on his thigh like an impatient professor waiting for his students to answer a question. "They have powerful connections to law enforcement and track our every movement, and they were ready with a counter strategy… even if it didn’t hold up to testing. But now…" Jim leaned forward against the table, his gaze passing over the rest of the room. He had to bite his tongue, June’s presence next to him looming. He was growing more convinced that her paranoia was not unfounded, and knowing that some of the eyes staring back were plotting his very real demise was unsettling. He tried to hide it behind a pretentious frown. "They know we have our own Cerebro and someone who is willing to run off and play hero."

Imogen’s body didn’t go hot with anger, but cold as a chill trickled down her spine slowly, sinking into her bone before settling in the pit of her stomach. "Mutants?" The word was little more than an escaped breath of disbelief. Her head snapped around to face her brother, meeting the exhaustion behind his eyes with a silent fire that raged behind her own. "You’re making this about mutants?" At first her fingers tightened around Magni’s hand before quickly releasing their hold, if only to save him from being an undeserving outlet, even though she knew she couldn’t harm him. Her voice remained terrifyingly quiet and calculated as her anger didn’t present itself with her usual shouting and destruction, but a more unsettling sort of acceptance that sat deeper, rooted and unyielding.

"I found her with Cerebro." Each word was delivered meticulously, punctuated with a jab of her finger against the table and a sharp articulation. "Do you know how it works?" she asked with a venomous whisper and a small tilt of her head. "It seeks out people with the X gene… Mutants, Jim." Imogen’s gaze jumped back and forth between his eyes as if she was searching for her brother somewhere inside him, or perhaps just coming to terms with whomever was looking back at her. "I am sorry that we fucked up the little chess game that you’re playing in your head. I’m sorry that we didn’t do things exactly how you wanted." Her words fell with a devastating sincerity, quiet and cold. "I’m sorry that us mutants saved a life without needing your help. And I am so sorry that I forgot to play the part of your useless, stupid mutant sister for one night."

"Won’t happen again," she concluded with an immovable sort of finality that sat heavy in the silence of the room. Imogen pushed off the table and for a moment she considered getting up and leaving. J.A.R.V.I.S. recorded everything. She’d be able to watch it back later or stream it from another room. But this wasn’t about her or her hurt feelings. This was bigger than either one of them and for that reason and that reason only, she remained. She turned her chair until her back faced the rest of the room, only leaving Tobias and Bellamy within view as she quickly wiped her thumb beneath her eyes then crossed her arms over her chest.

Tobias studied Jim with a sharp sort of judgement that was plain across his face in the furrowing of his brows and the sharpness that lingered behind his eyes. He didn’t intend on saying anything, finding that tempering his anger and biting back his words often was the safest course of action… Until his attention settled on Imogen as she wiped a tear from her eyes. "Leave Imogen out of this," he snapped, meeting Jim’s gaze from across the room. "It was my idea. I went to her. You didn’t see what she went through…" He still remembered the fear in her eyes when she hooked herself to that damn machine. He recalled her labored breaths and pained whimpers which were the only sounds that filled her penthouse for minutes that passed like hours, and all he could do was watch the concern in Magni’s eyes as he sat beside her, unable to do anything. "If you wanna be pissy at someone for causing problems with their mutant privilege, then fine. But you direct that shit at me."

Bellamy watched it all unfold like someone trapped beneath ice, able to see every fracture spidering outward while the sound of it came to her muffled and wrong, the room narrowing around her until it felt less like a conference room and more like a vice slowly tightening. It was irrational, but every sharp word felt like it traced back to her, to the fact that she had needed saving at all, to Tobias breaking rules for her, to Imogen risking herself for her, to this whole ugly, splintering moment that seemed to bloom outward from the space she occupied. If she had not been there, if she had not survived, if she had not become a problem people had to solve, maybe none of this would be happening. The thought came cruel and fast, crueler still because some part of her believed it. Her ears rang so loudly it was almost a physical thing, drowning out the edges of voices, while her eyes burned hot enough that blinking did nothing to ease them, and her shoulders had begun to shake before she even fully realized it, small, involuntary tremors she could not seem to stop. Then, almost without thought, Bellamy reached up and caught Tobias’s hand in hers, a quiet, desperate little act, fingers cold and trembling where they wrapped around him, because she needed the proof of him there more than she needed breath in that moment.

His warmth grounded her instantly, startling in its solidity, and she clung to it as if it were the only fixed point in a room threatening to collapse inward, feeling in the tension of his hand and the fierce, restrained shape of him beside her the clearest thing she had learned since meeting him. That this, too, was how Tobias protected people, not only with necessary violence, but with stepping into the line of fire without hesitation, with taking ugliness onto himself if it meant someone else did not have to bear it alone.

June turned toward Jim with maddening slowness, the motion smooth and measured enough to feel deliberate in its restraint. For a moment, her expression gave him almost nothing at all, no visible flare of temper, no sharp recoil, just that eerily flat stillness that somehow felt worse, as though every harsher instinct in her had been caught behind her teeth and held there by force. But the anger was there all the same, bright and disciplined beneath the surface, because he had chosen this moment, with Bellamy still shaking, and Tobias laying out critical information, with a sniper still unaccounted for, and too many questions left unanswered, to take a shot at his sister. Her dark eyes searched his face for a beat too long, not confused, not even surprised, but assessing, as though she now needed to decide if Jim was the liability.

"If you’d like to workshop policy, Jim, I’m sure Phil will be delighted to do so after the meeting," she said, her voice low and level and cool, so calm it nearly passed for gentle if not for the steel threaded through every syllable. One of her blunt nails tapped against the table once, a small, precise sound in the quiet before her gaze flicked briefly toward Imogen, then Tobias, then Bellamy, as if reminding the room, and Jim, what actually mattered. "Right now, we have a surviving witness, a hostile force that anticipated Tobias specifically, and a sniper still at large. I’d prefer if we didn’t waste anyone’s time with your insistence at a public family theater act."

Her head tipped slightly then, just enough to sharpen the next words without ever raising her voice, the sort of composure that made the reprimand land harder because it didn’t need volume. Her nail tapped the table harder this time. "For the record, if the implication was that anyone in this room is afforded special treatment because of what they can do on a genetic level, I don’t believe anything Imogen said suggested that. So, unless your intention was to insult literally everyone at this table, I fail to see the relevance."

June turned away from Jim, the set of her shoulders stayed immaculate, but there was something colder in the line of her spine now, something that made it clear the leash on her temper was still being held in a white knuckled grip. Insults in meetings like this were a petty distraction, there were better ways for someone of Jim’s intelligence to voice his discomfort and anger at the circumstances of Bellamy’s arrival, and frankly it was insulting that someone she knew was so smart would result to insults during a professional meeting. She looked back to Tobias, as if the interruption had already been filed, categorized, and discarded for the time being, her focus narrowing cleanly back into the shape of the problem in front of them.

Magni had placed a hand on Imogen's knee, squeezing with such a delicate touch that managed to hide just how strong he was. His own anger had flared in his mind at Jim's outburst, his mind cycling to Imogen's own admissions and insecurities she had shared in the short time they knew each other. Tobias' response was a fitting defense, tempered in a way the god could not be in that moment. When Magni's eyes locked onto his target, the exhausted sack of a man, his anger was marginally tempered. Maturity won out.

The god rose to his feet slowly, doing his best to let the meeting continue as his steps brought him to the other end of the table. He leaned down, a hand grabbing onto Jim's shoulder with the firmness of a brick wall. His tone was surprisingly even. "We will share words." Without leaving room for argument, Magni pulled the man into the air. The chair rolled listlessly away while Jim struggled for a moment on instinct. When his feet managed to find solid footing on the ground, Magni let go. Jim's wide eyes were directed at his manhandler for but a moment, before his eyes trailed down the god's arms. The calculations were done rather quickly, all coming to the same conclusion: they were leaving, and there was only one way it would happen with a shred of dignity intact. Jim swiftly shuffled his way around the end of the table and towards the door, doing his best to avoid Imogen and Tobias while his gaze remained fixed towards the floor. Magni, all the while, followed like a jailor leading a man back to his cell. When the two left, Magni made sure to close the door slowly behind them with a quick nod offered to his partner and his old friend.

Imogen had been absently running her right hand along her white pants in a self-soothing manner, pressing the wrinkles in the fabric flat against her legs as if it was the one thing in the room she had control over. The muscles in her throat ached from the restraint of holding back frustrated tears she didn’t want to let escape in front of everyone. Magni’s words cut through the room, even and tempered, but with a strength he didn’t need to flaunt. It nearly drew her attention, but she kept her gaze forward, only to avoid seeing her brother seated somewhere beyond him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the wall behind Bellamy and Tobias until Jim shuffled past and cut across her field of view with Magni looming behind him like a golden warden. Something in her chest tightened at the sight, not anger or frustration, but a warmth that swelled so violently beneath her ribs that it stole her breath. She felt the anger coursing through his thoughts, heard the gentle threats laced with wisdom that he was preparing to share, and in that moment she realized with a shocking clarity that no one had ever stood up in her defense like that before. Imogen was always quick to protect those she cared about, like she had that morning, but now with the roles reversed she found herself at a loss for words, staring at the door he vanished behind with a deep feeling she was almost frightened to define.

Bellamy’s story had settled over the room like smoke, and somewhere in the middle of it Zaria found herself inching closer to James without consciously deciding to do so, as if his presence alone could soften the ache that kept blooming in her chest. The grief in the room was raw enough to feel against her skin, and then Jim spoke—sharp and ugly and so startlingly cruel that for one stunned second her mind seemed to blank around the sheer audacity of it. After that, everything happened at once. Chairs scraped, bodies shifted, the air itself seemed to tighten coldly, and her hand moved on instinct beneath the table until her fingers closed around James’s, seeking anchor before she’d even realized she was reaching.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop by degrees as outrage unfurled in near perfect unison; Imogen like frost and fury, Tobias with the lethal calm of someone far more dangerous than shouting ever suggested, June slicing him apart with surgical precision, and then Magni rose like he’d decided Jim needed the physical embodiment of consequence. Zaria barely had time to process the sight of the smaller man being lifted from his chair like a cat being lifted by the scruff of its neck before he was being marched toward the door under divine muscle escort, the entire room still humming with the aftershock of it. When she turned toward James, she found him looking back at her in the exact same instant, both of them wide eyed and blinking as if silently asking whether that had really just happened. Surely there was no way for this meeting to spiral further.

James’s gaze fell beneath the table when he felt Aria’s fingers curl around his hand like he was the one thing within the room that wasn’t set to implode. While he understood, somewhere deep inside, that it was a reflex—she was startled from the cold and the shift of furniture scraping across the room—that realization was lost beneath a sea of other thoughts… Thoughts that focused on the softness of her skin contrasting the rough callouses of his palms and the remnants of grease that clung to the edges of his nails that no amount of soap could remove. He sort of just stared at it for a moment in temporary disbelief and confusion before his fingers slowly, tentatively curled around hers because that was what she wanted… Right? When his gaze finally lifted from the touch that seemed to erase all other thoughts, his expression was a mirror of Aria’s confusion but for entirely different reasons.

The moment his fingers curled back around hers, something inside Zaria seemed to stutter. Her heart gave a strange, breathless flutter against her ribs, and heat rushed up the column of her throat to bloom hot across her cheeks. For one suspended second she was acutely aware of everything, the roughness of his palm against hers, the impossible steadiness of his hand closing around hers like it belonged there. She didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. Instead, beneath the table and hidden from everyone else, her fingers tightened around his in a small, instinctive squeeze, silent, trembling at the edges, and full of something she wasn’t sure how to name.

June’s jaw flexed, but she didn’t look at Magni as he escorted Jim out. She trusted Magni not to hurt him too badly, at this point she was beginning to trust Magni’s judgment more than Jim’s. "Twelve is a lot for someone inexperienced, no offense Bellamy. Myla, Theo, would you say there were about twelve?" She turned toward the pair, lips pursed as her mind, distracted by Jim, forced itself back on track with a fierceness that could be startling. "There was only one for me, but he was a mutant, he was manipulating my emotions. They’ve now failed three times in quick succession, though, which means if I were them…" Her voice trailed off for a moment, and the blunt edges of her nails began to tap against the table in a quick, thoughtful rhythm as her mind slid several moves ahead.

Myla inhaled sharply, shifting awkwardly in her seat. The last thing she wanted in this ticking time bomb of a conference room was to have the attention on her, not after the shit she dealt with when she arrived and especially not after all that. She swallowed, taking a measured breath before turning more directly toward June. "It’s hard to recall an exact number, but I believe we each handled at least four." Her head turned a fraction more toward Theo in the silent way that asked for him to correct her if she was wrong. "No snipers or mutants that I’m aware of."

Theo’s thumb swept over the back of Myla’s knuckles, a subconscious effort to soothe her as he tried to recall exactly how many he’d taken down. It was embarrassingly blurry, he’d been so angry, so scared that he wouldn’t make it in time, that she’d die before he could get to her… he swallowed hard, and tried to focus, squeezing her hand gently, like she was something precious that he was still learning how to treasure. "There were eight inside, but at least four more outside. They had lookouts, people watching the building and the block. I don’t think they cared if anyone innocent got wrapped up in their clusterfuck, but they didn’t want any interruptions." He offered a half shrug, eyes flicking around the room uneasily as he took in how tense everyone was. Talk about uncomfortable. "I went in through the window," he added helpfully, hoping to diffuse the tension. "They didn’t see me coming, a common issue with spiders, I've heard."

June hummed to herself as she took in that information. If Imogen was watching closely, it was almost unnerving to see. June’s focus narrowed not on any one person in the room, but on the invisible board assembling itself behind her eyes. Every piece shifted in relation to the others, what they already knew, who on their team altered the equation, what variables remained unseen, what patterns echoed the other disappearances she had dissected over and over, until they were practically seared into her brain. She wasn’t viewing the team as pawn pieces to be moved, not in the same sense as Jim. It was more like it was the only way she could devise a solid tactic, laying it all out in a more visual manner so she could anticipate the next move coming, and how to counteract it. She could almost feel the shape of the enemy’s next move forming in the negative space between what had gone wrong and what had gone right.

"I’d change my methods," she said at last, the words precise and clipped as she followed the logic to its inevitable conclusion. "Imogen is right, they are sloppy when it comes to unseen variables, and by now they’re coming to that same conclusion. So, they’ll adjust. More hard hitters on the teams, greater control of the field, if they failed to contain more than one target because they underestimated the variables, they won’t make the same mistake anymore."

Her tone was grim, and when she flicked her gaze toward Phil, he gave a single nod that told her he had reached the same conclusion. "They’ll start carrying multiple ways to subdue targets, they’ll start to try and draw us out intentionally." She grimaced faintly then, blinking once as if resurfacing from somewhere deeper. Her gaze swept across the room again, lingering on Alfred as her stomach twisted. "That’s what I would do, if we’re unlucky that’s exactly what they’ll start doing." she said quietly, the weight of it settling into the room before her mouth curved into something humorless. "And to be frank, none of us are particularly known for our good luck right now."

Myla took the now warm ice pack from her lap and discarded it onto the table in front of her with a soft thud. She slipped her free hand between her crossed legs with a soft sigh as she ran her attack back through her mind with a clarity she wished to forget. Her thoughts turned into a web as threads connected one attack to another, highlighting similarities in approach and tactics like she was attempting to reverse engineer a battle strategy. "They’re patient." The words slipped out quietly, more of an observation that escaped than a fully formed thought. She inhaled softly before raising her head slightly to face the rest of the room. "I have no idea how long they were staking out my uncle’s apartment, but I hadn’t been there more than five minutes when they arrived."

Her thumb lightly tapped against the side of Theo’s thumb as she took a second to organize her thoughts before continuing. "Tobias mentioned yesterday that they waited until he was asleep and used power dampening collars." Myla shrugged slightly. "I mean, think about it. Attacking an omega level mutant openly… with someone equally as powerful? That’s suicide." Her head slowly turned toward the front of the room where Bellamy sat with her fingers clinging to Tobias’s like he was her only lifeline in a storm of chaotic powers and bigger egos. She blinked once, choosing her wording carefully before continuing. "I agree with Bellamy’s assumption. I think the target was her father. If I had to guess she arrived when pieces were already set in motion. They had to improvise and… she was a liability."

Imogen swept her hand along the edge of the table as she slowly turned back around to face the room without the concern of being faced with more insults from her brother or seeing his judgemental expression out of the corner of her eye. Her gaze slowly drifted across the various faces before setting on Phil. "Phil was right." The moment the words left her lips the man looked back at her with raised brows and an expression that said he was considering marking the occasion in his calendar, but he didn't interrupt. "If any of us needs to leave this tower, we can not go alone." Her head then slowly turned back toward the front of the room. "Even you, Tobias. They may not want you now, but how many more times can you ruin their plans before they stop caring about their directive and get vengeful?"

"But… that’s not all," Imogen continued with a soft sigh. "I don’t know if we can risk leaving with just anyone." The words came out slow and measured, like they pained her to admit them and she was trying to have a bit more tact and sympathy than her brother. "Some of us are inexperienced." She motioned to herself and then to Bellamy with a small, fragile smile of understanding. "While others are incredibly talented… but human." Her gaze then shifted to Myla before settling on June. She hated having to lay everything out so plainly, but they were also facts that none of them could ignore, herself included. "I hate to admit it, but none of us should leave without someone incredibly powerful to join us… People like Magni, Tobias, or James."

When his name was called, James’s eyes lifted from where they had been staring at a small tear in his jeans, trying his best to remain as invisible as possible during all the huffing and infighting. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he ran his free hand along his thigh. "I… Yeah, I guess that would make sense." His gaze flicked to Aria for a fraction of a second before finding its way back to Imogen. "I might not be the best company, but as long as you all don’t mind backpacking…" He shrugged his shoulders, agreeing with a nonverbal ease that felt strange in a room whose lifeblood was tension and underhanded insults.

June let out a hard breath through her nose, the sound quiet but sharp enough to cut through the tail end of James’s agreement. For a fleeting second her eyes stayed on Imogen, and there was no anger in them, not exactly, only that peculiar stillness that came when something had struck deeper than she intended to let anyone see. Then she gave a small shrug, loose and almost careless in shape, the kind of gesture meant to pass for indifference if no one looked too closely.

It was the logical solution, the safest one, she knew that. But logic did very little for the ugly, involuntary twist low in her stomach, for the ache that bloomed mean and private beneath her ribs at hearing herself sorted so neatly into the category of talented, but human—as though all the years of bruised knuckles, sleepless nights, sharpened instincts, and relentless effort could never amount to anything more than almost good enough. It didn’t matter how much stronger she became, how much she learned to bleed and keep moving, not when there would always be people in the room who could level walls with their bare hands and call it restraint. Her father had not been one of them, neither had Thomas. And for one terrible, irrational moment, that old grief twisted itself into something quieter and crueler; and neither am I.

She could not make herself look at Imogen again, because she was right, and in some ways she’d always be a bigger liability than anyone else on the team, than even Jim and his iron suits. Instead, her gaze drifted to the window, to the glossy reflection of the room cast faintly over the pool, and her jaw set hard enough that the line of it turned sharp. Anyone who knew her well enough might have recognized the look, like she was either trying not to cry or trying very hard not to let herself feel anything at all. When she spoke, her voice was light by design, but the strain in it was impossible to fully disguise, tension pulled thin beneath polished ease. "Alright then," she said, almost breezy if one ignored the way her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the table. "Which one of you wants to come with me to the funeral, then? Because I’m going regardless of what anyone says." The words landed into the room with a weight heavier than their casual phrasing allowed, and the silence that followed might have held, might have stretched into something solemn or careful, if not for the sharp, ill timed sound of Luke’s laugh breaking through it like a match tossed into dry tinder.

Imogen’s eyes slowly closed with a measured breath in place of words when she heard the way her own words landed heavier like an anchor dropped too soon, dragging across the seabed leaving behind a scar. It felt like since the moment she stepped off that plane the entire world had shifted off its axis a few degrees. She was no longer the peace she sought to be, but the nail that picked at a sore until it was raw… unhelpful. Imogen had grown into the type of woman who didn’t look for her place in a room, but demanded it, and since leaving Krakoa she felt herself shrinking away with every misstep. There was a part of her, dark and peeking out from the recesses of her mind, that wondered if maybe Jim and Luke were right.

Before her thoughts could linger in that dangerous territory, she swallowed and forced her eyes open. Her hand slid along the surface of the table attempting to bridge the space of empty chairs between her and June like an apology or an olive branch or… She didn’t know. "June, I—" she began, her voice more gentle and quiet than the strong presence she often exuded. But whatever words that were planned to follow were cut off by a chuckle that tore through the room like nails on a chalkboard.

For one brief, fragile moment, June softened. The rigid line of her shoulders eased, and her eyes flicked to Imogen’s hand as it slid across the table toward her, something tender and wounded moving beneath the surface of her carefully held composure. She almost lifted her own hand in return, instinctively, as if to meet her halfway and spare them both the distance that had opened between them. But then Luke laughed. The sound split through the room like a blade dragged across glass, and June froze mid breath, whatever fragile thing had begun to mend snapping taut again. Her head turned toward him in one sharp, elegant motion, the shift so quick it felt surgical, and her mouth curled faintly, not into a smile, but into the barest flash of unvarnished irritation before the rest of her expression smoothed back into something cool and lethal. Luke, of course, looked entirely too comfortable, slouched back in his chair as though the tension in the room was his own private entertainment, one arm draped lazily while that infuriating half smile tugged at his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to be unbearable. "What exactly is funny, Rogers?" June asked, her tone exquisitely controlled, each syllable smoothed into something deceptively even that somehow made the question feel sharper than if she had spat it.

Luke gave a lazy shrug, expression bright in the way that made people want to hit him on principle, the grin on his face edging just crooked enough to feel deliberate. "Nothing, really," he murmured, though his mouth betrayed him by widening. His gaze slid around the table with theatrical innocence before landing back on June, and there was something almost playful in the cruelty of the next line. "Are we all invited, or only the people Imogen thinks are strong enough?" The words dropped like a knife, and for the briefest moment June went utterly still, the kind of stillness that always meant she was one heartbeat away from saying something she may regret later.

James’s fingers curled the faintest bit tighter around Aria’s hand, brows furrowing as Captain Fuck Face felt the need to fill the tension in the room with his special breed of assholeness. His brows furrowed, gaze remaining fixed on a small knot of wood in the table but restraint… Well, it was never one of his strong suits. His left hand balled and became engulfed in hellfire beneath the table. Then in a single swift extension of his arm, his fist slammed into the side of Luke’s ribs, putting what little restraint he did possess into making sure he didn’t send his hand straight through the fucker’s chest cavity. It wasn’t enough force to do any serious damage or break any bones, but there would be a bruise, undoubtedly.

"If you have nothing constructive to add, then do us all a favor, and shut the fuck up," he commented dryly, not even sparing the douche a sidelong glance as he shook his hand in the air. Flame emblazoned bones vanished as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind his normal calloused and greased stained fingers.

Luke hissed sharply as the punch landed, the breath leaving him in a rough, involuntary grunt while pain flared hot along his ribs. His hand snapped to his side on instinct, fingers pressing there as his face twisted for a split second before he forced it smooth again. When he turned his head toward James, his lip curled—not just in pain, but in open disgust, blue eyes narrowing into something sharp and ugly. "Charming," he drawled, voice tight and edged like a blade. "Careful, wouldn’t want you messing up your little meat suit trying to play white knight."

A humorless smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, mean and deliberate, as his eyes flicked to Zaria. "Though I suppose when your whole personality is possession and posturing, subtlety was never really on the table." His smile turned mocking, but so deliberately sweet it was practically dripping. "That’s fine, I’ll leave the insults to Jim, he does well enough on his own."

Meanwhile outside in the hallway…

"You will cease with your vicious barbs."

Magni stood uncomfortably close to Jim, who had backed himself against a wall down the hallway from the all-tower meeting. While his voice was at a reasonable volume, his tone was resolute. All pretense of the jovial and carefree spirit had disappeared, replaced with the sober demands of the warrior prince. "I will not tolerate thy undermining of thy sister's character any further, nor the reputation of my friends."

"If a few words are enough to tear apart the egos of this team, we've already lost." Jim was defiant as ever, even when staring a god in the face. The rapid inhales and refusal to make eye contact betrayed the inner turmoil of his mind, even to a visitor from a foreign realm. He had always been tough to discipline, and he hated authority. He fought against any situation that made him feel small, and his small frame was dwarfed by the titanic mass of his sister's new boy toy. It was only natural he would lash out.

Magni shook his head, letting out a tired sigh. "You are the one appearing weak by thy own actions." He let the statement linger for a moment, his arms folded across his chest as he let loose a powerful exhale through his nostrils. "Tobias hath proven himself to many in that room time and time again. He risked his life to save a woman in need of aid. Thy sister strained herself to her limits last night using some infernal contraption to aid him. What has thou done but whine and mock and tease the warriors thou hast called to wage war?"

Jim scoffed, shaking his own head with a smug smirk that hid the momentary flash of surprise in Magni's description. She had never told him about how taxing the device was. If he had known, he could have helped… fix it? Improve it? She knew the device better than he did, it was unlikely he'd know how to even adjust the parameters effectively. And yet… the accusation he was doing nothing was a grave insult all its own. "You're right, I'm not doing anything but drink beer and punch robots and have loud public sex," he muttered sarcastically, his eyes lit by a defiant spark. "You're the one making all the plans, right? Studying the data we have, having satellites scan the entire fucking planet for any sign of our missing families. You're the one designing new weapons and suits for everyone too, right? You're fixing the tower, making sure everyone can waste all their days making goo-goo eyes at each other like this is spring break and not the end of the world, right?"

Magni nodded his head, letting Jim vent out his frustrations. When the rant was finished, he let out a bemused hum as a nostalgic smile graced his lips. "My father spoke highly of yours, Stark."

A dull silence filled the air between them for a moment. Jim's brows furrowed in confusion, his speeding thoughts crashing to a halt by the sudden shift in direction. "What?"

Magni continued to smile as he lifted a hand to brush the stubble on his cheek. "My father said that thy father was a brilliant man, a master craftsman and a brave warrior that could rival near any in Asgard," he recalled fondly, shaking his head. "Though… he had a great flaw. One that thou hast inherited."

Jim clicked his tongue in frustration, already bored of the godling's lecture. "Yeah? And what was that, using too many big words?"

Magni lifted a finger, pressing it against Jim's chest. "He thought wars were won by singular tacticians alone." Jim struggled under the immense weight of the single point of contact. As the fingertip pressed against his sternum, he could feel the pressure preventing his lungs from expanding on a full inhale. He could not bend, turn, or do much more than stare in dawning horror at the man's strength. He was, reluctantly, forced to acknowledge Magni's words, even as the god continued. "How many wars hast thou won? How many battles hath thou suffered?" With each question, Magni pressed the finger a little harder for emphasis. His face remained firm, his eyes studying Jim's panic with sadness.

It was hard to breathe, and harder to choke out a response. "They'll target her." Magni removed his finger from Jim's chest. The genius doubled over in pain and frustration, letting out a shuddered gasp as he sunk to the floor. After a few shallow breaths, the words flowed. "They'll use mutants as bait. They'll lure her out. They'll take her too. I can't… I shouldn't have… I can't lose her."

Magni loomed over Jim, taking in his blabbering confession as he mulled over the words. His words softened. "Thou shall lose her," he declared calmly, lowering himself down to a knee and placing a hand on Jim's shoulder. "Thou wilt lose everything… nay, we shall lose everything if thou cannot stop waging thy war against thy only allies."

Jim's head dipped between his knees, nodding slowly as he took in the god's words. He didn't have a response, a barb, or a sarcastic comment to offer. He didn't have the strength to fight further.

"I swear to keep Imogen safe from all adversaries who would dare harm her," Magni promised, his tone growing serious once again. He pushed Jim's shoulder back, forcing the man's head to rock back enough to look him in the eyes. "I do not wish, for her sake, that thou wilt be one of them." The threat was clear, concise, and sincere. He prayed that Jim was smart enough to heed it. Once he was certain the message was clear, Magni rose to his feet and slowly walked back towards the conference room.

"Thou wilt apologize to Imogen when thou art ready to atone. And I would advise that thou not trouble any of our comrades further," he called over his shoulder, before entering back into the meeting once again.

Jim remained frozen for a moment, his head pressed back against the wall as he let out a deep sigh. He didn't want to go back. He'd rather just return to his lab and work on his projects. And yet, he slowly rose to his feet and shuffled his way back to the conference room, slipping inside quietly while avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Imogen’s face had gone pale from Luke’s words as the sharpness settled just between her ribs. A million rebuttals ran across her mind: barbs, insults, defenses… But they all slipped away as quickly as they appeared. Her gaze fell to the table splayed beneath her extended arm as she slowly withdrew, dragging her palm along the cool surface. For a brief moment she considered standing up and simply walking out, getting lost somewhere in the tower no one would find her or perhaps sitting at the dock until the sunset came and went. But then the door opened and in walked Magni with Jim following slowly behind. Her gaze followed them both as they crossed the room. Just as a sliver of their thoughts started creeping into her mind, and she flipped the switch, severing the connection before she heard any other truths she could not handle while trapped in that room. Her arms crossed over her chest as she sank silently back into her seat, gaze unfocused and lost somewhere among the grain pattern of the table.

Magni settled into his chair beside Imogen, his hand naturally sliding in place just above the knee. He gave a reassuring squeeze, his thoughts trying to make clear that the matter was settled. He glanced in Tobias’ direction, giving him a small nod to signal he had taken care of the issue with Jim. The mood somehow seemed to have twisted slightly more volatile in a way he hadn't expected. Jim, for his part, seemed oblivious as he awkwardly shuffled around towards his chair, unable to look June in the eyes as he carefully sat down. He took a deep breath, his eyes glancing towards the glasses he left on the table. His eyes narrowed at a small flashing light in the lenses, an alert he had set up following his morning briefing with the tower's systems. Jim plucked the glasses, putting them on and tapping the side to watch a small security feed in the lens. He couldn't help but flash a small, incredulous smirk as he waited for the next shoe to drop.

June felt the shift in the room before she fully registered Jim taking his seat again, the quiet scrape of the chair against the floor somehow louder than it should have been. Her spine tensed almost instantly, every muscle along her shoulders and back drawing tight in a reflex she could not quite hide, and though her gaze flicked toward him for the briefest of moments, she did not speak. Whatever sat unresolved between them stayed there, sharp and humming and far too raw to risk touching in a room already full of fractures. Instead, she rose. The motion was smooth and immediate, almost too controlled, as though movement itself was easier than remaining still beside him, and she turned away before anyone could study what had tightened in her face, until he apologized to Imogen and the others for being so bluntly racist.... her attention shifted cleanly to Tobias, her posture settling back into something composed and command steady even as the tension still lived visibly in the line of her shoulders. "Is there anything else useful?" she asked, voice even and precise, already dragging the conversation back toward the shape of the problem rather than the people threatening to splinter beneath it. "Anything we should be changing immediately to keep the tower more secure for now?"

Tobias had remained silent for the most part, observing rather than partaking. When June looked back at him he sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself to stand up straighter as eyes quickly followed. While he may have had two run-ins with these people, he didn’t claim to be an expert by any means. He tried to think of anything else, but only managed to shake his head. "I… No, I don’t think so. Nothing we haven’t already done."

June held his gaze for a beat longer, studying the careful honesty in his answer even as her mind was already moving far beyond it, spiraling outward into new, unwelcome possibilities. If the people hunting Bellamy had anticipated Tobias, then the tower itself could become compromised next. Watched and probed for weaknesses they had not yet accounted for. The thought rearranged her mental list at once, priorities shifting and slotting into new order with ruthless efficiency. Better external surveillance, access points, contingencies, evacuation routes, internal response times, backup systems. She went still for only a second, but in that brief pause her expression tightened, the strain of it flickering plainly across her face, an exhaustion so deep it felt as though it had settled into the marrow of her bones.

Then, just as quickly, she tucked it away, smoothing herself back into something composed and sharp edged. "Alright," she said quietly, her voice carrying cleanly through the room as she folded her arms loosely across her chest. Her eyes swept across the table, dark and calculating, every inch of her already three steps ahead. "No one leaves alone. No one leaves without telling someone where they’re going. And if anyone notices anything unusual, anything at all, you tell me, or Phil, Alfred, Imogen, or Jim immediately… please."

Outside the meeting room, Jules came to an abrupt stop a few paces from the door. She readjusted her suit, wincing as she could feel the swirl of possible outcomes slosh in her skull. There was a high chance they reacted negatively, but she had her story clear. She was called in regarding an anomaly by the IHA, and it turned out to be a 20-something Asgardian who promised she was here to help. It was stupid, so incredibly stupid that it was a truth they couldn't reasonably deny. So, Jules turned to face Rune with a tight-lipped smile before speaking softly. "Just follow behind me… and introduce yourself to everyone." It was a simple order, one she trusted the god to be able to manage. Without further pomp, Jules spun around and made for the door to the meeting room. She gripped the handle, took a breath, and opened it.

June had just drawn in a breath to speak after a beat, waiting to see if anyone had anything else to add, but when they didn’t, she carried onwards diligently. "Before we adjourn, I’m working on bracelets for everyone in the event someone is taken, with Jim’s assistance," she began, voice crisp and composed as her fingers brushed lightly against the table’s edge. "Each one will have built-in assistance tailored to the wearer, metal Tobias can manipulate, extra web cartridges for Theo, things of that nature. If anyone has specific requests, tell me now or send them to J.A.R.V.I.S. I can have prototypes ready within three days—"

The door opened rather swiftly, with Jules letting out a beleaguered sigh and flashing an apologetic grimace as she saw everyone was already gathered and seated around the table. Her eyes naturally gravitated towards June at the opposite end, smartly dressed and standing as if she owned the space. In hindsight, she did really co-own pretty much the entire building. Jules let everyone's gaze draw in her direction before she spoke through heavy breaths. "Sorry I'm late, I was called in for an emergency and well…" Her voice trailed off as her gaze drifted towards Bellamy. There was a faint look of confusion on her face, as if questioning how or why there was a new face. Maybe she was the reason for the meeting. It was convenient timing. Jules offered the stranger a polite nod. "It looks like I'm not the only one introducing a new face," Jules jested half-heartedly, turning her head back towards the hallway. "Rune… why don't you introduce yourself."

Rune stepped into the room as though she had been invited into sunlight. For a fleeting instant, she lingered just beyond the threshold, framed by the open doorway and the bright hall behind her, all teal wool and impossible plaid and gleaming white knit layered beneath the sort of coat that seemed to have lost a fight with a paint box. The dreadful heels she had earlier abandoned now dangled from two fingers in one hand, swaying lightly beside the little soot sprite purse tucked against her hip. There was nothing self conscious in her posture, nothing wary or defensive. She entered with all the buoyant, wholehearted enthusiasm of a creature who had never once learned to brace for rejection, and the effect of it was almost blinding.

June’s words stopped dead. Her head turned, prepared for annoyance at best, only for Jules to step in—and then the stranger behind her came fully into view. For one catastrophic, silent beat, June simply stared. Her face visibly blanched, every thought in her head short circuiting at once as her dark eyes swept over the aggressively teal coat, the rainbow cap, the lemon earrings, the soot sprite purse, the white stilettos, the pink bag, the tinted glasses… an entire war crime of styling choices layered together with the confidence of someone who had never once been told no. She was so profoundly, spiritually horrified by the fashion cartography before her that for perhaps the first time in recorded history, Juniper Wayne was momentarily too stunned to speak.

Rune smiled a bright, open thing that transformed her whole face at once, warm as sunrise over fresh frost, eager and guileless and entirely unaware that her mere existence, let alone her outfit, had detonated in the center of the room like a glitter bomb hurled by fate itself. She lifted her free hand in a jaunty little wave, fingers fluttering with cheerful confidence, and if there was tension thick as wire strung between the gathered heroes, Rune either did not notice it or mistook it for anticipation.

“Good morning,” she said, and her voice carried strange music in it, formal and clear, touched by an accent that was not quite British and not quite anything earthly at all, the cadence elegant and old fashioned, softened by something distant and unmistakably Asgardian. It rolled through the room like a bell struck in an unfamiliar temple. “I am Rune Helasdottir.”

She gave a small, almost ceremonial incline of her head, though the motion was undermined slightly by the fact that she was visibly bouncing on the balls of her feet, unable to keep still for more than a breath beneath the sheer force of her own excitement. “Daughter of Hela, sovereign of Hel,” she continued brightly, as though this were not an introduction likely to alarm at least half the room. “My mother sent me in answer to your call for aid, and I have come to offer what assistance I may.” Her smile widened, dazzling and earnest and just a touch breathless. “I am exceedingly pleased to be here.”

And then, because silence clearly had no place in her joy, the words simply kept coming.

“Truly, I am. I have never before belonged to a team, you see, and I have always wished to know what such a thing might feel like. There were chariot races, of course, that the spirits sometimes arranged, which did involve multiple participants and occasional shouting, but I am not wholly certain those qualify as proper teamwork, as several of the contestants did attempt to sabotage one another, and all of them were quite dead long before the race began, which rather complicated the judging.” There was not the faintest trace of irony in her expression. She said it all with the bright sincerity of someone recounting a fond childhood memory.

“In any case, I am hopeful that this shall be different.” She clasped both hands briefly in front of herself, the heels swinging absurdly from her fingers like some strange ceremonial offering. “Also, I should confess that I very much dislike hiking. I had to do quite a lot of it to reach this place, before I met with Jules who very kindly offered me assistance with the big metal contraption she operated, and I found it considerably less romantic than stories suggest. So, if there is not to be much of that in future, I should count it a tremendous blessing.”

Her shoulders lifted in a tiny, graceful shrug, almost sheepish now, though the excitement still radiated from her in waves. She looked around the table with unabashed interest, green eyes bright and curious as they moved from face to face, taking each of them in as though they were marvels rather than strangers. There was compassion there, too, threaded through the wonder, something gentle beneath all that glittering enthusiasm. Something observant, even if it wore delight like a banner. “But I am very happy to meet all of you,” she finished, and for the first time her voice softened, sincerity settling into it like gold leaf into lacquer. “It is an honor to stand in the company of those who answered such a call. I do hope you will have me.”

Then she beamed again, luminous and wholly sincere, still swaying lightly in place with all the misplaced, irrepressible energy of a golden retriever who had bounded into a war council believing, with her entire heart, that she had just arrived at a birthday party.

The second Rune had stepped into the room, Magni's eyes narrowed. It was hard to place what exactly had tipped him off that she wasn't Midgardian. Having grown up in Asgard and spending much of his adult years in the realms, it just became an instinct. This woman reeked of something he did not well know, for Hel had been forbidden for him to tread. When she spoke, he recognized the accent as Asgardian adjacent. Her words and dialect were far more mortal though. It wasn't until she spoke her name that the reality solidified in his mind.

At that point, Magni's thoughts spiraled with the sound and force of an angry mob. Hela was one of the few beings in all the realms who would have the strength and cunning to deal with the mighty Thor. She had always sought a greater station, and to seek revenge on the family that had all but banished her to the lowest rungs of Yggdrasil. He had a hard time believing that any mortal could have subdued his father, and the sight of the offspring over such a villainous god made clear that there may have been divine influence in the disappearances. The foes they shared were more formidable than he could have possibly imagined.

Every word Rune uttered further damned her complicity in the grand machinations he had sworn to dismantle. To be sent by Hela, with such saccharine words and a jester-like appearance… it was all a ruse or trap. She was sent to kill them, or spy on them, or harvest their souls for some grand design. This Rune was a villain, an enemy, to his friends and his entire realm. She was his foe, and he had dealt with far mightier ones than her. He needed to move quickly, decisively, and with purpose. He needed to shatter her jaw and rip off her hands before she could manage a spell. He needed to kill her before she could kill him.

Magni's hand shifted from Imogen's thigh, his other hand resting on the table as his muscles began to tense. He waited for Rune to finish speaking before he made his move. He was swift, and the slight movement he managed was devastating. The chair beneath him shot backwards and impaled itself into the wall. His feet scooped small craters in the linoleum and concrete beneath his feet. His hand had shattered a section of the wooden table before him, sending splinters flying. He was ready to fly across the room in a moment and handle this, but he never made it past his spot at the table.

Imogen had resided to be a fixture in the room for the remainder of the meeting, silent and unmoving with her hand resting on top of Magni’s and her gaze staring unfocused at the surface of the table. That was until the door opened, snapping her out of the hollow void of her thoughts and dragging her attention toward Jules and a second, unfamiliar face. If there wasn’t a deafening silence that spoke of a million things happening at once, she might have spent a beat longer dissecting the fashion war crime assaulting her eyes, but she simply catalogued it away as someone having similar inclinations to a toddler being given the opportunity to dress themselves for the first time.

Whatever walls Imogen had put up to sever her telepathic connection with everyone quickly vanished. Thoughts, images, and feelings flooded into her like a tidal wave, but quickly broke apart as they crashed into her own mental dam, cutting through the cacophony to hone in on the stranger with a striking focus. Welcome or not, she sifted through recent memories and thoughts trying to find deception, truth, or any sort of clarity that was not openly given. The moment the girl’s name and parentage left her lips, Imogen’s gaze darted sideways, locking on Magni as her fingers curled around his hand. She remained unchanged and stoic, her mind bouncing back and forth between Rune and her lover as she tried to find the truth in the words of a stranger while monitoring Magni’s quickly rising anger.

The moment he moved and the chair slammed backwards into the wall, Imogen was on her feet. She didn’t hesitate to step in front of him, placing herself between the single most devastating source of power in the tower and everyone else. In a single beat pale ivory skin shifted to diamond as her hands pressed against his chest. She was strong enough to potentially hold him in place, but if Magni tried to push back against her or use even a fraction of his strength, she would have no more control over him than a toddler clinging to their parent’s legs… a hindrance and an annoyance, nothing more. She looked small and breakable standing before him, knowing that even in her diamond form she was no match for him.

"Magni… Magni…" Her voice was quiet and gentle as she tried to coax his attention down toward her like calming a feral animal. She patiently held her ground, thumb softly stroking rhythmically against his chest as she waited for him to meet her gaze. When Magni finally looked down, her prismatic eyes slowly returned back to their rich blue framed by blonde lashes. Her diamond form melted away as a show of silent trust, because she knew that out of everyone in that tower, Magni was the last person who would harm her. He didn’t frighten her, but she didn’t want him doing something rash either. She wasn’t trying to fight him or tame his rage, but help him hear logic from the one person who could strip away lies and pretense for the truth.

Imogen shook her head slowly while holding his gaze. "She’s telling the truth," she whispered quietly and while the words were for him, they carried through the silence of the room and held breaths like a dropped pin. If this girl was sent to be used as a tool for Hela, she is oblivious to it, she added into Magni’s thoughts for only him to hear.

Magni's gaze was sharp, glancing up at Rune as he restrained himself from sudden action. My cousin would not dispatch her spawn to aid us. There is some trick here. His thoughts were clear and readable to Imogen, his eyes unwavering as he observed the Princess of Hel. He took a proper look this time, noting that unwavering optimism and joy and completely odd fashion. She was not from here, certainly. At best, she was simply a tool or weapon meant to strike them later. At worst, her magic concealed her true motives and she was already making moves to destroy them all. Regardless, he didn't like this. He spoke with authority as he addressed Rune directly. "The Queen of Hel hath wrought great pain and suffering on my home many times. I hath buried my brothers and sisters in arms because of the machinations of thy realm. How do we know thou wilt not bring ruin to this tower at thy mother’s behest?"

The words struck harder than any blow could have. For one suspended heartbeat, Rune simply stared at him, the bright, eager warmth that had lit her face guttering out so quickly it felt like a candle pinched between wet fingers. Disgust flashed first, sharp and instinctive, then hurt, then something older and deeper, a wounded offense that seemed to reach all the way into the marrow of her. She did not shrink. Her chin lifted instead, green eyes turning brighter, stranger, lit from within like foxfire under glass as she fixed Magni with a stare that was no longer guileless in the slightest.

“If thou hast had to bury brothers and sisters, it was not by my hand,” she said, and the softness in her voice had hardened into something clear enough to ring as her speech pattern took on the more formal way of speaking she had been taught first, and then taught out of by the spirits she so adored. “Nor is it the fault of Hel that death exists. My realm is no blight upon Asgard. It is its necessary counterweight. Asgard may have its glory, its feasts, its shining banners and golden halls— but none of it stands without the sacred balance of an ending. Hel keeps what must be kept. We hold what must be held. We cherish those who come to us, because they become ours to cherish. We are the hand that closes the circle when life has spent itself.” Her mouth tightened, and when she spoke the next word, she gave it all the reverence that he had not, each syllable placed with care.

“Realm.” The correction was quiet, but it landed like a slap. “Speak of it with respect. The spirits who come to me are not refuse to be tallied in thy grief. Each one is received with honor. Each one is treated with dignity. Death is not desecration simply because thou hate it.”

Her breath caught. The force of her own anger faltered beneath what rose after it, and that was worse. “Those spirits were my first companions,” she said, and now the hurt showed plainly, hot and sudden and impossible to hide. “My first friends. The first voices that spoke to me with kindness. They were the only family I knew, because thy father and all thy shining blood cast me out before I had done aught to deserve it, because of what I was, because of who bore me, because it was simpler to fear me than to know me even when I was a mere child.” She took one involuntary step backward then, as if his accusation had struck her square in the chest after all. The movement was small, but the pain on her face was not. It flickered there naked and immediate, a bright raw thing, before it vanished beneath a stillness so complete it might as well have been a locked door.

When she looked at him again, her expression had gone cool and composed, though the wound beneath it had not vanished so much as frozen over. “I knew thou wouldst not welcome me,” she said, and her voice had grown quieter, more dangerous for the lack of volume. “My mother told me enough of that, how thy realm never wanted me, and I tried my best to make my peace with that. But I had thought, foolishly, it seems, that perhaps necessity might make room where bloodline did not.” Her fingers tightened around the absurd white heels in her hand until the knuckles paled. “If thou canst not bear my presence even now, then I shall gladly return to Hel. At least there, the dead are kinder than the living, and the spirits of my so-called betters have shown me more heart than any family Asgard ever offered.” She twisted around without another word, turning from the room and the door and him, trying to pretend her eyes weren’t burning.

She should have told her mother she didn’t want to come, she missed Hel so much already, but Rune knew that her mother would be there when she returned to comfort her, it was so clear she could almost hear her voice like the echo of a memory in her mind. "I tried to warn you, but I’m here, it’s alright my Rune." She would pull her in close, wipe away her tears softly, and go back to sheltering her daughter, molding her to be a better successor of Hel, to be someone who did not need what Asgard refused to give… acceptance. "Remember, the worst punishment of all is not death, but banishment." She felt foolish for being optimistic enough to want to misplace the belief of the first lesson she’d ever learned, if only to be able to have someone she could call…family.

"She's not a spy." Jules’ statement was simple, stepping out between two gods with profound confidence. Jules smoothed her jacket with her hands, glancing about the room as she stiffened her back. "I've been in the espionage game since I was a kid, and I've only made it this far because I got really good at spotting moles." Her expression shifted slightly, as if sharing something personal about herself was painful to such a large group. She was so used to telling lies that a factual, intimate statement felt like she was putting herself at risk. Jules recovered, pressing her lips together as she refocused her words. "The point is… I grilled her on the ride here. Rune is clean… and I think she belongs here." The last statement was an olive branch of sorts, a tiny ray of compassion in an otherwise tense room towards the bright and happy stranger she had just met.

Magni shook his head, his brow knit in both confusion and concern. The accusation was preposterous, that Asgard had thrown out one of their kind or rejected her. He had never seen Rune, never heard of her, and his father had never shared that Hela had borne a daughter. He knew of his other cousins, even his uncle's child who had proven to be a remarkable trickster in their own right. Thor had learned from his father's mistakes, even if he made his own. But above all, there was a single god who could see all and whom Magni had only recently asked about threats his father had faced. Heimdal made no mention of a daughter of Hela, even when asked if his cousin had any other co-conspirators that could have taken his father.

The pieces knit together like a tapestry, parsed from Rune's admissions. She was kept from Asgard and the other realms, told they would reject her, and then was sent without knowledge of any grand scheme. If Hela was involved in the great plot to subdue the king of Asgard, Rune was not a willing weapon in that conquest. She had no living friends, and served her station with an honor greater than he had served his when he was younger. His outburst only seemed to prove the lie she had been told. Pushing this demigod away would only serve to further Hela's machinations. He would not make Odin's mistakes again. He had to be better.

Magni took a breath, passing a sorrowful look down to Imogen. He nodded as he met her gaze, acknowledging fully what she had meant to warn him. Unlike her brother, Magni was not willing to wallow in shame and hide from his actions. He walked around the table, towards Rune and Jules. He stopped a couple paces away, letting out a sigh as he nodded for Jules to stand down. He spoke much softer this time. "Before this moment, Asgard knew not of thy existence." His gaze briefly fell to the rest of those gathered around the table, before settling back on Tobias. He should have known better, given his friend's past. "I am sorry, cousin, for my presumptions. My father is missing, taken by forces we do not yet know. The others gathered in this room are bound by the same purpose: to find our lost kin." His gaze returned to Rune, swallowing hard as he spoke earnestly. "I feared thou wast responsible… but… I fear now I may have been mistaken, just as thou art mistaken about Asgard's rejection of thee." He let those words linger for a moment, hoping that the only family he had in the room would believe him.

Rune had already begun to turn when Jules stepped between them, and that alone stopped her. The white heels in her hand hung still at her side, the little sway gone out of them, her fingers curled tight around their straps. She listened without moving, first to Jules’ plain certainty, then to Magni’s softer voice as he came nearer, and though she did not flinch this time, the sharpness remained in her face. The bright, buoyant energy she had carried into the room had not been false, only shelved, set carefully aside beneath the weight of something far older than wounded pride.

Her gaze fixed on Magni and stayed there. She searched him with an intensity that felt almost unfamiliar on her, green eyes steady and luminous, her breathing shallow in the hush that followed his apology. Rune had spent a lifetime among the dead, among spirits who lied badly when they lied at all; she knew how guilt sat in a voice, how grief bent the mouth, how truth could ache even when it offered comfort. She found no mockery in him, no hidden satisfaction, no gleam of cruelty dressed as mercy. When she swallowed, it was small but visible, the motion catching in her throat as though the air had thickened around her.

“I was told that I was banished from Asgard the day I was born,” she said at last, slowly, each word set down with care, her voice slipping back into the measured cadence she had first carried through the doorway, no longer as formal as it had been. The sentence seemed to surprise even her once it was spoken aloud, because the implication that something she’d known as fact her entire life had been a lie... a faint crease formed between her brows, her mouth pulling into a troubled line as something deep within her shifted, small at first, then enough to unsettle the ground beneath her certainty. “I… accept thy apology,” she added after a beat, formal with this, and there was honest bewilderment in it, as though the very shape of an apology from him had not fit the world she thought she knew. “And I am sorry as well. I…” The rest caught and thinned. She shook her head once, subtle and conflicted, her grip tightening on the shoes as if she needed something foolish and tangible to keep herself upright.

June stood in the wake of it all with the faint, disorienting feeling that the meeting had slipped entirely out of human hands and into the realm of some elaborate cosmic prank. Her mouth, which had apparently been hanging open for several long and undignified seconds, shut with a soft click as she stared at Rune, at Magni, at Jules, at the white heels still dangling from Rune’s hand like the punchline to a joke no one had asked for. The room felt too warm all at once, too crowded, too full of grief and ghosts and impossible revelations, and she turned her head just enough to throw Tobias a helpless look that said, quite plainly, what the actual fuck is this. The bracelets would have to wait, she could already feel the bone deep exhaustion of drafting an email to this entire disaster of a team, picturing the inevitable reply all chain and wanting, briefly, to walk straight into the Hudson.

She didn’t blame Magni for the way he’d reacted, under the circumstances, suspicion had been the sane response, but Jules arriving this late with an unknown demigod and a family revelation explosive enough to rattle the room left a fine, tight thread of irritation pulling behind June’s ribs. Her fingers pressed harder into the table’s edge, grounding herself against the spiral, and when she finally breathed in, it was slow and deliberate, the sort of breath taken by someone accepting that whatever this meeting had once been was now thoroughly, irreparably off the rails. Fuck, she needed a drink.

Tobias didn’t realize that every muscle in his body tensed until he caught a glimpse of his blanched knuckles tight on Bellamy’s shoulder and beneath her cold fingers that still clung to him like a lifeline. He was lucky that he didn’t have super strength, that his hold would only cause discomfort not physical harm. But the sight of it still made him withdraw like his touch was searing hot and could burn. His expression was sorrowful and full of regret as he looked down at his hand like another piece of him that was broken, like something else he needed to atone for. The muscle along his jaw pulsed as he clenched his teeth, forcing himself to breathe in the heightened emotions that flooded the room to the point of feeling suffocating. He cleared his throat and hesitantly placed his hand against the top of Bellamy’s chair, close enough that she could still have some semblance of comfort in the warmth of his thumb just barely brushing against her back, but not familiar enough for him to slip up like that again.

Jim leaned back in his seat, his eyes fixed on the new stranger as his mind wandered over the near infinite possibilities of how this could all shake out. He didn’t put much faith in the offspring of any villains, let alone one sent by a goddess of a nordic death dimension. He didn’t care if she was a spy, a weapon, an ally, or a combination of all three: she was a new threat on the board. He glanced sideways to June, noting the small signs of her frayed stability. He sighed, running a hand up through his hair as he muttered quietly to her, "I’ll add her to the list."

June’s head turned at the sound of Jim’s voice, the quiet murmur pulling her attention away from the chaos at the center of the room far more effectively than it should have. For a second she simply looked at him, taking in the tired line of his face, the hand dragged back through his hair, the familiar sharpness of his mind already adapting to the newest disaster dropped into their laps. The words themselves were pragmatic, almost clinical in the way only Jim could manage, another variable, another contingency, another name added to the ever growing list, but beneath them sat something gentler he likely did not even realize he was offering. He had noticed her unraveling edges. The realization softened something unwilling inside her chest, warmth threading through the tangled knot of frustration and hurt and lingering tension between them in a way that made her almost irritated with herself for responding to it at all. Still, she gave him a small, tight smile, grateful despite herself, her eyes lingering on his for only a beat before dropping away again. "Thank you," she said softly, the words so quiet they were almost mouthed rather than spoken.

When Tobias spared a single glance up toward the rest of the room, finding June looking back at him. The corner of one side of his mouth pulled tight into a lopsided… well, less like a smile and more like a grimace. His left shoulder rose and fell in a tired shrug of acceptance or maybe concession. It was easier that way. "Look…" he started to add, his voice quiet and faintly strained like everything that had happened since he stepped into that room was slowly taking its toll. While Jules’s argument meant little to nothing to him, he had a difficult time trusting an ex-spy, he was not the type to cast the first stone either. "We can’t choose our parents. Zaria and I are a testament to that." His attention drifted toward the blonde on the other side of the table for a moment before sweeping across the room with a small sigh. "Innocent until proven guilty… Right?"

Magni nodded, letting out a deep sigh as he took in his friends’ words. He was right. He had been far too presumptive, even if Rune’s arrival felt more like a bad omen than a hopeful reunion. Rune gave no outward impression that she was seeking them harm, and he did need to trust at this point that those gathered around the table were there to aid in their common cause. So, Magni flashed Tobias an apologetic smile. "Thou art right, Tobias. I meant no offense to thee." He glanced back in Rune’s direction, taking a step closer and lifting a hand to clasp onto her shoulder. His tone shifted slightly, a steadiness settling into his voice that was right for his station. When he addressed Rune, he spoke as if issuing a decree. "We shall have much to discuss… but know that I, as Prince of Asgard, welcome thee as kin. If thou wishes to help us to find the missing, thy aid will be most welcome."

Rune stood very still beneath Magni’s hand, the tension in her shoulders no longer sharp enough to cut but not yet gone either. The room felt different now, quieter in some strange internal way, though her thoughts had only grown louder. Kin. The word echoed oddly in her chest, unfamiliar despite how badly some part of her had once wanted it. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Tobias at his defense, then back to Magni. For a moment she looked younger somehow, not in face or stature, but in the uncertainty she could not quite smooth away. “Thank you,” she murmured softly. And this time, she had nothing else to say.

June let out a slow breath through her nose, the sound quiet beneath the lingering tension still clinging to the room like smoke after a fire. Her fingers loosened from the edge of the table at last, though she still looked faintly overwhelmed by the sheer scale of what the meeting had devolved into, and somewhere beneath all of it, the increasingly fragile illusion that any of them actually knew what they were doing. "I’ll send out an email with the bracelet information," she said, voice clipped but tired now, the crisp efficiency of earlier worn thin around the edges. "Requests, specifications, concerns—send them directly to me or J.A.R.V.I.S. once you’ve looked everything over." Her gaze flicked briefly toward Tobias first, then Alfred and Phil in turn, searching their expressions for any sign that this disaster still had structure left to salvage. Finding none immediately comforting, June pressed her lips together and tilted her head slightly, exhaustion making her blunt where she normally would have softened the edges. "I’m happy to welcome Bellamy to the tower, anything she needs we can have ordered…” Her eyes finally settled on Imogen, something pleading in June’s expression, as if she knew the other woman had to be as fed up as she was, and ready to call the meeting to an end.

Imogen felt the weight of the glance before she saw it. The meeting had quickly turned into a powder keg that tiptoed too close to imploding far too many times to count. One more body or hurled insult could send the whole thing spiraling to a point where there was no coming back. So rather than rehash everything a second time and further stir the pot of big personalities and bigger tempers, she elected to take it upon herself to end things there, while there was still some semblance of a team remaining.

She stood up slowly. The office chair’s wheels rattled and creaked along the tile as it rolled backwards behind her. She leaned over the table slightly, hands pressed against the edge of the wood, damp blonde hair swept over one shoulder hanging loosely as she looked around the room. "Well, the problem obviously isn’t mutants," she started with a pointed comment that landed like a brick dropped in the center of the room, heavy, loud, and unavoidable. But even as she said it, her gaze focused on the wood grain of the table rather than finding its way toward her brother. "I don’t think retracing our steps, arguing the semantics of rules and our concerns about what this means for the future, will garner us any new information or perspectives."

Imogen’s palms ran along the edge of the table as she slowly stood more upright. "I think it is for the best that we adjourn before this team spirals into disrepair over the course of a single meeting." She lightly folded her arms across her chest, pausing for a moment to see if there were any arguments to the contrary. Then she nodded her head before continuing. "If anyone realizes there is something we’ve missed, feel free to ask J.A.R.V.I.S. to schedule a meeting for tomorrow and I will be sure to bring a talking stick," she added with the faintest bit of sarcasm laced through her otherwise tired tone that clung to what sliver of patience she had left.

"Otherwise I have—" she nearly said ‘more important things’ but caught herself. While a date with Magni was a pleasant escape from the chaos that was unfolding around them… a way to seize the day. She was also aware that it wasn’t as important as their mission, and saying otherwise would be in poor taste given everything that unfolded messily over the past hour. "—other matters to attend to," Imogen concluded before starting to make her way toward the door.

As she rounded the head of the table, Alfred’s voice came gentle and grounding like a steady offering in choppy waters. "Ms. Frost, everything has been gathered per your request."

Imogen slowed, just for a second, long enough to spare the older gentleman a warm smile. "Thank you, Alfred."

Approaching the door, she paused beside the pair of Asgardians, trying to put on the most sincere and welcoming smile she could manage after the whirlwind that uprooted her day since the moment she awoke. Imogen cleared her throat, then held out her hand toward Rune in a gentle offering. "I am Imogen. It’s a pleasure to meet you." Her blue eyes lifted to give Magni a quick sidelong glance before looking back towards the girl opposite her. "Don’t worry. Family drama is pretty common here. You’ll fit right in." Her smile grew, just a fraction, with that sort of irony that was a little too raw to be anything but the truth.

Rune looked at the offered hand for a moment before gently taking it, her grip careful and cool against Imogen’s skin. The smile that touched her mouth wavered faintly at the edges, fragile now where earlier it had been effortless, and her bright green eyes flicked once between Imogen and Magni as though trying to reconcile two entirely different versions of the same world.

The comment about family drama should have been amusing. Under different circumstances, perhaps it would have drawn one of those soft little laughs from her. Instead, something tightened painfully in her throat, leaving her quiet in the wake of Imogen’s kindness. No words came. Only a small nod, grateful and a little lost, before Rune slowly released her hand and stepped away, white heels dangling silently from her fingers.

Imogen turned toward Magni, resting a hand affectionately against his side with a gentle stroke of her thumb. "Seven o’clock. No peeking in my penthouse beforehand." She shifted up onto her tiptoes, craning her neck to place a fleeting kiss upon his cheek. Without another word, she gave his side a gentle squeeze and excused herself, slipping out the door and heading for the elevator.

Magni was caught between two wildly conflicting emotions, but both stemming from the same unbridled compassion he wore so blatantly on his sleeve. His eyes followed his cousin, fighting his distrustful instincts as he watched her. Her arrival had dropped a bomb on his heart, and he had a lot of rubble to sort through before he was ready to sort out Rune’s purpose here. Of course, with her, he saw an opportunity to steer her on the right track. She seemed far kinder than he had been at her age, but times were far dire than they were when he was a student. Not everyone in the tower was welcoming to her, but there was a chance rejecting her would pose a greater threat than keeping her in the loop.

And then, of course, there was the mixture of disappointment and yearning that lined Magni’s stare at Imogen’s departure. He didn’t like the idea of being left to his own devices until the evening. There was a pleasant warmth that came with being in her company that he hadn’t felt in years, and even in those times it was mere artifice. He lingered a moment longer, his eyes fixed on the door.

June watched Imogen take control of the room with the sort of exhausted diplomacy only someone raised by Emma Frost could manage, and by the time the meeting was finally, mercifully brought to heel, she felt tension slowly unwind from her spine in thin, reluctant threads. A soft sigh escaped her, quiet enough to be lost beneath the shuffle of chairs and low conversations, but the relief in it was real all the same. The room still felt bruised around the edges, full of fresh fractures and poorly concealed wounds, but at least it had not detonated entirely. She lingered where she stood for a moment, dark eyes following Imogen’s retreat toward the door, catching the fleeting kiss pressed to Magni’s cheek, the softness in her expression that had survived despite everything else. Something complicated tugged through June’s chest at the sight, fondness, worry, envy for the simplicity of affection freely shown, and she swallowed it down before it could root too deeply.

Her attention shifted back to Magni as he remained by the doorway, Rune hovering nearby like someone uncertain where she belonged now that the storm had passed. June’s brows furrowed slightly, though the smile she offered him was wry enough to soften the edge of it. "I’ll find you later, Magni," she said, one hand sliding loosely into the pocket of her trousers. "Before seven, I promise." There was a beat of hesitation before the rest followed, her voice gentling almost despite herself. "I understand wanting to catch up with… family." The last word tightened faintly at the edges, carrying too many meanings at once for her not to feel the strain of it. Then she turned away before the ache beneath it could linger, composure slipping neatly back into place like armor settling over bruised skin.

Magni raised an eyebrow as June spoke, nodding towards her as she addressed him. "Aye, I can afford the time to grant thee an audience." He flashed a warm grin and a nod, taking in a deep breath. He had a lot of things to figure out before the evening, and he knew just the person to aid him. He looked over towards Phil, sat at the other end of the table. "Son of Coul… a word if you will?" The man nodded, his steady gaze betraying the surprise just beneath the surface. He rose from his seat and crossed the room so the two men could slip out and speak privately.

Theo looked halfway to escaping himself when June’s gaze landed on him. She pasted on a bright, almost suspiciously pleasant smile that did not quite reach her eyes and tilted her head toward him with practiced patience. "Do you have a moment, Theo?" she asked sweetly. The man blinked several times, clearly blindsided by the reminder, as though her earlier request had been entirely buried beneath the avalanche of catastrophes that had followed. His hand tightened instinctively around Myla’s, and he glanced toward her with a questioning sort of look, one that she couldn’t see but could certainly feel, caught somewhere between caution and confusion. June simply waited, smile fixed in place with eerie calm, tablet tucked against her side while the wheels in her mind continued turning far too fast to ever truly stop.

Myla’s head turned slightly, quirking like an animal attuning its hearing. Her hand softly tightened around Theo’s, keeping it in place before he had the opportunity to stand. She shook her head faintly, and not a moment later, Ronnie rose from her seat. The woman strutted past them like she owned the room and because it seemed like she was incapable of learning a lesson, her hand drifted dangerously close to Theo’s shoulder. Before she could touch him, Myla slipped her hand from his, reached behind him and slapped away Ronnie’s hand with a sharp sting that echoed throughout the congested conference room. "Fuck off," she snapped with a coldness that was eerily calm, without ever turning to face the woman. Rather than escalating things further, thankfully, Ronnie took a hint, scoffing and rolling her eyes as she disappeared out into the hall.

A second or two passed before Myla sighed. The tension that had gone rigid up her spine released and she slumped forward, running her fingers along the back of her neck. Her head turned just enough to address both June and Theo as she spoke. "Sorry. I think I’d rather base jump without a parachute rather than share an elevator with her." She shrugged with a playful innocence and tired laugh. Her hand fell to Theo’s knee, giving it a gentle squeeze along with a small smile. "It’s fine. I was going to help Bellamy anyway."

June watched the exchange with growing disbelief, dark eyes narrowing the closer Ronnie’s hand drifted toward Theo like someone approaching an open flame with all the self-preservation instincts of a moth. The sharp crack of Myla slapping the woman’s hand away echoed through the room, and for one dangerous second June had to press her lips tightly together to stop herself from laughing outright. Approval flickered unmistakably across her face instead, quick and bright and deeply unhelpful for maintaining authority. Her gaze tracked Ronnie’s retreat toward the hallway, jaw locking hard enough to feather tension along the line of it, and somewhere in the increasingly concerning depths of her mind a thought surfaced with startling clarity.

Perhaps Veronica’s bracelet should include a small shock mechanism. Nothing harmful. Just enough to discourage bad behavior. Like training a particularly obnoxious dog. The idea lingered far longer than it probably should have before June forcibly dragged her attention back to Theo as Myla stood, smoothing her expression into something more professional despite the faint glimmer of amusement still threatening at the corners of her mouth. "I’ll try not to keep him long," she said dryly, though there was genuine warmth beneath it as her eyes flicked briefly toward Myla again. "I need some help with the blueprints of the bracelets, want to walk with me?"

Myla gave a small smile and nod towards June. "I can’t keep his smarts all to myself," she mused, giving Theo’s leg another little squeeze. She then went to stand, pushing against the table, chair wheels scraping across the tile as she rolled backwards. She slowly stood up and grabbed the ice pack from the table that had long since melted leaving behind a small puddle in its wake. She went to take a step towards the front of the room, then stopped and turned back toward June. "How would we go about ordering anything she might need exactly?"

Before June could respond, Alfred stood up. "I would be happy to assist you, Ms. Murdock." He made his way around the table toward her, placing a gentle hand upon her shoulder following her toward the door.

"I’ll be right back." She flashed Bellamy a small, reassuring smile before stepping out of the room. Rather than drifting toward the elevator, Alfred guided her down the opposite end of the hall to continue their conversation.

Theo was already half rising from his chair the moment Myla stood, instinct moving faster than thought as his eyes tracked her automatically through the crowded room. The sharpness that had settled into him after Ronnie’s stunt eased little by little as he watched Alfred gently guide Myla toward the hall, steady and patient as ever while she immediately pivoted toward helping Bellamy instead of dwelling on herself. Of course she did. Of course even bruised and exhausted and stubbornly held together by spite and cauterization, Myla’s first instinct was to make sure someone else felt less alone. Something warm and unbearably soft unfurled low in Theo’s chest at the sight, spreading through him so quickly it almost made him ache, and before he could stop himself a quiet, dreamy sort of sigh escaped him under his breath as he watched her disappear through the doorway.

June’s voice pulled him back before he could get too lost in it, and Theo blinked once like someone waking from a pleasant daze before turning toward her with an easy nod. "Yeah," he said lightly, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifted away from the table. "I don’t mind helping you." But before he followed her, his gaze slipped, almost against his own will, toward Jim. Theo hesitated there for a second, expression tightening faintly as though he were arguing with himself internally about whether this was worth the effort. Eventually, though, he exhaled softly through his nose and tipped his chin toward the other man. "Hey, Stark."

He waited until Jim actually looked at him, until there was at least enough acknowledgement to make sure the words landed where they were supposed to. Theo’s posture stayed loose, shoulders relaxed, but there was an earnestness in his face now that hadn’t been there earlier, something honest threaded beneath the usual humor. "Honestly, I can’t tell if you’re emotionally stunted or just kind of a prick," he admitted, tone dry but lacking the earlier bite, like he was trying very hard to meet the man halfway without entirely lying about his opinion. Then his mouth twitched faintly to one side and he shrugged. "But… that doesn’t excuse me not being in control of my temper, so I’m sorry. For earlier. I was wrong." He glanced briefly around the room, the tension, the chaos, the mismatched collection of people somehow trying to become something functional, and then back toward Jim. "You belong here. And this team probably wouldn’t have happened without you..."

A small huff of breath escaped him after that, equal parts awkwardness and reluctant sincerity, and Theo finally turned toward the door, moving ahead of June with his hands shoved loosely into his pockets. He didn’t look back as he spoke again, voice lighter now but carrying easily through the room anyway. "I don’t know, man," he said with a crooked sort of honesty that sounded almost disappointed beneath the humor. "If you weren’t so… we could maybe be friends."

June lingered for a second near the edge of the table after Theo passed her, dark eyes slipping toward Jim with something unreadable flickering briefly across her expression, but she offered him a small smile before she finally followed after Theo into the hall.

Jim didn’t wait long before rising from his seat, slipping his glasses into his pocket. He slid his hands through his hair, shaking his head. It was hardly a sign of peace the spider had offered, incapable of realizing the hypocrisy given his own lack of formal apology earlier. He shook his head, making for the exit as his mind had already moved on. He had work to do, something that everyone else in the tower seemed allergic to. Jules, left awkwardly standing off to the side, took it as an opportunity to slip out the room behind him without a word.

James looked over at Aria with the quiet sort of relief that was clear to read across his face. He didn’t wait for the room to clear or for her to say she was ready to leave. That was quite enough excitement for him for one day… or like a month. He’d take what he could get. As everyone started standing and heading for the door, he gave Aria’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before releasing it. He stood up with a quiet groan, less than subtly letting his chair roll backwards and bump into Luke, acting like a small barrier to keep the dickwad in his place while they left. Once Aria was ready to stand he helped pull out her chair without giving it much thought, like chivalry was subconscious, ingrained in him since birth, not learned. He nodded his head toward the door in a silent bid for her to lead the way. "Wanna see if there’s a bar in this place?" he asked with a quiet chuckle and a lopsided smile.

Zaria practically lit up at the suggestion, the tension that had clung to her shoulders since the meeting easing all at once beneath the promise of alcohol and escape. A breath of laughter slipped from her as she fell into step beside him. “God, yes, please,” she said easily, the words tumbling out with heartfelt sincerity. “Any sane person would need a drink after a meeting like this.”

She followed him into the hallway, the lingering heaviness of the conference room still pressing faintly against her spine like storm clouds refusing to fully break apart. As they walked, her gaze flicked back only once. Bellamy still sat at the table, pale and folded inward like someone trying to make herself smaller beneath the weight of grief and memory and too many watching eyes. The sight tugged painfully at Zaria’s chest, but there was nothing she could offer the girl here, not now, so she turned away again and matched her pace to James’s instead—drawn instinctively toward the steadiness of his presence, toward the promise of dim lights and a drink strong enough to burn the edge off the day. However, when she spotted Rune still standing near the door, looking lost, she offered a kind smile to the woman. “Did you want to come with us?” She asked after a beat, throwing an uncertain glance toward James, wondering if he’d mind. She just looked so… alone, so confused, it felt weird to leave her there alone.

James shrugged. He was probably the easiest person to convince, or perhaps the most unbothered by whomever everyone’s parents were. Hela, Magneto, Doctor Doom… whatever. We were all people and until one of them gave him a reason to hate them, then he didn’t care. "There’s always one more seat open on the weirdo wagon," he offered with an exhausted laugh and a lopsided grin. "We can teach you about the horrors of Midgardian booze, and worse… hangovers."

Rune looked between the blonde woman and her companion, expression conflicted, but something in the softness of the woman's gaze, and how easily the man offered a laugh, compelled her to agree. "Okay," the Asgardian murmured, trailing behind the pair out of the room with the air of a lost duckling.

Tobias sighed as the room finally started to empty and he felt like he was able to breathe for the first time since the meeting started. His free hand raised to pinch the bridge of his nose, then slid back through his hair with another deep breath. "Thank god that’s over," he muttered quietly, barely loud enough for Bellamy to hear seated before him as his hand lifted from the back of the chair to rest against her shoulder. "Take a second," he reassured her with a gentle stroke of his thumb as his gaze trailed after Myla and Alfred stepping out into the hall. "I need to ask Alfred something real quick. Be right back." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze then slipped out of the room after them.

Bellamy let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped inside her lungs for the entire duration of the meeting, slow and shaky as it escaped her in pieces. The tension in the room had pressed against her from all sides until she’d felt brittle beneath it, and only now, with people beginning to leave and the sharpest edges of conflict fading into the hallway, did she realize how tightly wound she’d become. Her fingers loosened where they’d curled in her lap, and she tipped her head back just enough to look up at Tobias when his hand settled warmly against her shoulder again. "I’ll be here," she said weakly, though she managed the best smile she could muster for him all the same, small and tired and still a little fragile around the edges after the whirlwind they’d just survived together.

After he slipped from the room, Bellamy sat still for another beat before finally pushing herself to her feet. Her legs ached faintly from sitting curled in on herself for so long, and she stretched carefully, shoulders rolling back with a quiet wince before she drifted toward the windows again almost unconsciously, drawn to the open space beyond the glass. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she gazed down at the pool below, sunlight scattering across the water in bright ripples that looked impossibly calm compared to the storm that had just torn through the conference room. For a moment she simply stood there in silence, watching the surface shimmer and sway, wondering distantly what it must feel like to move through water without fear, without grief sitting like a stone in her chest, without the terrible awareness that her entire life had split cleanly into a before and after she could never stitch back together again.

The tower stirred with prodded tempers and frayed egos as the meeting disbanded with a startled speed, scattering like beetles cast in light. While much was discovered, little was settled, and the only thing for certain was that they were somehow farther from being a team than they had been at the beginning of the meeting… A startling truth that no one wished to address.

… What could possibly go wrong?

End of Part 2

^{interactions ....|.... everyone ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @webboysurf @Sleepy Tani}

Black Lily

A full moon was an ill omen.

Shadows clung to the Carrion Wood like a blanket of death, suffocating life from its eaves like a noose. Bare branches rattled like bones in the wind, shaking loose its last crumpled leaves that fell heavily to the ground. Tree roots burrowed deep and stretched across the forest floor, a web of disease and decay knotting and twisting beneath the earth. Rot emanated from the soil, rancid and sour, as if hell itself rejected the dead, its halls too full to collect one more soul.

The Carrion was pestilence, a blight that scorched the earth, and a dark supplicant that preceded its god: Hangman’s Tree.

When night settled across the land, the woods became a grave. Folk didn’t enter the Carrion after dark. Smarter folk never set foot beyond the treeline. And the smartest folk never left the safety of their homes once the light left the sky. The night didn’t belong to them. It belonged to bandits, murderers, and rapers. It belonged to the monsters, to the creatures who cried out from the darkness, and to the beasts that prowled in the shadows… It belonged to the Black Lilies, to those who hunted predators and slayed nightmares.

The forest didn’t frighten Tamsin as it did others. While the groan of wood and the rustle of underbrush could leave the most stalwart ill at ease, they grounded her. She could tell the difference between a man, beast, or hare by the sharpness of a snapped twig underfoot, and knew when danger lurked around the bend by the twitch of Bane’s ear or the bristling of his hackles. The forest was treacherous, deadly to those who did not know it. But when its secrets were mastered, it was safer than any city.

Tamsin could have made camp beneath the Hangman’s Tree. She could have shared the warmth of a fire and conversation with the figure she noticed lounging at its trunk. But she knew better. Eventide was nearly upon her. Neither the openness of the hill nor the light of a fire could offer the solace people sought. They were beacons in the darkness, a signal to every monster—man or beast—calling to them in the night, leading them toward prey. While she desired warmth, and would not deny the prospect of more riveting conversation rather than more or less talking to herself under the guise of speaking with her animals, instinct overtook desire. She remained behind the treeline, retreating deeper into the forest until she found a copse of trees not far off the weathered path.

Darkness came early and settled quick. The bite in the air was a harbinger of winter, its cold breath creeping closer with every setting sun. Tamsin didn’t dare build a fire, no matter how much the chill prickled the hair along the back of her neck and settled quickly into her bones. The light might have kept creatures at bay, but it wasn’t wolves nor bears that gave her pause in the dead of night. Monsters did not frighten so easily. Rather than letting herself go from hunter to hunted, she embraced the cold begrudgingly, having grown accustomed to nights spent on frigid earth with not for warmth beyond the clothes on her back and the closeness of her animal companions.

The ranger had settled in like she did most nights, finding the most suitable small patch of land among the trees to suffice as her bed until dawn. But she did not sleep… She never slept for fear of the nightmares that claimed her whenever her eyes shut. Tamsin sat in the dirt, unbothered of the way the earth clung to her like a second skin, leaning back against the flank of a resting Fen-Strider affectionately called Shadow. Her hunting leathers did little to retain body heat, but blocked the wind’s bite whenever it whipped through the trees like a fury. Her fur-lined cloak was wrapped tightly around her arms, the ends of it resting lazily along her legs that stretched out before her, crossed at the ankles.

A worn leather pouch filled with feathers of all shapes and colors gathered from various fowl along her travels sat to Tamsin’s right. To her left was a small bunch of sticks all roughly three feet in length and fairly straight, foraged before the sun had set and cast the Carrion Wood in darkness. Her hands stuck out from beneath the hem of her cloak chilled to the absence of feeling, but she did not need her senses when muscle memory took over. She braced a stick against the earth while her right hand moved up and down in meticulous strokes, shaving wood into thin coils as she whittle a stick into an arrow shaft. The small clearing was filled with the rhythmic shink of her blade, the deep cadence of Shadow’s breathing, and the sharp gnawing of fangs against bone. The only light came from the moon, silver rays poured through the tree tops and reflected off a strategically placed polished silver hand mirror.

Tamsin heard them coming before she ever saw them.

Their steps were louder than an ogre’s, clumsy and heavy like a drunkard stumbling blind through the forest. There were five, maybe six of them. Their boots clipped on every tree root, crushing twigs underfoot without a care. Lascivious laughter preceded them like the growl of a hungry beast catching sight of its super. Tamsin’s animals stilled, alert and waiting, but she never moved, never even lifted her eyes from the task at hand. Her blade continued to strike wood in measured strokes, dusting her lap in shavings before the wind carried them away.

Their leader—or so she assumed—stepped into view first, slithering between two trees like a snake through brush. His grin was wide and snaggled, with teeth nearly the same color as his greasy shit stained hair. He carried a gut churning sort of arrogance that was far too large for his tattered loose breeches. The man seemed to have the type of tunnel vision that narrowed at the sight of tits, disregarding where he stood at the heart of a plague masking as a forest.

He did not hide the lustful drag of his gaze from Tamsin’s head, down to her feet, then back up again, punctuating it with a sickly moist click of his tongue. "Oy, lads… Lookie what we got ‘ere."

A second man stepped forward, somehow more displeasing to the eye than the first, including the bald spot atop his head that reflected the moonlight better than any piece of silver. "What’s a pretty lil miss, such as yerself, doing out ‘ere all alone in the deep dark woods?"

"Maybe she needs protection?" a third offered, leaning against a tree toward her left with a grin that was colder than the breeze that cut through her cloak. "Safety ‘n numbers ‘n all ‘at." His laugh was sinister and guttural, rumbling deep in his chest like a caged beast wanting to break free.

The other half of their group stepped forward, filling the gaps between the trees to her right. One of them took an extra step forward, wild stringy hair falling from the leather tie that attempted to tame his mane at the base of his skull. His hand trembled as he pointed at her, not with fear but an excitement so visceral it racked his body more violently than a single pinch of poppy dust. "Ooohhh." The word fell from his mouth with child-like glee, causing the strings of saliva that stretched thin between his lips to quiver from his erratic breaths. "She’s got red ‘air. I always liked the ones with red ‘air."

Tamsin’s blade stopped, her knuckles blanching where her grip on the half shucked stick tightened. The memory came swift and unstoppable, slipping to the forefront of her mind like a honed blade between ribs. Flames silhouetted a face not unlike her own, held down in a puddle of mud, blood, and piss. A strong hand twisted into red hair, scarred and calloused, muscles tensing with more strength than necessary, a show of power, control, and dominance. He laughed loud and triumphant over her sputtering coughs and begs for mercy. His fingers tightened, jerking her head back toward him like a rearing horse. His head lowered, nose disappearing beneath crimson curls, deeply inhaling her scent as his other hand curled possessively around her throat. "I’ve always liked the ones with red hair… They have more fight in them." His voice had a terrifying confidence, strong and unyielding with the laughs of his men goading him into action.

Her eyes shut tight, the memory shifting and melding into the dark laughter of the bandits surrounding her. When Tamsin opened her eyes, they were all a step closer, exchanging glances that said she missed something shared between them, something that would have set her teeth on edge. Her gaze shifted to her right, where her bow laid just out of reach, resting against her pack a few paces away. She blinked slowly, eyelids lazily rising as she looked over at the leader. There was no fear behind her eyes, only the annoyance of being disturbed when she was at peace and resting.

"You should leave." One warning. That is all they would get. She looked between the men, holding each of their gazes as they approached. In a single deft movement, she adjusted her hold on the hunting knife, spinning it in her palm into a reverse grip.

The trees around them rustled as a strong gust of wind swept through the forest. For a single moment moonlight caught on a small bit of metal hanging from a chain around her neck, a pin worn like a pendant. A man to her right froze, eyes widening before he took a cautious step backwards. "She’s a fuckin’ Lily," he practically spat, wagging his finger at her like she was a disease. He took another step back, heel clipping on a tree root, and fell on his backside with a hard thud.

"So?" the presumed leader asked, brows furrowing with an incredulous sort of judgement. "There’s six of us ‘n one of ‘er."

"I don’ know, Rask," one of the men argued, apprehension clear as day across his face.

"I didn’ sign up to fuck with no Lily," another added.

Rask scoffed, rolling his eyes at his men. "Stop bein’ a bunch of fuckin’ cunts." his attention then snapped back to Tamsin, running his tongue along his rotting teeth as he stared unabashedly at her figure. "Once she gets a taste of my cock she’ll stop fightin’." He smacked his lips, shooting her a vile wink before his hand dropped and grabbed at whatever manhood did or did not exist between his legs.

Tamsin’s face twisted into a disgusted grimace, furrowed brows, curled lips, and a scoff she was unable to repress. "No thank you," she replied, her revulsion evident in the disdain that laced her words. "I would rather fuck a boar than your shriveled up little cock."

Whatever sadistic light lived behind Rask’s eyes faded in an instant, his smile sinking into a scowl that was surprisingly far more suitable for his face. His hand fell to his hip where a cracked and worn leather belt held a sheathed dagger. "You fuckin’ bitch," he hissed at her. Discolored spit sputtered from his lips trailing his words, and dripped down his chin. Dirt caked fingers curled around the dagger hilt as he took a step forward. The forest seemed to hold its breath, going still and silent as the grave when he pulled the weapon free, its blade reflecting a dull rusted silver in the moonlight.

The huntress did not move, did not flinch. A smirk, dark and wild, curled at the corner of her mouth knowing what was to come. A bush that had remained still and lifeless behind her, silhouetted in the darkness of the forest, rose as if coming to life. What had once looked like dead leaves and thin branches now revealed to be fur, thick and coarse and black as night. It stalked forward. Twigs snapped and cleaned bones from an unknown carcass rattled ominously under its paws. A growl rumbled from deep beneath its hide. Sharp fangs and piercing green eyes shined in the shadows before it stepped forward into the moonlight. A direwolf—scarred and weathered from combat so terrifying the bandits before it would have soiled their trousers—stared them down like his next meal. The creature’s lips curled, baring razor sharp fangs caging a snarl that vibrated through the very earth beneath their feet.

"Bane is hungry… And very protective," Tamsin offered simply, not a threat but fact… a fact that put those men in a precarious position that grew more deadly as the wolf grew closer.

If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought there was a gorgon looming over her shoulder at the way the group of bandits froze. Rask’s hands rose in the air, his pathetic excuse for a weapon slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground. "I… I—" He tried to speak but was cut short by a sharp growl and a snap of Bane’s fangs.

And that was the end of it.

Frightened gasps and mumbled curses startled their souls back into their bodies. The men did not hesitate or linger, turning tail as if the devil himself was hot on their trail. They pushed and forced their way past each other to get as far away as possible. They didn’t have to be the fastest, only faster than their weakest link, Rask, who tripped and stumbled over his ill-fitting breeches with every other step. The third time he fell, not a dozen feet outside of Tamsin’s camp, there was the weighty thud of a coin purse that he didn’t bother to retrieve, finding his life more valuable that the gold he stole from travelers.

Tamsin sighed, frustrated at the interruption in her nightly ritual rather than their sad attempt at intimidation. She slipped her hunting knife into his sheath hidden in her boot, then pushed off the ground with a groan, her joints stiff and aching from age, abuse, and the cold. "I’m getting old, boy," she muttered to the wolf, scratching him affectionately behind the ear as she walked by.

Her steps were silent along the forest floor with a learned dexterity from years in the wilds that came naturally, without thought. The trail the bandits left behind was sloppy and easy to follow. She did not have to wander far before reaching the coin pouch. She slowly crouched, knees popping in protest having not had the proper time to limber. A heavy sigh turned white in the cold air as it slipped from her nose. She reached for the small sack, nearly taking it in her hand before the putrid stench assaulted her nostrils and she noticed the rot that festered along the leather.

"Gross." She grimaced, face scrunching in disgust as she patiently gathered the coins piece by piece, very pointedly never touching the purse.

When she finished, Tamsin slowly stood back up, weighing the coin in her palm as her gaze drifted down the overgrown path in the direction the bandits vanished. The idiots in their haste did not run toward the edge of the forest but deeper toward the heart of the pestilence. If they were lucky, they would survive until morning. If they were luckier, their deaths would be swift and painless at the hands of some terrible creature. But she did not imagine they would go quietly. They would scream and wail, covered in their own excrement like cowards. Perhaps it was fate, some divine atonement for their misdeeds. Their deaths would not undo the pain wrought with their own hands, but it was payment enough… and the best one could get in a world like this.

The night had gone quiet once again, no bandits or beasts lurking out of sight waiting for their opportunity to strike. Tamsin had just returned to her rhythm, blade to wood, thin shavings peppering her legs when another sound pierced the veil of silence that had settled around her. As the hurried beats grew closer the noise became clearer and she knew it to be the thundering of hooves hastily approaching. Her tools were quickly discarded before she leapt to her feet, urgency overtaking discomfort as it often did. She rushed out onto the trail just in time to see a saddled steed frightened and approaching quickly. Her arms rose, hands bare in innocent surrender. When the horse drew close, she tried to calm it, whispering quiet woahs, as she side stepped and grabbed hold of the reins.

Her left hand instinctively tugged the leather lead low, tilting the creature's head downwards so her other hand could gently run along its forehead to muzzle. "Shh. Shh. Shh," Tamsin hushed it gently, repeating the soft strokes in a patient, calming rhythm. The horse stamped its hooves, shifting from side to side as it huffed heavy, erratic breaths through its nose. After a few moments of gentle coaxing, the frightened animal stilled under her guidance. "Where is your rider?" she asked, her gaze drifting beyond the mount down the path in the direction it came from. She knew what was beyond without looking, not far was the edge of the forest, and then the lone hill topped with the Hangman’s Tree. She remembered the faint silhouette of a person beneath it, but could not recall seeing a horse alongside them.

Tamsin knew better than to wander about the Carrion Wood in the dead of night looking for a rider who may—or may not—still be alive. It would have to wait until dawn. With little other choice, she guided the horse toward her camp. Neither Bane nor Shadow stirred as a new animal drew near, accustomed and comfortable in the presence of natural creatures untainted by the Catastrophe. The horse needed more gentle encouragement to move closer to Bane but with a few more minutes of patience and a gentle hand, she was able to tie its reins around a nearby tree.

After grabbing some food she had stored for Shadow, Tamsin returned to the stray horse with a tender hand stroking its mane. "Are you hungry, sweeting?" she asked, holding out the large root for it to take.

A howl, sharp and furious, cut through the dead of night like a blade through flesh. A chill unlike the one that hung in the air, colder and bone deep, snagged on her senses like a predator catching wind of its prey. Tamsin knew that sound well. It was a roar of dominance, of pain and intimidation… Werewolf. The beast’s call, the riderless horse, they both came from the Hangman’s Tree. She might not have been a betting woman, but every shred of intuition said that this poor creature’s owner was seconds from evisceration. Time was already against her and she did not dare take either of the horses into the monster’s clutches for the sake of speed.

Tamsin didn’t waste a second, darting for her bow and a quiver of silver tipped arrows. A sharp whistle sliced through the air, stirring Bane into action. The pair took off through the forest, carving a path directly for the hill, ignoring paths and anything else that could slow them down. The direwolf barreled ahead with the swift elegance of a predator set to course. Trailing behind him, the huntress weaved between trees and hurdled roots without sacrificing momentum. They burst through the treeline with a furious haste. A lone hill ascended before them, topped with a grand oak illuminated in rich amber firelight. Corpses in various stages of decay hung from its branches, swaying in the wind with every strong gust. And beneath them, two shadows danced around the firepit in a deadly game of cat and mouse.

Atop the hill the werewolf threw its head back, letting out a blood curdling howl, triumphant and ripe for the kill. It stalked around the fire with a predator’s patience, growling and panting as it closed in on its helpless prey. The beast towered over the man, rearing onto its hind legs with its claws extended, ready to strike. An acute whistle sounded from just beyond the firelight, drawing the werewolf’s attention before it could attack. An arrow, with a tip that glinted silver in the moonlight, carved through the air, lodging itself in the monster’s right eye with a sickening squelch. Its head craned back with a pained yowl that ripped through the air. Mid wail, a second wolf—half its size, scarred and furious—leapt into the firelight, lunging at the werewolf. Fangs bared down on the beast’s throat and claws tore at flesh.

Then with the stealth of a phantom, the huntress now stood before the man. Her crimson braid burned bright in the firelight, chest heaving with labored pants, as she nocked another arrow. Her breath steadied and she released the bowstring. She turned toward the man, not waiting to see the arrow hit its mark in the werewolf’s calf as she held out a hand toward him in aid and urgency. "If you cannot fight, then run," was all she offered.

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#d4af37 ....|..... outfit .....|..... #86a8ad ....|..... outfit .....|..... near the field}

The second plate had definitely been the right call. Elias worked through the last of it the way he always did when his body had been pushed to its limits, his fork moving on autopilot while his mind took its time settling. Every so often, his gaze drifted across the table to Mikaela’s tray, which still looked like the aftermath of a gluttonous hurricane. The sight of it kept tugging the corner of his mouth upward without permission. She’d eaten like she had something to prove, and he respected that, even if everything about her diet made his eyes twitch with the restraint of a man watching someone juggle chainsaws. He’d said his piece, though, and she’d rolled her eyes and finished her cake in defiant protest. That was probably as close to victory as he was going to get for now.

He set his fork down and reached for his water, finishing what remained in a few slow swallows. The conversation with Mikaela had left him feeling… not better, exactly. The Tapeesa situation hadn’t resolved itself just because he’d talked about it. The facts were still the same; his belongings had still ended up deposited outside her door. But he felt lighter, maybe. Like saying it all out loud to someone who didn’t already have a stake in the outcome had siphoned off some of its density. He hadn’t expected that from a girl he’d met approximately an hour ago, but Elias wasn’t the type to look a good surprise in the mouth.

When he finished, he stacked his cutlery neatly on the empty plate—an old habit from years of keeping Marisol’s kitchen orderly when she couldn’t manage it herself—and pushed back slightly from the table.

"I'll find you at the gym," he said, and he meant it completely. The gym partner deal had been her move, sure, but he appreciated that more than he'd let on. "And Mikaela." He waited until she looked at him. "Thanks. For listening." Then he stood, gathered his tray, and made his exit before sincerity could curdle into awkwardness. He returned his tray, pulled on his jacket by the door, and pushed outside.

The cold hit him cleanly, a sharp contrast to the main hall's warmth that Elias didn't mind. The desert was pretty much the same way; it baked you in the day and stripped the heat back at night. He stood on the steps for a moment in it, not quite ready to move, letting his eyes adjust to the flat winter light. Then, he started down the path, hands finding his jacket pockets by habit. Cabin 20 sat on the eastern side, which meant cutting straight across the field or skirting its edge. He took the most direct route without thinking much about it.

Something about the cold air over open ground and the light smell of woodsmoke that hadn’t fully dispersed slowed Elias’s steps before he consciously decided to slow them. The bonfire pit from the party was still there, logs blackened and half-collapsed into themselves, surrounded by a scorched circle the snow hadn’t quite managed to cover. Someone had stacked the log benches back into neat rows. The bar setup was gone, however, and the skating rink had also vanished, leaving only a faint rectangular depression in the grass where the cold had done its work.

It looked smaller in the daylight. Places always did. He’d first noticed it as a kid, after a warehouse show that had felt enormous in the dark. He’d walked past the building the next morning on his way to grab breakfast and barely recognized it beyond what it was: a squat concrete box with peeling paint and a busted gutter. From this, it had taken him a while to figure out that it wasn’t the places that changed. Strip away the music, the people, and the particular voltage of a night with momentum, and what remained was just the container. The bones of a thing. He'd thought about that a lot after Marisol's bad spells, too, when the house felt cavernous in ways it didn't when she was up and moving through it.

By then, however, Elias’s stride had started to carry him past the bonfire pit when something snagged in his peripheral vision and pulled him up short. He crouched down, forearms resting on his knees, and found a cream beret half-buried in the trampled snow near the edge of the scorch. He picked it up carefully, turning it over in his hands and brushing the damp away with his thumb. The felted wool still held its shape, which meant it hadn't been out here too long. Left behind last night, probably, in the chaos of midnight and whatever had come after.

He straightened up, still holding it, his gaze moving across the empty field as if the owner might still be standing somewhere nearby. But there was nobody, of course, just the treeline and the grey sky. Actually, no, this wasn’t quite true, Elias taking notice of a tall figure skirting the far edge of the field. The figure’s hands were shoved into his pockets with his gaze fixed on something not quite in front of him and not quite anywhere else. River also had that particular look—the one that said he was physically present but mentally adrift, and that usually meant a person wanted to be left alone. Elias had worn that expression enough himself to recognize it. Still, he turned the beret over one more time, that nagging almost-recognition still sitting unresolved at the back of his mind, and lifted his free hand in a small wave.

River had left the arena mostly because he felt like he had to. He didn’t want to linger on the edge of girl talk or whatever barrage of questions Anissa’s friend would throw at him. But Blair’s knowing smirk made it pretty obvious that he was a large topic of their conversation, so even as he left his ears continued to burn with the knowledge that he was definitely being talked about. He tried, desperately, not to think about it, but that lasted about as far as the stables before every possibility started running through his head. On one hand he knew Anissa didn’t hate him, because… well, she went out of her way to bring him food, or the thing with the rope climb. But no matter how much he told himself that, there was still the nagging doubt or that Blair would talk some sense into her… or a million other possibilities that plagued his mind.

His hands shoved deeper into his pockets to try and ground himself as he walked. If he didn’t cement them in place there was a non-zero chance he’d start flailing them about and talking to himself, if only to try and make sense of the warring emotions and thoughts and whatever else that churned inside him. There was a temptation to pace, but he was already walking and he definitely wasn’t going back to the arena. The dilemma kept tugging him back and forth until he actually stopped midstride to regain some semblance of control. River’s attention drifted across the field, trying to remember the bar, ice rink, and bonfire like some sort of fever dream when he noticed that he wasn’t as alone as he had thought. Standing near where the bonfire once roared with life less than a day ago was another demigod—whose name he couldn’t remember—waving at him and clutching something small and white in his hand that triggered some strange sort of recognition.

River’s brows creased and eyes narrowed like he was trying to piece together a puzzle his brain was too slow to put together. He looked like an idiot, dazed, dumbfounded, and just… staring. Before he could make a bigger fool out of himself, he pulled his right hand from his pocket and gave a small wave in response. Ok, great. You’ve acknowledged him. Now what? With the social etiquette and knowledge of a toddler, he was left in a new predicament trying to decide if he should keep walking toward his cabin or approach the guy whose name eluded him or call out. Which all boiled down to him just… standing there.

Elias watched the recognition land on River's face in stages: the slight crease of his brow, the narrowed eyes working through something, the delayed wave that came about three seconds after it probably should have. It wasn't quite the reaction of someone who'd spotted a person they knew. It was the reaction of someone who'd spotted a person and a problem at the same time and hadn't yet figured out which one to deal with first.

He saved River the trouble of resolving his own internal standoff by closing some of the distance himself, stopping a few feet short, which was close enough for conversation but not so close to feel like an ambush. "Elias," he offered, because the look on River's face suggested the name hadn't quite resurfaced yet. That was fair. They’d only spoken for what was probably 30 seconds total.

River nodded his head in slow recognition while attempting to put the face and name together best he could. It was going to take some time keeping everyone straight but having more than an obstacle course to go off of helped. "Right. Sorry. A lot of new faces in a short time so… naturally I remember none of them."

"No worries," Elias said, and meant it without any particular generosity behind it. He'd have done the same. Probably worse. "I was the one that asked you about a friend this morning. In the arena." He paused, realizing immediately how little that actually narrowed it down given that River had spoken to approximately forty people that morning. "The one you didn't have on your list."

The recognition was plain across River’s face the moment it struck and the dots started connecting. "Right. Right," he responded with a slow nod. "I wouldn’t take it too personally… Seems like there was a mass exodus in the middle of the night." His shoulders rose and fell in a weak shrug. "It’s a lot—the whole demigod thing—I think it’s too much for some people."

His hand slipped from his pocket so his fingers could run back through his dark hair before idly scratching at the base of his skull. "Not entirely sure if I would have stayed if I wasn’t forced to be here." Then River’s face contorted in that way where his blunt honesty slipped past any form of mental barricade and flooded out into the open whether he wanted it to or not. He sighed heavily and cleared his throat as if that could mask his confession or move the conversation on without any proper fodder.

It wasn't the kind of thing a leader was supposed to say. Probably. Definitely not within the first twenty-four hours of holding the position. Yet the admission carried a particular honesty that Elias had always found difficult to dismiss. Marisol had been exactly like that. She'd never bothered dressing up difficult truths in softer language, not when he was six years old and throwing tantrums that flooded the backyard, not when he was seventeen and furious at everything he couldn't control, not even when she was the one hurting. Back then, her refusal to simply tell him what he wanted to hear had frustrated him to no end. He understood it better now, though. Age had a way of sanding down resentment until all that remained was gratitude.

"Yeah," he said finally, and left it there for a second before adding, "I get that." He wasn't sure he meant it the same way River did. He hadn't been forced here exactly; the letter had felt more like an answer than a summons. But the weight of it, the sheer size of what camp implied about who you were and what was expected of you, that part he understood well enough. Still, he didn't push further. River already wore the expression of a man who regretted speaking so candidly, the slight downturn of his mouth telegraphing a quiet wish to swallow the words back down. Elias wasn't in the business of making people feel worse about accidental honesty, or he tried not to be. Some days were better than others. He would just have to be better today.

He held up the beret, not quite presenting it so much as acknowledging its existence. "Found this near the bonfire pit. Figured someone's probably missing it." He paused, something flickering at the edge of his memory. Firelight. Dark hair. A hat sitting slightly askew. "You were at the party, right?"

The white beret caught River’s attention a second before Elias held it up. He tried not to let the immediate recognition play across his face, even if the sight of it brought back glimpses of it resting on Anissa’s dark hair as they detoured their way to the party. He couldn't recall if she had it on during the fireworks… and other things, but he supposed that would make sense if it was found half buried beneath snow in the field. "I was," he answered the question plainly. There was a part of him that wondered if there was some subtext he was missing, like Elias knew he was at the party, knew the beret belonged to Anissa, and knew that River unintentionally made a show of making out with her openly at midnight.

"I uh…" he continued, clearing his throat and lifting a hand from his pocket to point to the beret. "It’s Anissa’s," he answered honestly. It's not like they particularly hid what happened at the party and whether or not he was being tested, River had no reason to lie either. Just because he was the leader didn't mean he wasn't allowed to live… Right? Whether that was true or not, he didn't regret it, maybe only wished it was more private. Although there were far worse things that happened at that party than him and Anissa making out.

He shook his head, pulling himself from his own thoughts before more attention could be brought to it than it already had. "She might still be in the arena," River added, jabbing his thumb in the air back over his shoulder as he spoke. "Or I can point you toward her cabin… Or I can just get it back to her myself." The corner of his mouth curled into a lopsided smile, a little awkward like he was caught red-handed. Doing what? He didn't know. But it was still sincere and about as friendly as it could be when he was absolutely terrible at normal socializing.

The name landed, and the almost-recognition finally resolved itself completely. Anissa. Right. The pretty girl from the bonfire table. The conversation Elias had managed to derail somewhere around the lizard comment before excusing himself to get drinks he'd then completely forgotten to retrieve. Right. The afternoon had been reasonable so far, thanks to Mikaela, and all things considered, he had no particular desire to walk back into a conversation that had already ended badly once just to hand someone a hat. Some interactions were better left where they were.

He looked back up and caught the tail end of River's smile, piecing together enough of the picture to know he didn't need the rest of it. "If you're heading her way, sure. Saves me the trip," Elias said simply, holding the beret out toward him. "Besides, I don’t think this is a face she would be too happy to see right now."

River took a small step forward, extending his hand until the tips of his fingers brushed against the cream colored fleece. The image of the beret resting on Anissa’s brunette hair crept to the forefront of his mind as other memories from the night before came flooding up behind it. He cleared his throat, trying to keep them at bay as the tips of his fingers curled around the edge of the hat and took it gently into his grasp. Intentional or not, he held it with a gentle sort of reverence, lightly clutched between both hands while his thumbs stroked the soft fabric. "If I don’t see her today, there’s always tomorrow at training," he clarified as he folded the damp beret over once then tucked it into his pocket for safe keeping.

For whatever reason—likely curiosity or some strange sense of protectiveness that he couldn’t quite put a finger on—River’s thoughts lingered on Elias’s last comment. Anissa hadn’t mentioned this guy to him, nor did he recall ever seeing them interact, yet whatever happened between them was enough to presumably leave a sour taste. There was a small part of him that felt a tinge of jealousy, although he wasn’t entirely sure why, but it was quickly overshadowed by the same feeling that stirred in him around the beginning of the party, the need to defend her against whiny men screaming at her or… whatever happened with Elias.

River shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying not to look obvious in his curiosity or the other thoughts that lingered at the back of his mind. "Why?" The question slipped out because… well, of course it did. "What did your face do?" He blinked slowly, brows furrowing before he laughed awkwardly. "I mean, what happened?" he clarified.

Elias exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the particular weariness of a man who had already turned the same question over in his mind half a dozen times without finding a single satisfying answer. Around them, the field stretched empty and grey, the only movement a faint shiver of wind through the treeline. He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, not from cold so much as habit, and finally admitted it.

"I called her a lizard," he said, letting that sit for a second, well aware of how it sounded. "Not directly," he added, because that felt important to clarify. "It was more like... I was trying to say cold hands, warm heart, and somehow it became a whole thing about lizards and snakes and whether or not she hissed."

He paused. "She didn't think that was funny."
Another pause.
"And in hindsight, I can see why."

He said it all with the flat matter-of-fact delivery of someone who had fully accepted that he occasionally said genuinely baffling things to people and simply had to live with the consequences. But then he caught something in River's expression, a shift he couldn't quite read, and his brain did what it always did when it couldn't place something: filled in the blank with the most available explanation.

"I know how it sounds." Elias's tone edged toward defensive, though not unkindly. "But for the record, I wasn't trying to be weird about the gloves or her…condition– _{Whatever it is…}"

River sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth and a grimace he couldn’t mask if he tried. Yeah, calling someone a lizard wasn’t the best first impression, not that he had much room to talk when it came to social blunders. If anything, Elias seemed to struggle with a similar affliction of less-than-great social skills. There might have been a part of him that felt strangely protective over Anissa but as the explanation unfolded it wasn’t screaming at her and calling her a rat, rather shitty wording and poor communication. The damage didn’t seem irreparable. And honestly, it didn’t sound that much different than the ridiculous bullshit that stumbled out of his own mouth.

He clicked his tongue, rocking back and forth on his heels while tapping his thumbs against the side of his pockets. "I say stupid shit all the time and she doesn’t hate me," River offered with an awkward shrug. Ok, sure, it might be a little different because last he checked Elias wasn’t making out with her… but still. His mind stalled momentarily on the comment about her gloves or… condition?—whatever the fuck he meant by that. He had noticed the gloves, or at least he was pretty sure he had. They were there. He saw them. But he never asked. Fashion was weird and people liked what they liked. That was the beginning and end of it, although it seemed Elias’s train of thought turned down an entirely different path.

"She’s nice though," River added casually with a familiarity that might have been a little weird considering he had known her for the better part of a day. But something inside him said he was right, undoubtedly. She was nice… or at least she was nice to him. The dangerous thoughts that threatened to spiral made a warmth creep up his neck from beneath the collar of his coat. He quickly cleared his throat and dammed the thoughts before they could pour over. "I just mean… if you apologize I imagine she’ll accept it." And now he was giving advice to another guy to get on Anissa’s better side. It probably meant nothing… It meant nothing. She spent the night with him not Elias.

Fucking hell he needed to shut his brain off.

"Right…" Elias said slowly, catching the familiarity in River's voice without bringing it up. He wasn't that brainless. "Yeah, maybe I'll apologize."

The word maybe was also doing a lot of heavy lifting there, and he knew it. The honest version was that he now owed apologies to two different people, which felt like a personal record for someone who had been at camp less than twenty-four hours, and the realistic version was that neither of those conversations was happening today. Possibly not tomorrow either. He needed to space them out if only for his own sanity. Two emotionally charged interactions back-to-back seemed like a reliable way to short something out, and he'd had enough of that for one day already.

"Anyway…" He glanced back toward the main hall, then at River, suddenly aware that he'd essentially intercepted the guy in the middle of an empty field and kept him there for the better part of ten minutes in the cold. "I didn't mean to hold you up. The food's pretty good in there, and after this morning's course, you've probably earned it. More than I did anyway." Third frickin place. Pfft.

River brushed it off slightly with a small shrug and a little dismissive wave of his hand. "You’re fine. Someone grabbed me food—" he could have said Anissa, but for whatever reason, considering she was their previous topic, it felt weird to say it… Like it was some strange flex or peacocking or hell if he knew. "—and I think I’m better off avoiding… congregations of campers at the moment. I’m fairly certain after training that half of the people here hate me or want to bombard me with questions I don’t have the answers to." There was a momentary pause and then he filled the silence with a small click of his tongue. He really needed to learn the art of a happy medium. There was such a thing as slightly painful small talk without unloading every thought that crossed his mind.

Elias's brow climbed before he could stop it. Half the camp hating their leader after one training session felt like a stretch and far too self-flagellating. Then again, he'd watched River run that course like a man with something to prove. And the speech afterward? It hadn't exactly softened the reality of what they were all walking into. He could see how that might land badly with people, especially those who had to run the course again and were unprepared for its brutality. What Elias didn't entirely understand was why River seemed to expect the hostility. That kind of preemptive resignation wasn't unfamiliar, though. Elias had worn it himself for years back when his presence tended to shift the atmosphere in ways he couldn't always control. It was exhausting to carry that weight. Harder to set down than it looked.

He didn't say any of that. Some observations were better kept internal. "I don't think it's hate," he said instead, shrugging. "You said it yourself: this whole demigod thing can be too much for people. People are just scared. Easier to be pissed off at whoever's in front of them than whatever's actually got them scared." Elias could have said more after that. There was plenty more to say. But he'd already had one conversation today that went longer and deeper than he'd planned.

"Eh," was all River offered with an indiscernible shrug that said whatever the reasoning or outcome, it was out of his hands. Whether hatred or forced socializing that ended in questions he could not answer, he accepted it, if only because… it wasn’t like he had any other choice.

River sighed, lightly kicking some snow as his right hand raised to rub the back of his neck. The silence sat there for a beat or two as his mind settled on Elias’s words and the potential implications of what was said. Unfortunately, he couldn’t entirely remember where the guy finished when thirty other demigods were rattling around his mind, but regardless… "Everyone deserves a good meal after training, no matter how they did. Progress is different for everyone. Effort’s what matters."

"Oh, I already ate, no worries. Twice, actually. Third place could never stop that." He said it deadpan, but there was something in Elias’s expression that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite not one. The competitive grumble still lived somewhere under it, but it was the kind you could laugh at. Mostly.

There was something that could almost pass as a quiet chuckle that rumbled in River’s chest. "Third place is the farthest thing from bad," he offered, crossing his arms across his chest in a way that wasn’t closed off but almost a fraction more comfortable in the conversation. "You were only outpaced by Ares kids—which I doubt anyone will beat them—and me." He shrugged his shoulders, not really seeing himself as a standard but a byproduct of unachievable expectations set on him from a father he could never please. "My dad’s been training me since I was like five. If I didn’t finish right behind the meatheads he might have actually thrown me into Tartarus himself," he mused with a laugh that toed the line between self-deprecating and reassuring, perhaps it was a bit of both.

The next few words came out easier than Elias expected, as if they'd been lurking in ambush, waiting for a gap in his defences. "My mom never put it quite like this," he said, "but looking back, I think Zeus picked her because she wouldn't try to change me. Which sounds nice until you realize it basically means he needed someone to manage whatever he put in me without it becoming his problem."

He wasn't bitter about it, exactly. Not anymore. Gods were like that, he'd decided. They loomed colossal from a distance, all awe-inspiring and shit. But then you got older, and the lighting changed, and you saw them for what they actually were: the container—the bones of a thing.

The thing was, Marisol had probably known that long before he did, too. She'd named him Elias on purpose to show that she knew what she was signing up for. Elias had spent years thinking he was figuring something out, piecing together his own mythology from scraps and guesses, when really he'd just been slowly, belatedly catching up to where she already stood.

"So…yea, I get the whole dad thing." He shrugged, one shoulder lifting in a gesture that tried for nonchalance but was probably somewhere closer to resigned.

River nodded slowly with a quiet understanding he wasn't entirely sure how to put into words. He merely shifted his weight from one leg to the other, then mindlessly moved snow around with the tip of his shoe. "When I was younger I always liked to think that the Gods got with their mortal partners because of love… but..." His voice trailed off, considering what Elias said in silent implication. Then his left shoulder raised in a small shrug, a show of quiet acceptance that had settled in him years ago. "Well, they are Gods."

"Yeah," was all that Elias said. Because River had put it about as cleanly as it could be put, and adding anything else would only dilute it. They are Gods. Three words that explained and excused and condemned all at once, depending on the day and the angle you came at it from.

He stood with it for a second. Then, because he was who he was and the question had already formed before he'd decided whether to ask it: "Did he ever do anything that made you think he actually loved her? Your mom?" He said it with genuine curiosity because he couldn't recall Marisol ever saying or doing anything that suggested Zeus had loved her. He'd never even asked her how they met (although he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to that either).

River sucked in a sharp breath between his loosely clenched teeth. His eyes squinted as his attention shifted up toward the powder grey sky, searching the clouds for a sliver of a memory that would somehow change his answer. After a second or two of trying and ultimately failing, he rolled his eyes before looking back over at Elias. "I don’t have any memory of my parents talking. Whenever he came…" He shrugged his shoulders and clicked his tongue. "I don’t know. It was just for me. If there was love between them… They kept it hidden or it died before I was old enough to notice."

Elias nodded, though it was more out of confirmation than agreement of something he'd suspected but had stubbornly hoped might be wrong. The cold had started to seep through his jacket in earnest now, but his mind was elsewhere, going over what River had just implied.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Same."

He hadn't exactly meant to say that out loud, but it was true, and Elias had never been particularly good at letting the truth languish unacknowledged once it surfaced. Marisol had loved him completely without condition, a love so total it had probably cost her more than she'd ever let him see. Whether Zeus had ever loved her, though…that was a different question entirely. One he'd just realized he'd been carrying for years, a nascent weight lodged somewhere deep inside.

He exhaled, watching his breath cloud and dissipate into the grey afternoon before shaking off the thought, moving on. That was what Marisol would have wanted, anyway.

There was a long pause as River’s gaze drifted back towards the arena, wondering if it would ever be enough, if he even possessed the skill to do whatever it was that his father wanted him to do. He sighed then looked back over toward Elias with a lopsided smile. "I planned to leave the course up if practice would make you feel better. And I'm always open to help train more… You know, outside of group shit." He shrugged again, tilting his head slightly to the side indifferently. "Don't know how much help I'd be but I imagine we could push each other through friendly competition and stupid male pride if nothing else," he added with a weak laugh, knowing all too well how ruthless competition can be.

Elias was, to say the least, more than a little nonplussed. He'd assumed River would keep a careful distance between himself and the people he was supposed to be leading, pretty much the authoritative self he'd presented so far. This, however, was not that at all. It was something closer to being…human.

The thing that hadn't quite been a smile from earlier made a full appearance this time around.

"Stupid male pride's got a pretty good track record," the son of Zeus replied. "Yeah, alright. I'm in." He meant it the same way he'd meant the gym partner deal with Mikaela: completely and without any stipulations.

"And leave the course up," he added, almost as an afterthought, though it wasn't really. "Third place has got a lot to answer for still."

There was a quiet, snort-like laugh that slipped out as River nodded his head. "Sure thing."

His thumb swept across the slightly damp fabric of the beret in his pocket, reminding himself of a looming conversation on the horizon, a headache that scratched at the edges of his mind, and a shower he desperately needed. He sighed and nodded his head in the general direction of his cabin. "Don’t wanna keep you and I could really go for a shower," he said with a weak chuckle. "But, you know… Don’t be so hard on yourself about third place," River added a bit awkwardly, but there was still sincerity laced throughout his words.

He took a single step down the path before pivoting, snow crunching underfoot as he half turned back to Elias. "Cabin 37 for whenever you want that friendly competition." The corner of his mouth rose into that faint, lopsided smile before he turned back around and continued down the path with the determination of someone in need of a shower and a handful of ibuprofen.

Elias watched him go for a second, hands still buried in his jacket pockets, before he started walking again. Cabin 20 wasn't far. A few minutes, maybe less if he didn't dawdle. He could shower and eat a third time if the mood struck. Maybe, if the afternoon proved unexpectedly generous, he could even figure out which of his two outstanding apologies was less terrifying to deliver first.

Probably neither today, though. He'd work on that tomorrow.

^{interactions ....|.... mikaela ............... mentions ....|.... tapeesa, anissa & blair ............... collabs ....|.... @Qia}

Black Lily

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Tamsin "Red" Reed

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T A M S I N ." R E D "...

.................................................... __________________________________________ T A M S I N . R E E D ________________________________________________________ 35 | female | heterosexual __________________________________________ ▹ hair color | red ▹ eye color | green ▹ height | 5' 4" ▹ build | athletic / muscular ▹ origin | reedhollow __________________________________________ S C A R S ▹ left cheek | small cut ▹ back | claw marks ▹ right shin | bite mark ▹ throat | discoloration from rope ▹ various | multitude of small knicks

. S T R E N G T H S expert marksman .|. archery .|. survivalist .|. herbalist .|. animal handling .|. tracking .|. hunting .|. ranged combat .|. stealth .|. agility .|. perceptive .|. ingenious .|. resourceful W E A K N E S S E S physical strength .|. hand-to-hand combat .|. independent .|. abrasive .|. stubborn .|. impulsive .|. wiclind knights .|. sleep deprivation .|. ptsd .|. teamwork .|. tunnel vision .|. urban environments E Q U I P M E N T ebony bow .|. steel & silver arrows .|. pair of daggers, silver & steel .|. herbalist kit .|. black lily oils, tonics & elixirs .|. hatchet .|. hunter's knife .|. polished silver mirror .|. lockpick .|. studded leather armor .|. cloak .|. traveler's pack A N I M A L S bane - A large dire wolf with ashen black hair and piercing green eyes, Bane has been Tamsin's traveling companion for the better part of five years. He is a weather creature that is just as marred as his owner. His most notable scars are remnants of an altercation with a griffon that left behind a patch along his neck that no longer grows fur, a gash over his left eye, and his left ear is slightly mangled and half gone. He is loyal and fearless creature, helping track beasts and running into a fight alongside his owner. Just the sight of him often makes others give them a with berth, but when he is met with kindness he exhibits the same warmth and love as a common household hound. shadow - Shadow is an elegant Fen-Strider mare with a mane like silk and darker than night. After a run in with a Wiclind Knight that left her absent a rider, Tamsin took the barely matured horse as her own. Shadow is a swift and agile creature, capable of navigating various terrains with ease from deadly marshlands to treacherous mountainsides. Through her time as a monster hunter's steed, while running alongside Bane, she has grown to be one of the bravest horses Tamsin has ever encountered, rarely skittish, and running into battle with the same tenacity as her owner. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y altruistic .... | .... guarded .... | .... loyal .... | .... sincere .... | .... dauntless H I S T O R Y ✦ tbd... when brought to light in RP ✦ tbd... when brought to light in RP ✦ tbd... when brought to light in RP ✦ tbd... when brought to light in RP ✦ tbd... when brought to light in RP __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #9a2244 ........ faceclaim . | . jessica chastain ........ creator . | . Mjolnir

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Camp Athens - Closed

^{#667c0c ....|..... outfit .....|..... their cabin}

Wes’s pace was steady, almost lazy as he walked alongside Trinity with his arm draped across her shoulders. The cold was… uncomfortable. Especially without a proper shirt beneath his jacket. But he was content sacrificing a few minutes of discomfort to enjoy walking side by side with her, with their previous disagreement in the past and the knowledge that she was happily moving in with him on the horizon. He was a simple man. His girl wrapped in his arm, no longer mad, with nothing but love between them and the enticing prospect of make up shower sex… That sounded perfect to him.

"Fff…Three? But I reckon we could do it in two." The gentle bump from her hip pulled him from his thoughts. Wes’s smile grew bright and warm as he head tilted to look down at her.

His hand lightly slipped along her forearm, shifting her hold until he was able to lace their fingers together loosely. "You gonna load me up like a pack mule?" he mused while tugging her a little closer into his side like a small hug, but also to shield them both from the cold by using each other for warmth.

The remaining walk was peaceful with most of the people spread throughout camp eating or hidden away to avoid the cold or further training—not that he blamed him. When they reached Trinity’s cabin she moved to detangle herself from him, but being greedy and ornery, Wes tugged her closer, turning her slightly so that they stood chest to chest. He held her there for a long moment, gaze locked with hers while his wide and unwavering smile cut sharp arcs into his cheek. It was only when she wiggled and huffed to be free that he relented, but not after stealing a quick kiss and slapping her retreating butt once more… just for good measure, or good luck, maybe both.

"Speaker annnd some jackets," Trinity started issuing her commands with an adorably contorted face.

Wes scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes as he stepped inside. Jackets and a bluetooth speaker were hardly much when it came to helping someone move. That was a trivial amount of… well, whatever the hell she had in that cabin. He gathered the items she mentioned, but he also scooped up anything else as he came across while sweeping the common areas: another pair of shoes, discarded clothing, and a throw blanket he had caught her curled beneath on several occasions. He started making an orderly stack on one of the armchairs, quickly turning it into a catch-all for anything he knew to be hers and not a Godly magic feature of the cabin.

Meanwhile, from the bedroom he heard Trinity shifting around and considering what to bring or leave behind. "Sleeping bag?"

His brows furrowed, dramatically judgemental and incredulous as he poked his head through the doorway. "... There’s a bed?" Wes half stated and half asked rhetorically, like the thought of bringing a sleeping bag sounded so ridiculous that he couldn’t fathom why she’d need it.

"Spare sheets?" was all she asked in response.

Wes snorted out a laugh, shaking his head. "I don’t think a second person in my cabin means I’m going to run through sheets faster." Then he paused, eyes squinting as he tilted his head slightly. "Ok well… If yours have survived me living here for the past three months then I’m sure mine will be fine. We haven’t destroyed any… yet," he mused with an all too satisfied smirk as stepped up beside her. He did his best to try and help her fold her clothing so more could fit into her bag, but when half of it was already just sort of… shoved in there, he wasn’t able to do too much.

Once the bag was packed far beyond what it should have feasibly held and Trinity had forced the zipper closed, Wes attempted to reach around her and grab it. His hand didn’t even touch the handle before she was smacking him away with that frustrating fiery determination. He pressed his tongue against his cheek, scowling down at her. "I could just throw you over my shoulder and carry you… and that damn bag if I wanted," he challenged her, but inevitably relented… only because it would take more trips to get all of her things if he did that. Otherwise…

Wes wandered back out to the living room, tucking the speaker into the pocket of his coat before carefully slipping his arm beneath the prepared stack of clothing and throwblanket. After a couple tosses and adjustments, he was able to hook two fingers into the shoes he had set aside. He wanted to carry more, could have if she loaded him up with a bag or tossed shit over his shoulders, but he also knew she wouldn’t if he asked. It was good enough for a first run, if nothing else.

"Let’s go." Trinity smiled then made her way out the door.

He clicked his heels together in a mock salute. "Yes Ma’am." Then trailed behind her back out into the biting cold of winter.

The walk to his cabin was slower and more measured, making sure their steps were solid and stable, and that Trinity’s belongings didn’t get splayed across the snow. While his load was awkward and a bit cumbersome, Wes managed it fine, only adjusting a couple times despite her concerned gaze finding its way back to him every so often. Their journey wasn’t particularly long and fairly quiet, aside from the soft crunch of snow underfoot and the whistle of the wind as it slipped through the trees.

When they were somewhere close-ish to the field with a general concept of where the camp’s entrance was, Trinity motioned towards it. "So I’m thinking of Rocco and stuff and it got me thinking, did you leave anything behind at home? Home home, I mean."

Wes adjusted the stack of clothing draped over his arm before answering. "Not really. Shitty dad that was barely home and never let me have pets… Shittier exes." He laughed sardonically with a weak, lopsided smile. "What is it the therapists said? ‘I act out and get in trouble for attention…’ ‘A cry for help,’" he mused, mocking the various therapists and shrinks his father bought to try and get to the root of his problems without ever taking the time to talk to him or get to know him. "Beverly Hills sucked," he added, looking over at her with a small shrug. "Rich people with egos bigger than their mansions, cocaine as party favors, and the only thing faker than the people was their faces beneath all that plastic surgery." He held her gaze, studying her expression curiously before continuing. "There’s a reason I was a piece of shit when I got to camp… I was surrounded by a lot of bad influences."

It wasn’t much longer before they reached his cabin. Wes was on autopilot, already gravitating toward the stairs that led up to the treehouse when he was stopped dead in his tracks, nearly bumping into Trinity where she hesitated before ascending. "If I eat shit right now, I’m suing," she chuckled.

His own laugh slipped out in sync with hers as he gave her a playful nudge from behind. "Go on. I’ll catch you if you slip." Sure, that means her belongings would be scattered about in favor of catching her, but priorities.

Their climb was slow with a couple slippery, questionable moments, but after some patience they eventually reached his cabin and stepped inside. Trinity had barely dropped her belongings onto the couch before rattling off her renovations plans. "Okay, so I’m thinking renovate the kitchen, make it larger, add a bathroom downstairs..." It didn’t last long before her little act was punctuated with a laugh.

"That’s between you, the Gods—but most importantly—Andy," he rebutted with a warm chuckle as he set down the clothing he held onto the couch with her other things. Renovations around camp basically came down to one of the two resident Hecate kids. And considering his cabin was quite literally torn in half and swallowed by a chasm during Pandora’s Box, Wes was not going to be the one asking Andy to adjust his cabin that she rebuilt for him in the first place. He knew Trinity was joking, even in her own playfully bossy way, but if she truly wanted to change anything… everything, he wouldn’t argue. She could paint the whole place pink and he’d just be happy to share it with her. But he still wasn’t going to be the one asking Andy to go Bob the Builder on it.

By the time Wes stood back upright and turned toward her, Trinity was already halfway across the room, heading straight for him. His smile grew as her arms wrapped around his neck and drew him down to her level. He had expected a kiss like any other, but as their lips met he felt a wave of love, devotion, and a million other emotions that had been pent up and warring within themselves since their rocky conversation the night before. His arm curved around her waist, pulling her close until their chests pressed together, nearly lifting her off of the ground. He’d kept her there for as long as she’d stay, until their lungs burned and demanded they part if only to breathe.

The tip of his nose remained softly pressed against her cheek, lips ghosting across hers with every heavy breath he drew in. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Blondie," Wes mused, his smile returning effortlessly as his eyes slowly opened to hold her gaze. "If you keep kissing me like that…" He paused, chest rising and falling around another labored breath. "The only place we’re going… is to bed." His words were deep, husky, and lustful in the way that only Trinity could stir from him, even when he was trying to be on his best behavior. Before either one of them could pull away or sever their closeness, he stole one more fleeting kiss. "I’m trying to be good," he whispered against her lips with a guilty smile.

^{interactions ....|.... trinity ............... mentions ....|.... andy ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Descendants

Tobias stopped outside the entrance to conference room 01. Calling a meeting made sense. They were all there for the same reasons, to try and get to the bottom of the disappearances, save the missing heroes, take down the culprits, etc. It was only logical to let everyone else in the tower know that Imogen and himself actually managed to help someone. But he was never the person who called meetings and definitely never stood up in front of everyone and said anything beyond what was expected of him. Public speaking, even to a handful of people, was enough to set his nerves on edge. He had to keep telling himself that it was expected of him and that it was necessary, if only to force his feet to move and his anxiety to settle into a slightly more manageable nausea.

He inhaled deeply, staring at the grain of the pressboard door before slowly pushing it open for Bellamy to enter first. Luckily they were smart enough to arrive early so they weren’t walking into a room full of waiting and curious gazes. Instead they were met with a sizable, fairly run of the mill conference room. There was a large, long table in the center of the room with over a dozen chairs surrounding it. One wall was made of glass, looking out into the hall, another had a whiteboard that ran from one corner to the other, and then the far wall was floor to ceiling windows that butted up against the pool area outside the tower.

Tobias propped the door open, only the subtle trembling in his fingers pressed against the wood betrayed the stoicism he presented, showing a glimpse of the anxiety and uncertainty that warred inside him. He spent longer than necessary securing the door before slowly making his way toward what was presumably the front of the room. His steps were slow and measured in sync with his breaths, subconsciously seeking control where he could find it in himself. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Bellamy, like something inside him knew the second he met her gaze she’d see his nerves and it’d make everything he was feeling multiply tenfold. He didn’t want to look weak, to her… or anyone else in the tower. He knew it was ridiculous and that anxiety wasn’t a weakness, but no amount of logic seemed to keep his breaths steady or his hands from shaking.

Bellamy stepped through the doorway like she was crossing the threshold into something far larger than a conference room. It should have felt mundane, all clean lines and polished surfaces and the kind of impersonal functionality that belonged to meetings and schedules and ordinary people discussing ordinary things, but nothing about it felt ordinary to her. Not when every beat of her heart seemed to echo in the hollow of her ribs, not when the too neat chairs around the long table looked almost accusatory in their order, as if they were already waiting for someone more qualified than her to sit in them.

She was acutely aware of the clothes she wore, Tobias’s clothes, still too big in the sleeves and shoulders, a quiet, humiliating comfort that made her feel even smaller somehow, and of the way the sandwich she’d forced down sat in her stomach like wet cement, heavy and wrong, threatening to crawl back up her throat if she breathed too sharply. The thought came unbidden and sharp enough to sting: I don’t belong here. She was not a hero, not really, only the frightened daughter of one, a girl with powers that bucked and snarled when her emotions slipped out of hand, a civilian dressed in borrowed fabric trying to stand where people like Tobias were meant to stand with certainty and purpose.

And still, traitorously, desperately, there was a part of her that wanted to ask them to help her anyway, to teach her, to make her into something less breakable and less useless, even as shame whispered that she had no right to ask for more from people already bleeding themselves dry trying to save the world.

She could not sit. The very thought of it made her skin feel too tight, so Bellamy drifted away from the table and the suffocating symmetry of it, her steps soft against the floor as she paced the length of the room in slow, restless lines. Each pass was a failed attempt to bleed the nervous energy from her body, but it only gathered more densely in her chest, coiling there until even her shallow breaths felt like work. She stopped by the wall of windows, gaze dropping instinctively toward the pool outside, bright blue and deceptively serene beneath the daylight, its surface untroubled and glimmering in a way that made something old and aching shift in her chest.

For a moment she could almost remember what it had once felt like to move through water for the joy of it, to cut through the length of a lane with the clean certainty of her own body, muscles burning in a way that felt earned instead of panicked, chlorine on her skin and sunlight on the crown of her head instead of blood and rain and terror. Her arms folded tightly across her chest, hands tucking beneath her biceps as if she could physically hold herself together, keep the cracks from widening, and she let out a slow, shaky breath that fogged faintly in the air before she forced herself to drag it back under control. Behind her, Tobias’s silence was a presence all its own, steady, familiar already in a way that frightened her, and though she wanted to look at him, wanted to anchor herself in the sight of him the way she had been doing all morning, she could not quite bring herself to turn her head.

The quiet stretched long enough that it became another thing in the room with them, something taut and breathing between the two of them, until Bellamy found she could not bear it any longer. She swallowed against the nausea, fingers pressing more tightly into the sleeves bunched at her elbows, and searched desperately for something harmless, something small enough to say that would not crack open the larger fear sitting like ice in her lungs. "The pool looks nice," she managed at last, voice soft and trembling around the edges despite her best efforts, the words almost absurd in the face of everything else but somehow all she had.

Her eyes remained fixed on the blue water below, on the shimmer of reflected light, and her throat worked once before she forced herself onward, a little more quietly this time, as though confessing something fragile to the glass rather than to him. "I haven't swam in forever." The admission hung there, simple and small and yet weighted with far more than the words themselves, with all the versions of herself she had been before this, before she became a girl who fled through a window, before she learned how quickly a life could be split into before and after. She stayed facing the window because if she turned and saw Tobias, if she caught even a glimpse of the same nerves she could feel radiating off him in quiet waves, Bell feared she might either start crying or walk straight to him and tuck herself against his side like he was the only solid thing left in a world that no longer knew how to hold still.

Tobias was so lost in his own thoughts and panic that he almost missed Bell’s words beneath his pulse hammering in his ears and the speech he kept replaying in his head in hopes of lowering his stress. "Huh?" He raised his head, looking down the length of the table toward the windows where she stood. A second passed before her words finally registered. "Oh… yeah," he replied softly, running the tip of his tongue along his molars. "I, uh…" He forced himself to draw in a deep breath, hold it for a beat, then released it steadily through his nose. "I used to swim in it a lot when I attended the academy. Some of us were hanging out around it last night, until…" His voice trailed off, not letting himself finish the thought as his hands fell to rest against the edge of the table and he hung his head.

The guilt settled in quickly, relentless and nagging against the pit in his stomach that was already churning from nerves. ‘Until,’ he repeated in his mind. Until Luke ruined the mood by dropping the news of Bellamy’s family heavily onto all of their shoulders, ruining the false sense of security and delusion as they all ignored the world and pretended it was ok to relax. Tobias wasted time sitting around a pool, catching up with old friends or trying to build some sort of camaraderie with new faces, all the while Bellamy was going through hell. The guilt made him more nauseous than his anxiety ever could. Maybe if he was smarter and not distracted he would have thought of the solution sooner. Twenty-four hours could have made all the difference… But that was twenty-four hours where he failed again, and he just barely managed to make it there in time.

The kind, naive part of Tobias wanted to tell Bellamy she was free to use the pool whenever she wanted… Even offer to take her there later. But the guilty, serious part of himself wouldn’t speak the sentiments. If distracting himself for less than a day nearly cost her life, what would other distractions cost? He should be focusing on their goals, on finding the missing heroes or saving others before they disappear too. Yet, there was still the softer part of him beneath his solemn stoicism that would waste time in the pool if she asked, or share a drink with Magni… Because if anything, this all just showed how fleeting life truly was for them. Fuck. Tobias sucked in a breath through clenched teeth while running his hands back through his hair. He needed to get his priorities straight, but they only seemed to get muddier with every passing minute.

Bellamy did not need him to finish the sentence to understand what lived in the silence that followed. It was there in the way his voice thinned at the edges and then disappeared entirely, in the way his hands found the table like he needed something solid to keep himself upright, in the angle of his head as though shame itself had weight enough to drag him downward. She could see it as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud, the ugly arithmetic of hindsight, the way his mind was already carving the night into neat, cruel pieces and assigning blame to every moment he had laughed, every breath he had taken beside the pool while she had been running through a living nightmare with her father’s bag clutched to her chest.

For a few long seconds Bellamy only stared at the water below, at the bright blue surface laid smooth beneath the sun, its skin unbroken and shimmering with a serenity that felt almost obscene. It looked untouched, innocent even, while she knew better now than to trust how beautiful things could appear from a distance. Somewhere in another version of the world, maybe one where men with guns had never come through her family’s home, she could have imagined herself there too, curled at the edge of that pool with bare feet tucked beneath her, listening to voices and laughter drift warm into the evening. Instead, she had spent that same stretch of time trying to outrun the kind of terror that changed the shape of a life forever.

A breath left her, small and fragile, stirring the loose strands of hair at her temple as her fingers worried the bracelet around her wrist, rolling it back and forth against her skin with the compulsive rhythm of someone trying not to come apart in a room that had not yet even filled with witnesses. The metal clicked softly beneath her thumb, a tiny, nervous sound, and somehow that was what made the words feel possible. "It's not your fault," she said at last, the sentence so quiet it was nearly only breath, but it settled into the space between them with more certainty than anything else she had felt all day. Saying it felt strange and right all at once, like easing a hand over a wound and finding it still tender but no longer bleeding.

She turned from the window then, forcing herself to look at him fully, and the sight of him, all taut muscles and strained restraint, every line of him pulled tight as though he might shatter if one more thing landed on his back, made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Tobias looked like a man standing on the edge of himself, as if given the opportunity he might very well throw his own body through the glass simply to escape the weight of expectation and the suffocating press of his own conscience, and Bellamy knew with terrible, immediate clarity that he was exactly the kind of person who would bleed himself dry before he ever admitted he was wounded.

Her left hand kept spinning the bracelet, thumb catching and releasing the metal while she crossed the room in only the smallest of ways, not enough to invade the distance he seemed to need, but enough that her voice would not have to strain to reach him. "I'm alive because of you," she said, and though her voice trembled around the edges, there was no uncertainty in it, only the raw honesty of something she had not yet had the time to dress up into something easier to hear. "You couldn't have known until it was too late. None of it is your fault." She held his gaze for a few precious seconds, long enough for him to see that she meant it, long enough for her own pulse to stumble at the intensity of simply looking at him when he was like this, anxious and braced and so painfully, impossibly human beneath all that stoicism.

Then her courage faltered, as it always seemed to when she was too honest, and her eyes slipped to the floor between them, to the pale gleam of polished tile instead of the face she was already learning was far too easy to read and far too difficult to ignore. The bracelet turned once more around her wrist, and Bellamy swallowed against the knot in her throat, knowing there was nothing she could say that would make him truly set the burden down, but hoping perhaps she could at least pry one stone loose from the mountain he kept insisting on carrying alone.

Tobias slowly looked up as the silence was broken by her quiet words. While his eyes lifted, he struggled to meet her gaze, instead focusing on the sleeves of the jacket he lent her, bunched around her forearms to keep from swallowing her hands as she idly spun her bracelet around her wrist. The fluorescent lights caught on the metal, small glints shining off the silver chain as her fingers ran along it in a self-soothing manner. He drew in a deep breath, running his tongue along the back of his teeth as he forced himself to meet her gaze, if for only a second or two. She was right, he knew it. But the thoughts persisted regardless. No amount of speed on his end would have saved Bellamy’s fathers, but he could have saved her a night hiding in the forest. He could have killed more of them or caught the sniper… Or a million other variations if he had only been faster.

"But I could have done more," he replied quietly, rapping his knuckles against the table as his gaze fell to the wooden surface beneath his hands.

"I see not much has changed in a decade," Alfred’s voice swept through the doorway, warm and comforting like the morning sun slipping through the window and pooling across the floor. He slowly entered the conference room with a gentle smile and his hands lightly cupped in front of him. His attention slowly shifted from Tobias to Bellamy without losing an ounce of kindness in his expression or the grounding aura that seemed to permeate around him wherever he went. "Mr. Lehnsherr has always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He succeeds at anything he sets his mind to, yet amidst his success, he only seems to focus on his errs."

He crossed the room, lightly resting a reassuring hand against Tobias’s shoulder with a smile that was both fond and gently chastising in its warmth. "He has yet to learn how to be kind… to himself." He gently squeezed the young man’s arm before letting his hand fall back to his side.

Tobias quickly found himself surrounded by people who were determined not to let him disappear into his own thoughts. He sighed softly as a small, fragile smile broke through his thick shell and tugged at the corner of his mouth. His brows rose slowly with a small nod of his head, conceding to their gentle coaxing, if only for the time being. "Old habits, I suppose," he mused sheepishly. His father had beaten into him the need for perfection and anything less than perfect was a failure. It was so integrally ingrained in him that it was almost impossible to ignore it. Even in his atonement, attempting to right the wrongs of his past, saving a life hardly made a dent when he could have done better.

Alfred chuckled softly before turning his attention back toward Bellamy with the same level of fondness he reserved for every pupil that had trained at the academy. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Ms. Drake. I do hope your new living arrangements are satisfactory."

Bellamy startled at the sound of Alfred’s voice, her shoulders tightening before easing again almost immediately beneath the warmth of his tone. There was something almost unfair about how kind he was, how effortlessly he seemed to step into a room and soften all its harder edges, and when his attention settled on her she managed a smile that wavered at the corners like a candle flame caught in a draft. "It’s perfect, really," she answered, and for all the tremor in her voice the words were true, the apartment was far more than she deserved, far more than she had expected after arriving here with blood under her nails and mud on her skin.

But the memory of the bathroom rose hot and immediate in her mind, the shatter of glass, the terrible bloom of ice, the humiliating certainty that she had managed to destroy something so quickly in a place she had barely entered, and she shifted where she stood, rubbing her damp palms against the oversized sleeves of Tobias’s jacket before glancing down. "Though… if it isn’t too much trouble, is there any way to replace the shower glass with something a little more… temperature resistant?" The question came out softer, threaded with embarrassment, and her face flushed all the way to the tips of her ears as she ducked her chin. "I may have… underestimated how fragile it was."

Alfred brushed off the request as easily as he would if someone asked him to fetch them a cup of tea, with a gentle smile and a warm chuckle. "Do not fret yourself, structural damage is quite common here. These halls are accustomed to gifted individuals still learning how to control their abilities." He gave Bellamy a soft, reassuring touch to the shoulder. "I will look into it after the meeting."

"Ms. Drake?" Phil echoed as he crossed the threshold into the room with an equally stunned and confused expression. He studied the young woman for a moment or two before his gaze shifted to Tobias with a soft, exasperated sigh. "What is the point in having rules if no one follows them?" he huffed, more to himself than anything.

"Considering Mr. Lehnsherr has never broken a single rule during his time at the academy, and this particular infraction resulted in saving a life, I believe we can agree to look past his temporary lapse in discipline," Alfred rebutted with a bright smile as he started walking beside the table toward the far end of the room.

Phil hesitated for a moment, weighing his colleague’s argument before conceding with a small nod of his head. "Well done." While the compliment might have seemed forced or diplomatic in the plain way it was offered, his words were sincere and he was quietly impressed, even if he’d never admit it. They were all at the tower for a reason and Tobias was the first person to actually accomplish something. That was no small feat and while it was risky, and could have cost him his life, instead it spared another. It was the type of silver lining they all could use… hope.

Now that the reasoning behind the meeting was obvious, Phil turned his attention toward Bellamy and held out his right hand in a proper greeting. "Hello, Ms. Drake. I am Phil Coulson." He gave her a gentle but firm handshake. "I am sure Tobias has given you a proper orientation, but if you need anything do not hesitate to ask. Alfred, J.A.R.V.I.S. and I are happy to help." With that he nodded his head, then found his way toward the far end of the table where he settled into a seat beside Alfred without another word.

Phil’s entrance pulled her gaze up again, and whatever shy, fleeting amusement Alfred had managed to coax from her gentled into something sadder, more delicate, a smile touched by grief rather than humor. The name hit her like a soft echo from another life, one where her father had been beside her and warm and laughing, speaking in that offhand, familiar way people did when they mentioned old friends or respected colleagues, never imagining those names would someday become ghosts she would have to meet without him. Bellamy took his hand when he offered it, her fingers cool and a little unsteady in his grasp, and for a second the room seemed to narrow strangely around that small point of contact.

"It’s… nice to meet you," she said, her voice quieter now, the ache in it impossible to fully disguise. "My dad talked about you before. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name." Saying it made her chest tighten, made memory stir sharp and bright beneath her ribs, Bobby smiling over coffee, speaking with the easy affection of someone who believed there would always be time for future introductions, and she had to lower her eyes for a moment to keep the sting behind them from turning into something more obvious.

"Do we all get a pass if we catch strays?"

Jim clicked his tongue as he tapped the fingers of his right hand on his leg in the doorway. He ignored the sharp glance from Phil, crossing the room to take a seat at the conference table. "Did you manage to get any intel at least?" He asked more sincerely as he settled in, removing his trademark glasses from his pocket so he could at least get some work done while waiting for the show. "Pick up any guns or hitmen? License plates? Anything?"

When Jim spoke, whatever fragile steadiness Bellamy had pieced together inside herself gave a small, ugly crack. She knew, rationally, that she was a complication, an unexpected variable, a civilian with too much grief and too little training, a girl who had arrived bleeding and frightened with powers she could barely keep from turning a bathroom into a winter grave. She knew she was not an asset, not yet, and perhaps not ever, but there was something about hearing it reduced to stray. Tossed out so casually, so thoughtlessly, like she was some half-drowned thing Tobias had dragged in from the storm, that made her stomach pitch so hard the sandwich she’d forced down earlier turned heavy and revolting in her gut.

Her gaze dropped at once to the table, to the grain in the wood, to anything that would keep her from seeing whether anyone else in the room agreed, and without thinking she shuffled the smallest step closer to Tobias, as if the pull of him had become instinctive already, as if standing near him might keep the word from lodging too deep. She did not greet Jim. She did not trust herself to speak at all, because if she opened her mouth she feared the shame might come out first, raw and humiliating and far too visible.

Tobias didn’t have to look toward Bellamy to notice the way she grew still and silent before drifting closer to him like he was the only shield between her and the sharp words from people like Stark. "Stray?" The word came out confused and sharp like sour food on his tongue. Something about hearing it worded in such a way struck a cord with him. The thought of Helena and Bellamy and countless others being reduced to little more than helpless creatures needing shelter twisted uncomfortably in his chest. He drew in a slow, steady deep breath, knocking his knuckles once against the table before stranding up straight in a subtle way that placed himself in front of her without making a show of it. "She’s not an animal in need of rehousing. She’s a victim of the same assholes that took your father. Have some sympathy."

His tone came out far more calm and measured than it had any right to be, only betrayed by the tensing of the muscle along his jaw. He liked to think of himself as level headed and better at tempering his emotions compared to others. It was because of that, and only that, that Tobias was able to bite his tongue before devolving into further sharp witted comments. "I don’t intend on repeating myself. So you’ll have to exercise patience… and wait for answers," he answered Jim’s questions without looking over at him, instead keeping his gaze looking past everyone and out the window as he crossed his arms lightly over his chest.

Some of the tension bled out of Bellamy so suddenly it almost made her knees feel weak. It came in the wake of Tobias’s voice, calm where it had every right to be sharp, measured where anger simmered visibly in the flex of his jaw and the set of his shoulders, and she felt the softest breath slip from between her lips before she even realized she had been holding it. There was something disarming about the way he did it, about how he stepped in front of her so subtly it might have gone unnoticed by anyone who did not already feel drawn to every small movement he made, like protection was something he offered instinctively rather than performatively. Her eyes caught, traitorously, on the tense line of muscle working in his jaw, on the rigid control threaded through every word, and for one embarrassing heartbeat her thoughts slid somewhere warm and entirely unhelpful before she mentally shook herself like a dog shedding water.

Myla rounded the corner, stepping into the conference room with an ice pack held beneath the hem of her loose shirt against her freshly cauterized wound. The bruises that still lingered beneath her eyes and across her nose had faded from a deep purple to a sickly greenish yellow as evidence of her slow healing. Her free hand reached up and pulled her sunglasses down from the top of her head and rested them along the bridge of her nose. Within the tower she had gotten used to not wearing them, but she noticed the shift in the building and sensed a new presence. People didn’t handle glassy white eyes that never quite made eye contact or seemed to stare too long. Sunglasses were easier and more comfortable for most.

Her pace slowed, feeling the palpable tension among the gathered people as her attention shifted to the unknown woman standing toward the front of the room. Myla sensed the girl’s unease in the raised cadence in her heart beat, the subtle saltiness that permeated from the sweat that clung to her palms and the back of her neck, and the way she stood close to Tobias like he was the one thing holding her together. Myla should have taken a seat and said nothing, but because she was used to entering rooms full of strangers, she knew how daunting it could be. Like a gentle olive branch, she slowly approached, pinning the ice pack in place beneath her arm to free her right hand so she could extend it toward the woman with a gentle, patient smile. "Hi. I’m Myla," she offered quietly with no expectation of reciprocation. "Sorry, cold fingers," she added with a weak laugh as she rubbed her ice-cooled fingertips together.

Bellamy dragged a hand tiredly over her face, fingers pressing briefly at her brow as though she could smooth away the nausea, the embarrassment, the strange fluttering relief Tobias seemed to summon in her without effort, and when her hand fell away, there was suddenly another woman standing there close enough to make her blink in startled silence. Bellamy hadn’t heard her approach at all, and for a moment all she could do was stare, caught off guard by the softness in the woman’s voice and the easy patience in the hand she offered, by the sunglasses that hid her eyes and reflected Bellamy’s own pale, strained face back at her in warped miniature.

Feeling shy in a way that made her seem years younger than twenty-seven, Bellamy reached out and took the offered hand, her own cool fingers a little hesitant where they wrapped around Myla’s. "Hi," she managed, but the word came out hoarse and thin, scraped raw by nerves and too little sleep, and she had to clear her throat softly before trying again. "I’m Bellamy, that’s okay," she said, a wobbly little smile tipping at her mouth as she looked, briefly and curiously, at her own reflection in the dark lenses; pale cheeks, tired eyes, hair still not quite behaving, a woman who looked less like someone ready to join a team and more like someone who had survived a natural disaster by accident.

There was bruising on Myla too, the bright purple shadows of healing damage peeking around the edges of her glasses and nose, and Bell’s first half formed thought was something almost absurdly mundane: migraine? hungover? before the rest of her brain caught up and reminded her that maybe it was something else entirely. Bellamy’s smile grew just a fraction steadier as she added, "The cold never bothered me anyways."

Theo entered the conference room only a few steps behind Myla, casual in the way only someone with far too much confidence and far too little sense of self preservation could be. He was half in the doorway and half still in the hallway mentally, attention split between the two bottles of water he was juggling in one hand and the text conversation with his mom open on his phone in the other. His thumb moved quickly across the screen, tapping out a reply with one hand the ease of long practice while the low hum of tension in the room met him like walking into the aftermath of a lightning strike. He didn’t need to look up immediately to know something had happened, voices had edges, heartbeats changed rhythm, the air itself seemed to hold that brittle stillness that came after someone said the wrong thing in a room full of people too exhausted to be polite.

Still, Theo strolled in like he was arriving late to brunch instead of a room full of superheroes and emotional landmines. He took a seat near where Myla had stopped, one ankle crossing loosely over the opposite knee as he finally glanced up just long enough to clock the general shape of the mess. Jim seated and sharp edged as ever, Tobias standing with that particular kind of rigid calm that looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from violence, a nervous new girl close to his side, and Myla, already somehow playing peacemaker despite the fact that she’d been half dead yesterday.

A low whistle slipped from between Theo’s teeth as he finished his text, hit send, and tucked one bottle of water toward Myla’s reach, cracking the lid open for her, before flicking his screen over to a mind numbing game of Flappy Bird. The little yellow idiot on the screen immediately smacked face first into one of the green pip things. Theo squinted at it like it had personally offended him, then tapped restart with a long-suffering sigh. "Dude, you really suck at making friends," he said lightly to Jim, not even bothering to look at the other man as he spoke, the words delivered with such easy, absent sincerity they somehow landed harder than if he’d aimed for cruelty.

His thumb tapped again. The bird lived for maybe two pipes this time before dying in a way Theo felt was deeply unfair. He barely reacted, because his tone stayed loose, almost airy, like he was just filling dead air rather than stepping squarely into it. But beneath that easygoing exterior, he was cataloging everything in the way he always did. The way Bellamy stood close to Tobias like gravity had quietly rearranged itself around him, the tightness in Tobias’s jaw that said he was angry but holding it in by force, the carefully neutral tilt of Phil’s silence, the way Myla’s voice had gone soft when she introduced herself like she was offering the poor woman an umbrella in a storm. Theo knew that kind of tension too well. Knew what it looked like when someone got made to feel small in a room they already didn’t know how to stand in.

So he let his attention drift back to the game, shoulders loose, expression bright and unbothered, because if he was going to call Jim out, he may as well do it the way he did most things—lightly, with a joke, and a little bit of sass. "Hmm, maybe it’s just teams you don’t jive with." Theo continued as if Jim had opened the topic for debate, not giving the other man a chance to cut in quite yet. He glanced up at Jim, head tilting to the side as if he was considering something deeply important for a moment, before he looked back down at his phone. "I could see you doing edgy solo work. Have you stood on a rooftop in the rain recently, looking out at the city and wondering where it all went wrong? Totally fits the prickly cactus vibe you seem to be going for, very Batman of you." His tone was full of mock approval, while his thumb tapped lazily on the phone, only half paying attention as the bird died again, little bastard.

Jim rolled his eyes, settling back in his chair while he ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He should have taken a breath, recollected himself, and ignored the comments. Letting rage overtake one’s sensibilities was usually reserved for physicists in purple shorts, and not the only person in the room with multiple doctorates. Unfortunately, Jim always had a hard time letting things lie, especially when the one throwing shade was too busy with the most braindead game of a decade prior. "That’s ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, attempting to brush aside the comment without another word. Unfortunately, biting his tongue wasn't in his blood. "If I want advice on spandex and bad jokes, I'll give you a call, Spider-boy."

The regret was almost immediate. Jim almost winced at his own words, a subconscious tick from being around his sister again. He knew she would disapprove, and June would be annoyed that he was already putting their side project in jeopardy. He let out a sigh, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to set aside his pride for even a moment. "Sorry," he whispered, knowing damn well the spider and the devil could hear him. His tone was surprisingly sincere as he settled his nerves, his eyes actually focusing on Theo, Myla, Bellamy, and Tobias. "No, you're right. Teamwork isn't my thing," he conceded, his fingernails digging through his joggers and into his thighs under the conference table to keep himself from launching into another verbal assault.

Theo’s thumb paused mid tap, the little yellow bird on his screen hovering in one frantic, idiotic flutter before promptly smashing into a pipe and dropping out of sight. For a second he just stared at the game, jaw shifting faintly, as if deciding whether it was worth the effort to restart it, or whether Jim’s voice had just irritated him enough to ruin even the world’s dumbest distraction. The apology was there, yes, thin and sincere in its own awkward way, but it came on the heels of a jab that felt all too familiar in a room already crackling with the aftermath of someone else being made to feel small. Theo had spent enough years in masks and chaos to know the difference between someone who was bad at teamwork and someone who weaponized that fact like it excused the collateral damage.

When he finally looked up, it was with that same easy, almost careless calm he wore like a second skin, except now it had edges. Not sharp enough to cut deep, not unless you were paying attention, but bright enough to sting. "With the way you keep verbally abusing members of the team you called to this tower," he said lightly, voice almost conversational, as if he were pointing out the weather instead of the obvious rot in Jim’s attitude, "I’m starting to wonder if maybe you’re the one in the wrong place." His gaze held Jim’s for one beat longer, just enough to let the words land exactly where they were meant to. Then Theo gave the smallest shrug, looked back down at his phone, and tapped the screen to restart the game, dismissing him completely as the bird flapped back into existence like Jim had already ceased to be worth the energy.

Meanwhile, Myla lingered near Bellamy a moment or two longer. The Batman comment nearly pulled a chuckle from her. She quickly turned her head away so her expression was hidden from the majority of the room—or more specifically Jim—as she tucked her lips between her teeth to force the laughter deep down. Her hand slipped back beneath the hem of her shirt, holding the ice pack in place against her ribs as if the cold could steal the tickling humor from her lungs. She took a second, clearing her throat and tucking her hair back behind her ear to regain composure.

While she had been trying to ignore any and all of Jim’s comments, when he rebutted with a snide jab toward Theo, Myla’s expression sharpened, brows creasing faintly while the muscles along her neck and shoulders visibly tensed. Her head turned a fraction toward them, but she quickly tried to swallow whatever words threatened to spill out and temper her anger. She refused to be baited into lashing out. It wasn’t worth it. A soft sigh slipped from her lips as she let out the breath she had been subconsciously holding and turned her attention back to Bellamy. She leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a whisper that was only loud enough for her—and maybe Tobias—to hear. "Don’t worry. I’m his least favorite person in the tower, so you’re safe." Her smile was small and a little self deprecating, but still friendly where it mattered. "Just ignore him. That’s what I try to do."

She went to take a step away when the soft, muffled shifting of Bellamy’s feet—in only socks, absent shoes—caught her attention. Her head lowered and tilted slightly as her hearing attuned to subtle swish of fabric with the girl’s every movement. It was a tracksuit, simple and light, and several sizes too large. Myla didn’t know what happened, not yet anyway, but it was apparent that the poor girl was in a strange new place without a single comfort of her own. She couldn't even begin to imagine how scary and unsettling it would be, standing in a foreign tower, surrounded by unfamiliar faces weighing your worth before knowing your name without the tiniest shred of comfort. No friends. No family. Not even a shred of clothing that was her own.

The decision settled before it had a chance to grow. It took no more than a second or two for Myla to size her up and come to the conclusion that they were likely similar in stature, or at least close enough. "You should come to my penthouse after the meeting," she added, with a small nod of her head up toward the rest of the tower. "I packed plenty of clothes. I can lend you some."

Bellamy’s mouth parted before she could stop it, surprise flashing plain and unguarded across her face at the offer. For a second she simply stared at Myla, caught off guard by the easy generosity of it, by the matter of fact kindness threaded through the words as if lending clothes to a near stranger in borrowed sweats and socks was the most natural thing in the world. It hit somewhere unexpectedly tender, somewhere already bruised raw by too many hours of feeling out of place, and she had to swallow once before she could make her voice work around the sudden tightness in her throat.

"I—thank you," she managed, the words coming out a little strangled at first, then steadier when she tried again. "That would… really help." Her gaze flicked, almost involuntarily, toward Jim then. Not long enough to be obvious, just a brief, uncertain glance that carried more realization than accusation. There was still hurt sitting sour in her stomach, still the sting of being reduced so carelessly, but Myla’s whisper reframed it in a way Bellamy hadn’t been able to on her own. He was just… like that. Sharp edged and careless with his mouth in a way that made collateral damage of whoever happened to be standing nearest. It did not make it kind, and it did not make it pleasant, but it loosened something in her all the same, the quiet, ugly fear that she alone had somehow earned his contempt.

"Sure. No problem," Myla gave her a small nod and a parting smile before stepping away. She slowly rounded the conference table toward Theo, doing her best to try and ignore the tension that still hovered in the room like a thick humidity. It was the first good morning she had, probably since her father went missing, and she was desperately trying to keep herself out of any drama for one day… just one single day. Her fingers lightly brushed against Theo’s arm in a silent greeting as she used her foot to pull her chair out enough for her to settle into it with a soft sigh. She made a small, playful show of grabbing the water he set aside for her and took a sip. She didn’t say anything or acknowledge Stark’s apology or whatever else he said, feigning ignorance as she slowly twisted back on the cap. After setting the bottle down on the table, she leaned back in her seat, resting the ice pack in her lap for a moment to give herself a break, while her other hand gently found its way to Theo’s knee in a subtle bid to bridge some of the space between them.

Theo felt her before he really looked at her, the quiet shift of the chair beside him, the soft exhale as she settled in, the familiar warmth of her hand resting against his knee like a secret tucked between all the sharp edges in the room. It was such a small thing, almost laughably subtle compared to the personalities currently occupying the conference room, but it cut through the tension better than any joke he could have made. His mouth curved instantly, the hard edge that had briefly sharpened his features melting away as he turned his head toward her. There was something achingly grounding in the sight of her there, bruised and stubborn and pretending very hard not to notice the nonsense still hanging in the air, choosing instead to make a show of her water bottle like they were anywhere else but here.

Without a word, Theo let his phone dip loosely in one hand while the other reached out, fingers slipping over hers where it rested on his leg. He threaded their hands together easily, thumb brushing once over her knuckles in a small, absent stroke that carried more tenderness than he could have ever fit into words. His smile deepened, soft and crooked and meant only for her, like the whole room had briefly narrowed down to the space between their joined hands. Then he gave her fingers the faintest squeeze, quiet affection offered in the middle of chaos, as if to say I’m here without needing to speak at all.

When Myla moved away, Bellamy lowered her eyes to the floor for a moment and let out a small breath, one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, as if she could gather herself back into something smaller and less conspicuous before the room filled any further. The conference table suddenly seemed less like a trap and more like a place to anchor, and after only the briefest hesitation she crossed to the chair closest to where Tobias stood. She pulled it out carefully, the roll of the wheels against the floor soft and controlled, and settled into it with a quietness that felt almost instinctive now, angling herself just enough that her body turned toward him rather than the rest of the room. It was subtle, enough that she could pretend it meant nothing if anyone noticed, but it let her keep him in her line of sight without having to face everyone else head on, and for the moment that mattered more than pride. Bellamy curled inward a little as she sat, shoulders rounding, one hand drifting back to the bracelet at her wrist while the other tucked into the sleeve swallowing her fingers, but her gaze remained fixed on Tobias like a lifeline, as if the mere shape of him there might be enough to keep the nausea from rising and her nerves from splintering under the weight of too many strangers, too many eyes, too much everything.

Myla subconsciously adjusted in her seat, moving closer to Theo like his touch and warmth kept her within his orbit. Her hand slowly shifted beneath his, turning her palm upwards so it softly pressed into his as she entangled their fingers. She crossed her right leg over her left and started to lean back casually in the chair when she heard the elevator doors open farther down the hall, followed by the telltale thud of approaching steps. The stench of sex and heavy floral perfume that preceded Ronnie wafted through the doorway and bombarded Myla’s senses like a sour omen. Her back straightened, muscles tensing as whatever comfort slipped out of reach as quickly as it came. She no longer sat leisurely but like she was on alert, waiting for the other shoe to drop or for a metric fuck ton of shit to hit the fan.

While it would be fair to assume that Ronnie would slink into the meeting, attempting to go unnoticed and disappear among the crowd after the morning she had, the opposite couldn’t be more true. She carried herself across the threshold with her usual arrogance and head held high, seemingly unbothered by the deep purple bruise that bloomed along her shoulder beneath the ice pack she held against it. Her gaze swept around the room, taking stock of who was present, silently thankful for the absence of Imogen. When her attention settled on Theo, a bright devious smirk curled at the corners of her lips and sparkled behind her eyes. "Love the shirt, handsome," she purred, running her fingers across the top of his shoulders as she passed by before finding a seat toward the back of the room.

The second Ronnie’s fingers skimmed over his shoulders, Theo went rigid.

It was immediate, instinctive, the kind of tension that locked through his body before his mind had even fully caught up, every muscle in his back tightening beneath the fabric of his shirt like his skin itself rejected the contact. The floral perfume hit him a split second before the touch had, cloying and thick and unpleasant enough that it turned his stomach, and by the time she purred her little compliment and kept moving like she hadn’t just laid hands on him without invitation, the warmth in him had gone sharp and brittle. His fingers tightened reflexively around Myla’s hand beneath the table, not enough to hurt, just enough to ground himself in something real, something wanted, something safe. The easy humor that so often lived in Theo had nowhere to land in that moment. It vanished cleanly, leaving behind a tautness in his jaw and a look in his eyes that was far colder than most people ever got to see.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, not toward Ronnie, because he knew if he looked directly at her right then he might say something far uglier than he wanted to in a room already primed to combust, but toward Alfred and Phil instead. One eyebrow lifted, then the other, disbelief and irritation written plainly across his face in a way that needed no translation. His voice, when it came, was level, but there was strain threaded through it like steel wire pulled too tight. "Is there a formal process somewhere for filing a sexual harassment complaint after making it very clear you’re not interested?" The words were dry, almost light on the surface in the way Theo so often weaponized humor, but there was no real joke in them. Only tension. Only the simmering edge of someone who was tired, tired of being treated like his boundaries were optional, tired of Ronnie acting like disinterest was a game she could win if she kept pushing hard enough, tired of having to make civility out of discomfort because apparently he was expected to be the easy one.

His gaze stayed on Alfred and Phil for a beat longer, shoulders still stiff, before he finally exhaled through his nose and leaned back just enough to reclaim his space. Under the table, his thumb brushed once over Myla’s knuckles, a quiet reassurance to himself as much as to her. Then, only then, did he let his eyes flick toward Ronnie at the back of the room, expression flat and unimpressed in a way that somehow carried more bite than any quip he could have thrown. Theo didn’t dignify her with anything else. Didn’t give her a smile, didn’t give her a retort, didn’t give her the attention she so obviously wanted. He simply looked away again, dismissing her with the same clean finality as a slammed door, and kept his hand firmly laced with Myla’s like a line drawn in plain sight.

Ronnie rolled her eyes dramatically as her fingers curled around the back of the chair in front of her. "Calm down, Teddy," she drolled while pulling out the chair and taking a seat with a sigh. "I know better than to yank on the wings of your little angel," she jested and clicked her tongue. Hell's Angel had made her stance perfectly clear and while the idea of getting punched a second time was less than thrilling, she couldn't deny ruffling some feathers either. After all, if everyone in that damn tower was going to get bent out of shape over little shit like this, then how the hell were they expected to accomplish anything? It was… team building, of a sort.

The sharp click of heels against tile echoed throughout the conference room as Imogen stepped through the doorway. Her clothes were no longer stained with oil and grease, and her blonde hair was coiled in loose, damp ringlets along her shoulders. Her arm was extended behind her, hand gently clutched in Magni’s as he followed close behind, his own blond mane equally wet, dripping water along the collar of his shirt. Just inside the room, Imogen’s attention snapped to Ronnie having heard Theo’s question and the woman's disregard. Her fingers coiled tighter around Magni's hand, using his touch and hold to ground her, and keep her from making a scene twice in one day. "Touch someone without their consent again… And I'll break your hand in so many places you won't be able to touch yourself." Her words were cold, assured, and brandished like a blade she didn’t care to try and hide.

She held the woman's gaze for just long enough to make sure the message sank in, before pointedly leading Magni and herself to the farthest possible end of the table from Ronnie. Imogen pulled out her chair, stepped in front of it, and placed her hands on the table. "Consider me newly appointed HR," she added with a wide smile that could almost pass as playful if it wasn't for the cold, hollow anger that resided behind her eyes.

Ronnie scoffed and shook her head incredulously like a child being told no, who had no intention of following the rules. "I don't think you can call yourself HR and threaten someone," she argued with an arrogant sort of calm as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

"My dad built this place. I can do whatever the fuck I please," Imogen responded coldly. She promptly sat down, choosing to no longer humor Ronnie with her attention, adjusting her seat so that Magni's presence beside her perfectly blocked the woman from her sight.

Magni settled into his own chair beside Imogen, his newly freed hand rising to rest upon Imogen's shoulder in some small symbol of concern. He knew well by her display earlier that she was sincere in her threats. Despite the cloud of pain in seeing Ronnie, she was in the same boat as the rest of them. They all had kin to find, and quarrels amongst themselves would only dampen the odds of a successful campaign to recover their captured predecessors. He let the look of concern, and his own scattered thoughts, convey his meaning before letting go.

A moment later, Magni looked towards Tobias and the stranger sitting next to him. He let out a relieved sigh and nodded his head. When he spoke, it was with an exhausted tone that was remarkably unusual. "I am pleased that thou art well. Every victory over our adversaries is welcome." When he looked Bellamy over, a welcoming smile graced his lips. He offered a more formal bow of his head. "I am Magni, son of Thor, Prince of Asgard, and I am at thy service. I trust Tobias hath shown thee suitable hospitality?"

Bellamy felt, frankly, a little like she had been dropped into the center of a thunderstorm and told to stand still while lightning picked its favorite place to strike. Everyone in this room seemed to burn so brightly in their own direction, sharp, loud, angry, dangerous, that she hardly knew where to put her eyes without feeling singed by the sheer force of them. When Imogen entered, Bellamy sat up a little straighter on instinct alone, her breath catching as recognition prickled along the back of her neck; she knew that voice. The threat in her tone was almost enough to make Bell shrink back on reflex, shoulders tucking inward as her gaze darted nervously toward Tobias, as if checking he was still there and solid and real and close enough to touch if she needed grounding.

But then her attention snagged, caught fast on the man beside Imogen like a thread yanked too quickly from a spool, and Bell blinked rapidly at the sheer size of him, a behemoth in every sense, golden and broad and impossible not to notice, speaking with a strange, beautiful formality that should have sounded ridiculous and somehow did not. He sounded like someone out of an epic poem or an old legend forced into fluorescent lighting and conference chairs, and there was something so naturally earnest about it that Bellamy found, absurdly, that she didn’t mind at all. If anything, he seemed almost radiant, all warm sunlight and noble posture beside Imogen’s frost edged severity, and together they looked so strikingly well matched it made her think, with a kind of dazed sincerity, that they might actually be the dictionary definition of a power couple.

After a beat too long, Bellamy realized she was staring and quickly dipped her head in a clumsy imitation of Magni’s formal bow, the movement making her feel faintly foolish and far too aware of herself, but she wanted to be respectful in whatever way she knew how. "I… nice to meet you," she managed, shifting awkwardly in her chair, her hands tightening in the oversized sleeves pooled around her wrists as if she could hide inside them if she needed to. She had never been good at this, not at parties, not at galas her fathers dragged her to, and certainly not here, where everyone seemed made of sharper stuff than she was, and now it felt a million times worse with every pair of eyes that turned toward her.

"Tobias has been—I mean, I wouldn’t be alive without him, so…" The words tripped over each other the moment they left her mouth, and heat flooded her face so fast it made her dizzy, the kind of mortification that started at her cheeks and spread all the way down her throat. Her gaze dropped immediately to the table, to the grain in the wood, to anything but the room full of people now surely watching her stumble through gratitude like a fool, and she fought the sudden, irrational urge to test whether the windows were thick enough to stop her if she launched herself at one hard enough. "He’s been amazing," she finished more quietly, the confession soft and painfully sincere, and if her pulse jumped harder for having said it aloud in front of everyone, well, that was one more thing Bellamy would have to survive.

Tobias had been doing everything in his power to avoid the constant flow of tensions that tip-toed along the edge of falling into chaos like the night they all arrived or training. It was a lot of large personalities shoved into a small space and forced to get along... as best they could. He didn’t want to be a mediator. He didn’t want to cause conflict either. He simply called the meeting to keep everyone informed, avoid repeating himself, and protect Bellamy from a wave of questions she wasn’t ready to answer. It seemed in his best interest to just ignore half of the jabs and underhanded comments that were passed around… At least until he heard his own name.

He looked up, gaze lifting from the pattern of the grain in the table to bounce back and forth between Magni and Bellamy. Tobias could feel the warmth creeping up the back of his neck and threatening to bloom across his cheeks. "Well, I…" He cleared his throat and attempted to divert some of the attention off of himself. "Alfred helped with the hospitality part," he added, nodding his head toward the older gentleman sitting at the opposite end of the table.

"He is far too humble. I only made tea." Alfred smiled with his own breed of subtle mischievousness, like a silent challenge for Tobias to discredit himself further.

Imogen on the other hand, hadn’t realized how rude she had been until Magni offered up a friendly introduction where she had rooted her own terrible first impression with all threats and bluster. She sighed softly, leaning toward Bellamy, who sat close by, when there was a lull in conversation. "I apologize for… that." She motioned her hand dismissively in the general direction of Ronnie, but more was apologizing for her own outburst and the storm she brought along with her. "I’m Imogen Frost," she introduced herself, sparing Magni a quick glance and affectionate smile before turning back to Bellamy. "No titles or anything. Just Imogen." Her hand slowly extended toward the girl in a friendly offering. "Also, sorry for the scare last night. I don’t normally dip into people’s minds without their permission… But given the circumstances." Her smile grew a fraction as she gave a small, guilty shrug.

Bellamy offered Alfred a small, shaky smile at that, the kind that trembled at the corners but was no less sincere for it, and for a fleeting second the warmth of the exchange softened something taut inside her. Her eyes drifted, almost helplessly, back to Tobias before she could stop them, catching on him in pieces the way a hand might snag on silk, the clean line of his jaw as he tried to deflect attention, the dark ink climbing over his skin in sharp contrast against the muted tones of the room, the close crop of his hair, the faint flush threatening the back of his neck as if embarrassment had finally managed to slip through the cracks in all that practiced restraint.

It was absurd, the way her thoughts seemed to catch on him now, again and again, as though some part of her kept circling back to the same point without permission, and Bellamy had just enough time to feel the heat threatening her own cheeks before Imogen’s voice pulled her free like a thread yanked taut. She turned too quickly, startled out of the dangerous little spiral of noticing him, and met the other woman’s gaze with a visible flush already climbing high along her face.

"No," she blurted far too fast, the word escaping before she could shape it into something less abrupt, and Bellamy winced inwardly at herself before forcing a quieter breath through her nose. "I mean—I wanted to thank you. You don’t need to apologize." Her fingers tightened in the sleeves pooled around her hands, a nervous little anchor, and she shook her head once as if to reinforce the sentiment. "If you hadn’t…" The words faltered there, trailing off into something softer and more fragile than she intended, because the memory of it rose too easily, the cold terror, the splintering panic, the humiliating unraveling of herself under too many eyes. Bellamy couldn’t hold Imogen’s gaze through that, not with shame swelling hot and heavy in her chest, so her eyes slipped downward to the table instead, to the grain of the wood where it was safer to focus than on the woman who had helped save her life. "I’m just… glad you did," she finished quietly, voice barely above a breath, the confession settling somewhere between gratitude and embarrassment with all the raw, unpolished honesty Bellamy never seemed able to hide for long.

Imogen didn’t need to be a telepath to sense the girl’s unease at being the center of attention along with the lingering horrors that had barely been given a chance to breathe, let alone digest them and accept what all had happened to her. She couldn’t blame the girl and she wasn’t the type to press or force conversation either. The blonde’s smile simply grew in silent understanding, followed by a small nod. "Of course," she offered quietly. "Happy to help… with anything you need," she added, setting the implication down gently between the two of them without saying anything else.

Bellamy could only nod at first, the motion small and almost fragile, as if anything larger might crack the thin shell of composure she had managed to keep wrapped around herself. But she looked up just long enough to offer Imogen another smile. Shy, fleeting, and soft around the edges, the kind of expression that seemed to appear only by accident before slipping away again. It lingered there for a heartbeat like a flicker of candlelight in a storm, and when Bellamy finally found her voice, it came quiet and unsteady, threaded through with far more feeling than the two simple words should have carried. "Thank you," she said softly, and somehow it sounded like gratitude, relief, and the ache of being shown kindness when she still wasn’t sure she knew how to hold it.

June entered the conference room dressed like she’d stepped out of a board meeting, rather than spending most of her morning plotting behind computer screens. Her outfit was deceptively effortless in the way only old money and dangerous people ever seemed to manage. A fitted black bodysuit disappeared into high waisted cream trousers that fell in dramatic, fluid pleats all the way to the floor, elegant and severe in equal measure. Gold glinted at her wrist and throat in restrained little accents, and her dark hair spilled loose around her shoulders in soft waves that looked artfully unbothered, framing a face that was all cool poise and dark, cutting intelligence. She looked less like someone attending a meeting and more like someone arriving to take control of one, if needed.

She was not even a full beat behind Imogen and Magni when she crossed the threshold, the sharp click of her own heels threading into the tail end of the argument like punctuation. A slim tablet rested in one hand, her thumb dragging across the illuminated screen as she walked, lips faintly pursed in concentration, not bothering to look up immediately. June moved through the room on a sort of practiced autopilot, the path to Jim as instinctive as breathing, as though some part of her had already decided where “her place” was without consulting the rest of her. Only when she reached the back of his chair did she finally pause, one hip shifting subtly as she leaned there, gaze still on the tablet for one more beat while the room held itself taut around Ronnie’s latest offense.

"Honestly," she said at last, the word slow and flat, all bored disdain sharpened to a fine edge. Her eyes remained on the screen as though Ronnie was not quite worth the full effort of direct attention. "The fact that violence has to be threatened for you to understand the concept of boundaries is a little embarrassing."

She clicked her tongue softly at something on the tablet, brow knitting for half a second before she flicked the display dark. Then, finally, June looked up.

Her gaze landed first on Imogen, and something fond tugged at the corner of her mouth—small, brief, the sort of expression one might miss if they blinked. Then her eyes slid to Ronnie, and the warmth vanished so completely it might never have existed. She tipped her head slightly, the motion elegant and almost curious, her voice lowering into that maddeningly smooth drawl that was so close to Bruce Wayne’s it was almost eerie.

"I must say," she murmured, as though discussing market trends instead of social violence, "I cannot decide if you’re incredibly brave…" She let the silence stretch just long enough for Ronnie to wonder if the statement might somehow become a compliment.

June’s mouth curved faintly. "…or simply too stupid to realize antagonizing someone who can punt a door across the room like it’s paper is a horrible idea."

The shrug that followed was effortless, almost lazy, as if she had merely made an observation about the weather. If she meant Theodore or Imogen, it was hard to say. Then she turned her head back toward Imogen and flashed her a bright, easy grin that was all polish and poison and private amusement, before brushing against Jim as she slid the tablet onto the table in front of what would be her seat beside him.

"On that note, if anyone has any additional issues with Veronica, who seems to have less self control than a teenage boy, feel free to let me know aswell." Her gaze swept the room then, dark and cool and cataloguing, taking in every body, every posture, every bruise of tension lingering after the morning’s chaos. Theo and Myla, a gravitational field all their own even when they weren’t touching. Imogen, crackling with the kind of rage that could level buildings if left unchecked. Magni, broad and golden and impossible to miss, his sheer presence acting like a shield whether he intended it or not. Bellamy, new, small by comparison, carrying that brittle stillness trauma gave people when they were trying very hard not to look as shaken as they felt. Jim, of course, was at the center of her peripheral awareness even when she deliberately moved away from him.

June stepped back around the back of his chair, brushing past it with the smooth confidence of someone who had already decided this room belonged to her just as much as it belonged to Imogen and Jim. She drifted first toward Bellamy, but not before her eyes cut back to Ronnie one final time, cool and unhurried, the warning almost elegant in its delivery.

"I’d implore you to remember, Miss Hardy, that no matter how desperate we may seem, we are not above dismissing someone who pushes boundaries to the degree you seem intent on exploring." Her tone was different from how she’d spoken to them before, the heiress of Wayne Enterprise’s, a woman who came from old money and grim resolve, had slipped through. Then she dismissed her entirely. It was almost cruel, how quickly Ronnie ceased to exist for her once she had made her point. As June crossed the room, her tone shifted with astonishing ease, like a blade being sheathed. She nodded first to Theo and Myla, the ghost of a smile touching her mouth again, softer now, edged in something that might have been real fondness if one knew where to look.

"You’re looking better today, Myla. Nice shirt, Theo." The comment was so dryly delivered that it hovered between compliment and tease, which, for June, was practically affection.

Her attention flicked to Magni next, and the smile she offered him was easier, brighter, touched with genuine warmth that made her seem younger for half a second. "I have an idea I’d like to run by you after the meeting, Magni, if you’d hang around for a moment—oh, you too, Theo, pretty please."

The last two words came with a deliberately charming tilt, almost playful, as if she knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded coming out of her mouth and was weaponizing that too. There was a glimmer there, something secretive and clever and already halfway into whatever scheme she was constructing behind her eyes.

By the time she stopped beside Bellamy, the edge in her expression had softened fully. June turned toward her properly, and the smile she offered this time was different from the others—warmer, quieter, touched by a tenderness she did not often show in public. Bellamy looked a little like a fawn dropped into a wolf den, all too new to the sharpness of this world and trying very hard not to let it show. June’s gaze flicked to Tobias for a moment, taking in his posture, and then back down to the other girl.

"Miss Drake," she said, voice low and smooth, almost coaxing with how sincere it was, "Pleasure to meet you. I only wish it were under better circumstances."

She let that sit between them for a beat, giving Bellamy the courtesy of being addressed like a person rather than a problem. Then June angled herself just slightly, enough to place her own body as a subtle barrier between Bellamy and the rest of the room without making a spectacle of it, dark eyes lifting once more to the table at large. Everything about her posture said the same thing, even if she never voiced it aloud: If this meeting becomes another circus, no one would be putting any misplaced anger on Bellamy.

Bellamy’s spine went a little straighter the moment June approached, though whether it was out of respect or pure nerves she couldn’t have said. She looked like someone who belonged in control of every space she entered, and when her attention settled fully on Bellamy, kind and deliberate and far gentler than the cold edge she had turned on everyone else, it made Bell’s throat tighten unexpectedly.

"It’s… nice to meet you too," she replied softly, her voice a little shaky despite her best efforts, fingers worrying at the bracelet on her wrist as she glanced up only briefly before her gaze dipped again. "And thank you." The words were small, but sincere, because even as intimidated as she was, Bellamy could feel the subtle way June had placed herself there like a shield, and in a room this loud and full of sharp edges, that kindness landed deeper than she knew how to say.

June’s expression softened the moment Bellamy looked at her like that, nervous and trying so hard to hold herself together, and something quiet and aching moved through her chest. A small, almost sad smile touched her mouth as she dipped her head slightly toward the other girl, her voice dropping low enough to feel private despite the room around them. "If you need anything, just let J.A.R.V.I.S. know. We can have whatever you need ordered in, it wouldn’t be a problem at all." She let the reassurance linger a beat before her attention lifted, offering Tobias a small nod of acknowledgment, a warmer smile to Alfred, and then, because she was still June, no matter how sharp the room had become, she stuck her tongue out at Phil like a child before gliding back toward her seat.

When she settled beside Jim, her shoulder brushed his lightly, and the clean, familiar scent of oil and mint and eucalyptus curled around her in a way that loosened something tight between her shoulder blades. She angled subtly toward him as though drawn there by instinct, the hard edges of her posture softening all at once, and when she spoke again, her voice was so much quieter than it had been with anyone else it was almost intimate. "Hi," she breathed, the word touched with a shyer warmth than anyone in the room had likely ever heard from her, save Imogen. "You look handsome today. Did you get my message?" The question hung between them with careful, deliberate ambiguity. She could have meant the note she’d left for him that morning, the offer to take lunch together, or the blueprints she had sent over through J.A.R.V.I.S. a little earlier. In the end, it was a kindness disguised as casualness, a way of handing Jim the choice of how clear he wanted to be with an audience.

Jim had naturally relaxed his shoulders slightly at June's entrance. He knew damn well from experience and reputation that if anyone could keep things on track, it was Juniper Wayne. Her quick effort to rush to Theo's defense stung a little given the webslinger's recent barbs, but even he knew it was more of a defense of his sister. When she stood behind him, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end in a way that only happened with her. He kept the stoic mask on regardless, still choking down his own frustrations with the solace that there was another target to gang up on for once. Watching June work the room distracted him from fuel calculations he had been checking for the fifth time that morning.

When June settled against him, there was a slight robotic stiffness that had returned all at once. It was momentary, giving way to his more relaxed posture as he reminded himself who was invading his personal space. It was hard unlearning something that felt so hard coded into his mannerisms. When she spoke, her softness caught him slightly off-guard. He faced her, peering at her over the rim of his glasses. Despite a rather restful night of sleep, dark rings were still visible under his eyes. If anything, they seemed slightly more pronounced beneath the thinly visible lines of numbers and formulas flashing across his tinted lenses.

Jim wasn't sure exactly which message June was referring to, as there were several. He figured, by process of elimination, that she could only be referring to the latest of them as it was the most relevant to their shared mission. "I… yes. I haven't looked over the files yet, I thought I…" he paused, second-guessing his assumption as his thoughts raced. He considered her other note, the one that had an invitation. Was she expecting a formal answer? "Or rather, we, could look them over after lunch," he corrected.

Something in June’s face softened and brightened all at once at his correction, subtle but unmistakable, like the first slant of sunlight catching on dark glass. "I’d love that," she murmured, the words pitched low enough to feel meant only for him despite the crowded room around them. A faintly guilty grin tugged at her mouth as she ducked her head just a fraction, a rare flicker of bashfulness threading through the polish. "I… err, you don’t want me to cook," she admitted, amusement warming the edges of her voice. "Trust me. I’ll ask Alfred, after the meeting."

She lifted the tablet between them then, the screen unlocking instantly with facial recognition, and with a few quick swipes she dismissed what looked suspiciously like security footage of a door caving inward beneath a diamond-hard fist, her lips twitching into a brighter, more mischievous little smile before shifting to the sleek, layered blueprints of her own suit. The rest of the room seemed to fall away from her in that instant, June sinking effortlessly into the gravity of the work, but she angled the tablet toward Jim without a word, the gesture intimate in its own quiet way, an unspoken request for his thoughts, his eyes, his mind beside hers.

By the time Zaria and James stepped out of the elevator and made their way toward the conference room, there was an unmistakable lightness to them that hadn’t been there the day before. It wasn’t loud, not the kind of happiness that demanded attention, but it lingered in the edges, the looseness in James’s shoulders, the quiet ease in the line of his mouth, the way Zaria moved at his side with the faintest skip in her step like her body had forgotten, for a little while, how to brace for impact. She had changed after her shower into something soft and deceptively delicate. A fitted white lace camisole with thin straps and a lace up front that drew the eye to the elegant line of her throat and collarbones, black high-waisted shorts that showed off long bare legs, and a loose cream knit cardigan slipping off one shoulder as if it had never been convinced to stay in place to begin with. Her light hair, still slightly tousled and wet from the shower, framed her face in soft waves, pinned up into two playful little buns at the crown, and the whole effect was unfairly pretty in a way that contrasted almost comically with the story she was in the middle of telling.

“—and Logan kept insisting the curtains were not on fire, which, to be fair, they weren’t at first,” she said brightly, glancing up at James with laughter already spilling into her voice. “But it wasn’t really our fault, the guy threw the petrol and once you add a lighter to the equation, they become on fire very quickly.”

The closer they got to the meeting room, the more the atmosphere shifted. It was subtle at first, then heavier by degrees, like stepping from sunlight into the edge of a storm. Something about the space ahead felt wrong, not dangerous exactly, but strained, tense in a way that made the back of Zaria’s neck prickle and her smile soften into something quieter. Her eyes flicked toward the open doorway, taking in the room, the gathered people, the weight pressing into the air, and though she didn’t say it aloud, her expression changed just enough to show she felt it too.

Still, she only shrugged one shoulder toward James, the cardigan slipping a little further down her arm, and leaned in close enough that her voice became a conspiratorial murmur meant only for him. “I’ll finish the story later,” she whispered, lips curving faintly despite the unease threading through the room. Then, without hesitation, she followed his lead completely, falling into step beside him, and moved wherever he chose to sit at the table as though that, too, had already become the most natural thing in the world.

James walked alongside her in long, lazy strides, wearing simple, unremarkable clothes that looked nearly identical to everything else he owned: grease stained denim, steel-toed boots, and a Metallica t-shirt that looked as old as the band itself. His wet black hair was tucked behind his ears and curling at the ends as it dried, leaving dampened spots along the cotton that hugged his shoulders. His lips curled to one side in his familiar lopsided smile while his gaze remained locked onto Aria, listening to her story with an intent amusement. A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest but never quite broke past the damn of his closed mouth. His pace slowed as their attention shifted toward the opened door and some of the faces that lingered beyond. He cleared his throat as his own smile faded, subconscious in sync with hers. "I’m not going anywhere," he mused in quiet reassurance and silent hope that he would hear the end… and any other stories she wished to share.

He rolled his shoulders once, then stepped through the threshold into the already crowded conference room. It was one of those moments where it felt like every pair of eyes settled on him, sending an awkward and uncomfortable chill running down his spine. James managed a forced, tight-lipped smile, and a small nod of his head before quickly trying to find somewhere to sit. Everyone was spread out just enough to make picking an unassuming spot impossible. It was the whole urinal dilemma where there was no avoiding being next to someone, so it was choosing the lesser evil. So it basically came down to a spot between June and Magni, whom he barely said more than two words to, or a spot between Theo and Ronnie… Similar situation but—as much as it made a strange knot tighten in his chest—he did suppose that Ronnie and Aria were friends or whatever fucking term could accurately summarize their… situation.

James sighed quietly, then walked along the left wall toward the small opening. First he pulled out a chair for Aria and helped her into her seat without giving it much thought. Simple chivalry was something his mom ingrained into him since he was a boy to the point it came subconsciously, like a natural order of operations, because men helped women with their seats and doors or whatever else. Once she was settled, he lowered himself into the vacant chair between her and Theo. He spared him a faint smile that was less forced and more sincere than when he first entered the room. James supposed he should try and make nice with some of the others in the tower, if for no other reason than team building or something like that. "Hey," he greeted the man with a slight nod. It wasn’t the most loquacious but, he was trying.

Before settling back into his seat, James’s gaze fell to the writing on Theo’s shirt. For the first time in front of the group as a whole, a single deep, unbidden chuckle slipped out dangerously close to a snort. "Does that actually work?" he asked, his voice having lost a fraction of its tense apprehension as he pointed at the pink font brandished proudly against the black shirt.

Zaria followed at James’s side without hesitation, the lingering warmth of the morning still tucked softly beneath her ribs even as the room’s tension pressed colder around them. When he pulled out her chair, she looked up at him with a quick, bright little smile before settling into the seat, her cardigan slipping loosely along her arms as she tucked herself in at the table. She offered Ronnie a small wave and a gentler smile across the gap, a quiet acknowledgment threaded with fondness, but when her gaze drifted farther, to Theo, and then Myla, something in her chest tightened. Ronnie’s words from the bathroom came back in fragments sharp enough to sting, and it left a faint nausea curling low in her stomach. She didn’t know what to do with that unease, didn’t know whether to trust the version she’d been given or the quiet instinct telling her people were rarely as simple as the stories told about them.

Her eyes dropped to the table, fingers smoothing once over the edge of it while her thoughts snagged on Logan’s voice, steady and worn and wiser than she’d ever let him know. Things change. People change. You. Me. Every one of us. Every day of our lives. The day you stop changin’ is the day you die. The memory settled over her like a hand at the back of her neck, not pushing, only grounding. Maybe Ronnie had told the truth. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe Myla had once been exactly what Ronnie described, or maybe grief and fear and stress had twisted all of it into something uglier than it had been. Zaria chewed lightly on her bottom lip, then lifted her gaze again just as James spoke, letting the sound of his voice pull her from the spiral. She didn’t join in, but she listened, quiet and watchful, caught between warnings and the fragile hope that maybe she was still allowed to make up her own mind.

Theo brightened so quickly it was almost comical, like someone had flipped a switch somewhere behind his ribs and turned the lights back on. After the tension of Ronnie, Jim, and the general slow-motion social demolition derby this meeting had already become, the simple sincerity of James’s greeting felt like a life raft tossed into rough water. His grin came fast and easy, broad enough to look almost boyish, the kind of smile that made his whole face open up and softened whatever lingering sharpness had been left in him from the last few minutes. It was the sort of expression that said oh thank God, a normal person, even if “normal” in this tower was a deeply flexible concept. His fingers stayed laced with Myla’s beneath the table, thumb sweeping absently over the back of her knuckles in a quiet rhythm, grounding himself in her even as his attention shifted fully toward James.

He glanced down at the writing on his shirt like he’d nearly forgotten what he was wearing, then looked back up with a little snort of his own, delighted by the question. "Nope," he said at once, popping the p with theatrical emphasis, shoulders lifting in a small shrug that was all easy humor and zero shame. "Absolutely not. But I like making people laugh, so I’m calling it a public service."

James’s smile softened just a fraction, thankful that Theo met him halfway or however much was the rest of the way so they didn't settle into some weird awkward silence while sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder. He sunk a little lower into his seat, letting his shoulders sag casually and his back rest against the chair. "Should have figured since she can't read it," he added motioning lazily toward Myla.

"I can hear you," Myla mused, turning her head slightly toward both of them with a subtly amused smirk.

Smooth, the spirit mocked him somewhere in the back of his mind like a grumpy, bad-tempered conscience.

A beat passed and James's eyes widened slightly. "Shit. My bad," he quickly tried to recover his fumble with an equally bad apology.

Myla laughed softly and squeezed Theo’s hand so he didn't freak or get protective when it wasn't necessary. "You're fine. You're not entirely wrong." Her free hand reached up to gently push her sunglasses further up onto her nose. "So what does his ridiculous shirt say?" A second passed and her brows creased while her lips pursed slightly. "You know what… I don't wanna know," she concluded brushing it off with a dismissive wave of her hand and a quiet chuckle.

Theo barked out a laugh at the whole exchange, bright and helpless and utterly delighted, the sound spilling out of him so easily it seemed to cut straight through the lingering stiffness of the room. James’s brief horror at realizing Myla could, in fact, hear him only made it better, and Theo squeezed her hand back under the table in silent thanks when she did the opposite of escalating and instead let the moment turn playful. It was nice, absurdly nice, how quickly the energy around them shifted from sharp-edged to something almost normal, almost easy, and Theo leaned into it with all the effortless enthusiasm of someone who had built half his life on making tense moments breathe again.

The grin never left his face, if anything it deepened, and Theo tilted his head slightly as his brain made the jump from friendly conversation opener to this new person is an introvert he could adopt immediately. He recognized the type on instinct, quiet, a little tense, trying anyway, and if Theo Parker had ever met a mildly awkward introvert in need of social buffering and not tried to become their friend, it certainly wasn’t today. "Hey, man," he added, pivoting with the kind of shameless enthusiasm only an extrovert could weaponize, "Is that your motorcycle down in the garage? Because if it is, I’ve been trying very hard not to be weird about how cool it is."

James's brows rose, his interest piqued more than common small talk normally elicited. "Uh… yeah," he replied with a crooked, lopsided smile and a small nod. "It's a lot cooler when I let the other guy take control," he added while motioning toward his head and the spirit that resided within. Sure, his bike was nice… or at least he thought so. But there was something extra badass about a motorcycle spitting out flames, obeying his will, and defying physics. It was probably the only thing he actually enjoyed about his current predicament. "Do you ride?"

When James mentioned the “other guy,” Theo’s brows lifted with genuine intrigue rather than judgment, the kind of easy acceptance that came naturally to him in a tower full of impossible things. "I used to, yeah," he said, smile softening into something a little more nostalgic as he tipped his head back against the chair for a second, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like the memory lived somewhere up there. "My dad used to take me out riding when I was younger. Haven’t in a while, though." There was warmth in the words, and a small ache too, quiet enough not to show plainly but there if anyone knew how to listen for it. His thumb brushed once more over Myla’s knuckles before his grin returned, easy and bright as ever. "I gotta take my car back to my mom soon, actually. So maybe I’ll steal one of the bikes instead and pretend I’m way cooler than I am."

"Do you have a license?" James asked in response, a single brow raising slightly. Because ‘when I was younger’ didn’t necessarily mean he was legally qualified to. It was sort of dumb, someone like him caring about the legality of it when he was talking to a vigilante. It was more of a safety thing… although, upon further reflection, also kind of dumb. While James could do stupid shit on the back of a bike, he still was an advocate for appropriate motorcycle safety. Sure, supes could get into car crashes and be fine and he imagined Theo was fairly durable in one way or the other, but for whatever reason he felt the need to enforce it… or maybe at least with his own bike.

"I run around the city everyday in spandex," he deadpanned a little, but his lips were still pulled up into an easy grin. It was a valid question, but at the end of the day he had bigger things to worry about than keeping up with license’s. He was fairly certain his actual drivers license had expired six months ago, actually. "Maybe I’ll get one when I retire, but the cops in the city have more to worry about than busting people for driving infractions these days, trust me." A grim truth, but a truth nonetheless.

Theo’s attention flicked up almost on instinct the second the room shifted again, the subtle hush of another body entering the conference room threading itself through the background noise like a warning bell only some people seemed equipped to hear. Luke slipped inside with the kind of quiet that somehow drew more attention than if he’d announced himself, tan slacks, crisp white button-up, every inch of him polished into that same maddening image of effortless charm he wore like armor. Theo watched him in the same way one watched a dog that didn’t bark before it bit, casual on the surface, but with every internal alarm tripping one after another beneath it.

Luke’s gaze moved across the room in a slow, assessing sweep that felt far too deliberate to be absentminded. It skimmed over faces like fingertips over a bruise, lingering just a beat too long on Magni, then Bellamy, and something in Theo’s expression flattened at that. He didn’t miss the way the man took stock of people, the way he seemed to catalogue rather than simply look, the kind of attention that never felt harmless no matter how calm his face was. Then Luke moved to sit beside Ronnie without offering so much as a greeting, folding himself into the chair like he belonged there more than anyone else in the room. Theo’s jaw shifted once, subtle but telling, and he leaned back a fraction in his seat, thumb brushing over Myla’s knuckles beneath the table as his eyes narrowed just enough to turn his easy expression thoughtful. He didn’t say anything, but the bright warmth that usually lived in him dimmed into something quieter, more watchful, the kind of stillness that meant he was already filing the moment away for later.

James had planned on replying, but Luke's entrance and subsequent seating on the other side of Zaria drew his attention. He sighed softly and gave Theo a small nod that was part gratitude for the welcome and surprisingly normal conversation, but also an apology for having to cut it short. Then with a casual ease that would have gone unnoticed if it wasn't for the sound of computer chair wheels gliding across tile, he pushed his feet against the ground. His left hand curled around the armrest of Zaria's chair, and in a casual shift that looked so natural that one could be forgiven thinking it was the building tilting and their chairs following the flow of gravity, James gently tugged her into the space he had occupied, safe beside Theo's warmth. Meanwhile he slipped into the newly made vacancy, between her... And Luke. He nonchalantly leaned back in his chair, lazily crossing his arms over his chest while lifting his right foot to rest against his opposite knee. He didn't say anything. He didn't make a show of it. They simply switched like the sun was in her eyes and he was remedying her of that and there was nothing more to it.

The moment Luke took the seat between her and Ronnie, Zaria went still in the way prey sometimes did when it first scented something wrong. It was small, just a tightening in her shoulders, a hitch of breath caught too high in her throat, fingers curling faintly against the edge of the table, but it happened all at once, instinctive and involuntary. Then her chair moved. She blinked, startled, her pulse stumbling as James shifted them both with such effortless ease that for half a second it barely felt real. One moment she had been trapped in the sharp, slick discomfort of Luke’s proximity, and the next she was settled between James and Theo instead, tucked neatly out of reach, James in the seat beside Luke like he had simply decided the arrangement made more sense.

The breath she’d been holding slipped out of her in a quiet rush, and with it went the rigid tension that had seized her spine. She turned her head toward him at once, gratitude shining plain and bright across her face, soft, almost startled, far too open to be hidden, but she said nothing, because he had made it look like nothing, and she understood enough to honor that.

Something fluttered low in her chest then, strange and unfamiliar and far too tender to examine here. It felt like relief, yes, but more than that, something warmer, something that made her ribs feel too tight and her heartbeat too aware of itself. She tried to shove the feeling aside, to tuck it away where it wouldn’t distract her, but it lingered anyway, bright as a struck match. Across the table, movement caught June’s attention. Zaria noticed the woman’s gaze lift, sharp and assessing, sliding over the shift in chairs and the people involved with that quiet, unnervingly intelligent precision June seemed to wear like armor. For a brief moment, her eyes met James’s, and she gave him the faintest nod, subtle approval, cool and deliberate, before returning her focus to the tablet in front of her.

The brief flicker of displeasure that crossed her expression at the sight of Luke was so restrained Zaria might have missed it if she hadn’t been watching so closely. But she did see it, and something inside her loosened just a little more. At least she wasn’t alone in that feeling.

End of Part 1

^{interactions ....|.... everyone ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @webboysurf @Sleepy Tani}

Reign of the Usurper

^{araminth .. & .. branwen .. & .. junia .. & .. corbin ....|.... the fist of the king.... |.... days before the feast}

A hummed prayer weaved through the rumble of several carriages fighting the coast winds. A page cut the air with a sharp thwip, the reader’s dissatisfaction with the book obvious. A baby’s hunger cries joined, tongue clicking to the roof of their mouth, “Neh-”, met with a jiggle and a shhhhh. Four pairs of knees knocked together at the center of the carriage. Four pairs of identically shaped knees, with the same mole on their left kneecap, which none of them had ever discovered they shared, nor ever would.

Araminth held her fussing son to a chest unfit to feed him as Corbin looked outside upon grey skies meeting a grey ocean. The young man was green and made the wood of his lute soft with his sweat. He cradled it on his lap like a mate trying to keep him upright. Junia sat across from him, skipping ahead to the ending of her book. Her bad mood could not spoil the visage of youth and springtime she evoked with her fair presence. Beside her sat her square-faced opposite. Branwen hummed as she wove straw with worked, calloused fingers, binding it around a lock of Corbin’s hair. Three more were scattered on her lap, fashioned from more straw and the hair of the other siblings. Junia shut her book.

“Do you have to do that now?” She twisted to Branwen.

“Don’t distract her during ritual, June,” Araminth warned over her baby’s grizzling. “It’s tradition.”

“Please, ritual. She’s playing with sticks. You made up this tradition to keep Bran from talking and now the carriage smells like a barn.”

“Like home.”

Corbin stirred, muffling his groan into his shoulder. “Minthy, I don’t think that dried fish kept well.”

“Besides, it’s for your own protection,” Araminth continued, “It will keep you safe in the Citadel. Gods know—” Junia blew a raspberry.

“I don’t need a little dolly to protect me,” she snarked. She threw herself onto Branwen’s lap, feet planted on the carriage roof. She clasped her hands together to beg in a childish manner, “O’weaver? Won’t you thatch me a new maidenhood? I promise I’ll be more careful this time, I won't let anything touch it! Not my finger, nor a courtier’s tongue, nor a knight’s prick, nor the arm of Master Edgarth’s chair nor Uncle Arren’s foot—”

The collective groans had reached such a pitch they finally drowned her out. Even Branwen, who had been diligently working on the dolls as the bickering went around her, scrunched her face and kneed her off. Junia looked delighted with herself. Araminth’s lips thinned the same way their mother’s did.

“What are our words?” She demanded. Junia’s smile dropped in annoyance. “What are our words?”

“I don’t know, grains and shit,” Corbin answered through a burp that was very nearly an upchuck.

Bran spoke, “Bounty befall the—”

“Wicked and just,” Araminth took over. “House Tyrcell serves all equally. That means we share our gifts, no matter our trespasses. We all deserve protection.” Each Tyrcell had an idol placed in their lap by Bran's hand. Junia looked at the humble thing like she'd been smeared with feces. The baby, whose name was Hector—though the siblings beyond Araminth had not grappled with the baby being someone named, rather than something wriggling—let out a scream for a long-overdue feeding. Araminth knocked on the roof and began to stand before the carriage had stopped. She glared between Junia and Corbin. “And you better hope that straw covers the stink of poppyweed on the both of you.”

She left the carriage, Junia’s cackling ringing in her ears. She hit the ground in such a way it upset an old wound and her hand held in her stomach with a grimace of pain. Corbin flopped out and immediately started hurling the dried fish that the fumes and motion had knocked around in his stomach and spoiled. Up ahead, Lord Tern was exiting his carriage, too caught up in a rant to assist his lady down, “—and we’re stopping? There’s a bath and silk robes just over yonder, months of festivity stretched before us held in the royal court, and you want to take in the view?!” He gestured to grey on grey on grey. “If anyone needs to relieve themselves, use a pot!”

He whacked Corbin on the backside with his sheathed ceremonial blade. “Enough of that. Let’s save the excitement for your engagement party. Don’t expel the last of the meat on you.” He knocked his chin up, grimaced at the boy’s long lashes and half-lidded eyes, the roguish charm he held even with flecks of puke on his chin. “Egh, at least you’re pretty,” he muttered, before moving to Junia as she emerged glowing from her carriage. “Hello, little princess,” he took her face in his hands.

“Hello father,” she simpered back.

“Oh, aren’t you lovely as a sunrise. Looking at you takes me back to the blue flax fields of my youth. Those Storvane’s would be fools to spurn you.” Lord Tern looked around, completely bypassed Branwen, and settled on the crying baby in Araminth’s arms to scowl. “Ah. That. Pass the babe to the servant’s carriage and let us be off.” With that he returned to doting on the pretty one.

Lady Sable’s hand found Araminth’s arm in a quick gesture before she could go. She deepened her breaths and went forward to the servant’s carriage. Junia, charged on her father’s praise, whooped in glee and streaked off towards the cliffs. When the older sister knocked on the carriage door, a pleasant face that could never come from the ranks of scheming, disturbed nobility answered. Her lips that never seemed to have any blood in them were poised in an anxious smile. She hailed from Ironcrag, Araminth recalled idly, but she was too soft for Ironcrag. She wanted to draw blood to those lips.

“—nds, my Lady. I heard the young lord squealing over the wheels,” Leisel said. She had said something before that Araminth hadn’t caught. Leisel waited patiently. Ah.

“Of course,” Araminth agreed to something. She passed Hector over. Leisel settled down in the carriage, unceremoniously fished her breast out and let the boy latch. Like it was just work, which it was, but… Araminth shut the door of the carriage, before leaving it open a little, justifying it as not wanting her baby out of sight. She stepped aside and watched. It felt different seeing a woman’s breasts this way, nourishing a youngster. That was all the relationship a woman was supposed to have with them, knowing only her own. But Araminth had a passenger in her, some kind of possession, that seized her around the time of her first blood. A man. Sometimes when she was truly tortured and drunk, she thought it was the spirit of her dead father possessing her. A man that hooted and groped at barmaids and winked back at street harlots—oh, she hated those who were outwardly men, who could express it all, crude and disgusting and accepted.

Seeing Leisel breastfeed however had her doubting her condition was male. Whenever she reached for a breast in girlhood with her nerve-riddled hand, had she been asking for a mother? Surely, that was better than there being a man in her heart that thrilled at a chambermaid’s breath on her back while she bathed. As she watched her son latch and this kind, blue-eyed commoner smile down, she found something uglier than yearning. Envy. Now she hated and lusted for womanhood in equal measure, and she knew beyond doubt her heart was a man’s. Araminth turned and saw Branwen.

“Shit!” Slipped from her lips in a sharp intake before she could stop it. “Ira strike me!” The observer just stood there, owlish eyes searching past Araminth to Hector. Araminth took her hand off her heart and shooed her. “Go to your sister. Well? Get, creeper!”

A shadow crossed Branwen’s placid face, but she turned and left Araminth to her complexes. She walked off the roads, near where Corbin was recovering on a rock with his lute and watched Junia walk along the cliffs in her billowing teal and yellow gown. His playing was carried off by the wind. Branwen squinted through the blown-out day, her hair lashing at her face like tiny ropes.

“Thanks,” Corbin said, holding up his straw idol to her. “I think it’s working. Stomach’s already easing.” He smiled, the wind pelting his face and causing him to squint up at her too. He plucked a few more chords as they looked out at the ocean. These land-locked-lubbers didn’t see it much, at all. Branwen thought it was like a field but a worse colour. Corbin wiped the back of his neck, feeling the salt from the air turn dusty on his fingers. “I think the sea is reaching us up here. It’d be something to see the ocean from a boat, huh?” He was prompting her to tease him about how he couldn’t even handle the sway of a carriage, but he got nothing. Corbin stopped playing with a huff. “You know, we’re not at the Valley of Kings yet. You don’t have to already be so quiet.” He cringed, feeling rejected as he waved over her. “You’re more fun than… this.”

That made her smile. Branwen opened her mouth and—

“O’weaver!” Junia squealed over the wind. Branwen, Corbin, and Araminth from by the carriage jerked their attention up in time to see Junia kiss her straw idol, then lob it right off the cliff. As she did, her foot slipped on a loose pebble. She disappeared behind the shrubs on the cliff’s edge with a shriek.

Corbin’s lute sprang a string as it was discarded on the ground for him to take off running. The rest of the family sprinted to where Junia fell, shouting for her, all but for Branwen. The servants hovered at a nervous distance. Corbin reached the edge first, hearing Junia whimper. Happiness and worry flooded him—she was alive! But hurt terribly, she must be—and he lunged down at the first flash of teal. Junia was right next to the edge, her hair hanging off the cliff in a golden sheet. She was not hurt—she was hysterical.

Araminth struggled to control her breathing as she reached them, her little sister writhing in adrenaline-induced ecstasy and little brother sunken in defeat. She leaned over the cliffs to gaze at the waters churning below and saw no sign of the idol. Her heart dropped into the sea at the horror of the omen, followed by the stories of her father’s plunge surfacing in her memory. Memories that were living through their mother’s eyes as she struck Junia across the jaw. “YOU HARPY! Does it delight you?! To be so careless, so selfish with your life!” Lady Sable roared, trying to shake her as Lord Tern fought to have her in his arms. The pause in Junia’s laughter was minute. The smile blossomed back on her face, wondrous. Grotesque to all who knew what would follow.

“Oh dear mother, Boreal would not let me fall,” she exhaled, “Didn’t you hear it on the winds? I’m to be Queen.”

The wind had turned, sweeping the dismay of her family and her little sister's joyous revelation to the sea. Bran could feel the servants gawking at the scene, judging her for her distance. She shut her eyes and continued humming her little spell. She sent a prayer out to Lacra and Boreal for the straw idol crashing against the cliffs with the waves. The idol in her hand was held tight to her chest. Wispy, blonde strands of hair peeked out between the woven straw.

Of course Bran did not trust Junia with her own idol. She recognised when the tides of her sister’s sanity were beginning to ebb. It was Bran’s fate that had taken the plunge into the ocean—and whatever harm befell her from this omen, her baby sister would never know her part in it. On her House’s words, she swore this.

.

^{araminth ....|.... outfit .......... branwen ....|.... outfit .......... junia ....|.... outfit .......... corbin ....|.... outfit .......... the black citadel}

The rest of the journey was tainted by a heaviness that weighed on everyone but Junia. Araminth and Branwen sat straight-backed on one side of the carriage. Junia lounged across the seat opposite them, giggling and rocking her head from side to side. She had been declawed since taking her ‘medicine’, a heavy drug she inhaled by the spoonful that tamed her impulses but left her blissful and hazy. Still, every movement too sharp had her sisters twitching.

The carriage hit a small dip in the road then wheeled over a smoother texture that made the windows stop rattling. It was almost quiet, the eye of a storm of potholes and debris. Corbin shouted an expletive up ahead. The clop of hooves cantered back to the carriage. “Sisters! You must see this!” Junia sprang up and bodied Branwen to squish her nose against the glass. She screamed.

“June, don’t you think it!” Araminth yelped and reached for her as Junia swung the door open. A vast mountain range stretched before them and briefly it looked like they were rolling over nothing but air. Junia clasped Corbin’s stretched arm and swung onto his horse to streak off together laughing and hollering like schoolboys. Branwen stood, hanging her torso out the door to watch after them. Her gaze trailed up from her sister’s flowing blonde hair to their destination. The very mass of it affected the air here, demanding it still. A crescendo of dark turrets narrowed to a point that rivalled the mountains it nestled itself within. The Black Citadel.

By the nine, how many had died for this to stand here? The labour alone, frostbitten peasantry toiling to stack every stone, carving through a mountain to fashion another that they may never step in. Then the wars, the bodies thrown against the ramparts and bloodying themselves for the flags they’d later be burned in. Something older than honour beckoned death here. It had called for death in its thousands before, and its stones were growing cold and wanting, and Branwen’s straw idol was at the bottom of the ocean. The seafloor rose and pushed on her chest as she gazed upon its tallest spire.

It was disingenuous that they were even here and they all felt it as they entered the citadel, trailing behind their strutting father and hollow-eyed mother who had spent their past few days trying and failing to convince Lord Tern to do the wise thing and send Junia back home. She held herself tall and kept her worries trapped in the firm line of her lips for now. The Saintess was used to enduring such humiliations. As it was, their invitation was farcical enough.

"Surely I've told you all of House Tyrcell's efforts in the Usurper’s War? The records dull it for the sake of our House’s values, but our part was far grander –”

Lord Hamil, Lord Tern’s older brother and the favoured Lord of Harrowfield, held the House during the time of King Rowan’s revolt. He had been frustratingly, explicitly neutral, carrying on trade as usual and keeping Harrowfield’s roads open to all with a ban on any disagreement spilling on his soil. It was House Tyrcell’s way, in most things. But, if their father – the blowhard soliloquizing an altered version of events right now – had been the head of their House, he’d have sided with the fattest coin purse. That would have been the tyrant King Leoric. Which he had, undermining his honourable brother’s efforts by taking a few bribes and disappearing food shipments to Stonefallow. It was either water under the bridge or he had never been discovered, as the Tyrcells remained Lords of Harrowfield.

"... it's an enduring and rich friendship us Tyrcell's carry with the crown," Lord Tern continued, "Solun be praised, it's about time the support of House Tyrcell is recognised and rewarded."

A resounding, Yes, lord father. Junia couldn't hold in her giggle at the end.

She was made to take one more spoonful of medicine before they saw the Great Hall. Araminth had a strict script to follow: introductions to the crown were to be mundane, fleeting, and not worth committing to pen. The scratching of the straw idol tucked beneath her embroidered corset grounded her. Corbin had his stolen away in his boot while Branwen displayed Junia's brazenly on her belt. When the royalty was presented and Dorian’s eyes swept through the cloying crowd, Araminth shied her eyes to coo to Hector. Junia returned the look with a dip of her chin and a girlish smile, Branwen stared owlishly with a straight-lipped expression that wouldn’t soften and Corbin looked to be polite. The young lord had his own orders to follow and was deliberately keeping his attention off the princesses, discreetly looking for the telltale flash of gold and green among the court. Junia was not nearly so subtle as she observed the Crown Prince. She leaned into Branwen.

“Is he handsome?” She whispered, “The shadows fall harshly on his face in this light. Is he just as the rumours say?”

Branwen gave the Prince a hard, assessing up-and-down. “He’s handsome,” she replied decisively. Junia recoiled in surprise.

“Oh, right. I suppose…” She trailed off and joined in staring at the Crown Prince alongside Branwen. Their heads tilted in the same manner. She couldn’t stand it and lunged the other way to her brother, “Do you think-"

“Yes, he’s handsome, June.”

“Shhh. He’s unanimously handsome, now be quiet and wait to be called upon,” Araminth spoke from the corner of her mouth. Junia slunk down an inch shorter. She returned to observing the prince, swaying in place a little like she could shift the light on Dorian and fix the way her eyes perceived him.

Corbin did not have it in him to comfort Junia’s anxieties when his own heart was playing peekaboo at the base of his throat. His eyes had tracked them across the hall: House Ganasen. Lords of Lost Coast, of ports and profit – and now Corbin’s mission handed to him by his eldest sister. It made sense, an alliance between the richest supplier and richest merchant was inoffensive and just good business. But, shit. Business had to be wrapped up in courtly process and the only insight he gleaned through the daughter's introduction to the crown was that she was… here. Mundane, fleeting, not worth putting to pen. Just as Araminth would prefer. He could see the eldest’s small nod to herself and feel her relief that the Ganasen’s daughter seemed someone sensible.

“Why do I have to do it? Junia would have it far easier seducing the Ganasen heir.”

“Because Cory, for our sister to survive, she must marry for love. Nothing good will come from a marriage with a lord that doesn’t treasure all of her and I will not entrust her to anyone otherwise.”

Eventually the King’s gaze made its way to them with expectation. The thought seized the three debuted siblings at once, that they had never bowed to anyone greater than themselves but lesser than the gods. Junia burrowed her arms into Corbin and Branwen, looping theirs with hers. She kept her gaze fixed straight - terrified and bloodthirsty in equal measure - even when they twisted their heads to her in question. Corbin flashed Branwen a shrug and a dismissive smile, trying to come off as carefree while he sweated rivers down his back. Branwen raised her brows back at him then captured Araminth’s arm and dragged them all forward. Araminth jolted so that it sent shockwaves down the sibling chain. She was screaming, mundane! Fleeting! Unworthy to pen!, and could not jerk her hand back.

They did not walk the same way. Araminth, shoulders back, chest and stomach sucked in, the hollow finally given something to protect in Hector whom she held tight to her abdomen like she held him for nine months. Branwen, weight lurching forward on the balls of her feet and arms tucked up, chin in and eyes forward like something… not from here. Junia, floating, chin up and led first by her jewelled mouth, and Corbin’s swagger that favoured his left side. They did not walk evenly, or cohesively, and they would have drawn less attention to it had they not linked together, but they portrayed a united front all the same.

Lord Tern hadn’t peered back to see it as he swept out his billowing sleeves and bowed, "My King! It is my utmost honour to be in your halls presenting the heirs to Harrowfield."

The King’s smile brightened as he watched the family approach, a delighted warmth gracing his face at the wholesome, and slightly clumsy, show of unity. He descended the dais not with the poise of a royal, but the relaxed almost leisurely welcome of a man inviting friends into his home. "It is my honor to welcome your wonderful family to my home." When his feet found the stone at the bottom of the stairs, he softly clapped his palms together as his gaze settled upon Araminth and the radiant child within her arms. He slowly approached, not daring to touch the baby without his mother’s approval, but Rowan dipped his head just enough to catch a view of the tiny lord’s face.

"Forgive me," he apologized with a smile that somehow widened across his weathered and age worn face. "It has been many years since I was in the presence of a wee babe. A child’s smile and laughter can truly warm the coldest heart." The King laughed affectionately, always having had a soft spot for the bright innocence of children. Just the sight of the babe was enough to warm his heart and consume him with the ache of longing for the days when his own children could still sit upon his knee or would fill the Black Citadel with the echoes of their laughter.

After another selfish glance down to the baby, the King took a step back and let his gaze sweep warmly across the Tyrcell family. "I hope the Gods looked favorably upon your journey. I know the road from Everdell is quite gruelling."

Araminth had not thought bringing a baby to a snake fight was a strategic play, but it had brought a genuine smile to the King's face, something that Lord Tern had to exploit. The tense hands that cradled Hector had softened, just enough for him to easily abduct his grandnephew out of Araminth's arms.

"The Gods made merry all the way, Your Majesty," he proclaimed, holding the baby boy to his side. "Do not apologise for admiring the sprout. Lord Hector of House Wroth. Were he a Tyrcell... I care for him as if he were my own." A pause. "Grandson."

Each Tyrcell managed to keep their expressions mostly unchanged, though the slow turn of his eldest's head was telling. It was expected of Tern but insulting. While Araminth was being ripped open like fruit to deliver the new lord and Lady Sable was at the door muttering her spells and prayers over roots and idols, the head of the House was nowhere to be seen. The observer Branwen knew him to be at a brothel, probably trying to forget about the continuation of his late brother's lineage by siring yet another bastard. In any case, he didn't care much for Araminth or the baby. The baby did not know this, and kicked his legs like he wanted to jump as he smiled with the blithe joy only a baby could evoke. Tern returned it briefly - he had Hamil's eyes - before dropping him back on his mother.

When Araminth held him again, she squinted at Hector, who had lost his smile the moment he no longer faced the royals like he was already a masterful court manipulator. "You are the greatest act here, frog," she whispered into the silken bundle.

The way the Lord snatched up the baby without pause or consideration for the mother made the King tense beneath his robes. It set his teeth on edge and brought forth the tiniest furrow between his brows. His smile remained, pulled taut as he appeared attentive with small nods while sparing the young mother a kind gaze that shared something words could not. "Children are innocent, untainted by the cruelty of this world," Rowan offered with a wise gentleness as his gaze fell to the delighted baby. "They deserve love despite the circumstances of the birth, sometimes even more so."

His gaze softened, watching with a fond admiration at the love that poured from the mother when her child returned to her arms. The King let out a soft breath he had not known he was holding, letting his gaze find the Lord once again. "If only the Gods had seen fit to bless me with nieces and nephews." His smile saddened at the thought. Vague images of what the children of his brother and sister would have looked like started to creep into his mind before abruptly ceasing as the Lord filled the silence.

"Now, I shall make no more introductions before you do us the honor of introducing the impressive company at your side," Lord Tern said with a flourish and a dip of his head to King Rowan's family.

The King laughed, but it was not radiant or luminous, it was more calculated, a reaction to save face in the presence of a Lord that sowed unease with a remarkable amount of arrogance and obliviousness. It was almost impressive, in an odd sort of way. Nevertheless, Rowan did not linger on the prodding way Lord Tern half demanded he introduce his family, although he could sense his wife shifting without glancing back at her, like the air around the dais thinned and chilled. Rather than giving her a chance to speak or comment, he rubbed his hands together and stepped to the side, allowing House Tyrcell to have full view of his family. "Yes, of course." Rowan swept his arm through the air, stopping when his hand was directed up toward his dour-faced wife. "My beautiful wife and Queen, Valenya."

The Queen took a single measured step forward, gathered a handful of her skirts, and bowed elegantly. Through the entire gesture, her gaze bounced between the babe wrapped in silk and the boisterous Lord of the house. She wasn’t entirely certain what discomforted her more, Tern, a man who did not seem to know his place and likely to overreach quite brazenly, or a baby… A crying, sniveling, bundle of flesh that required constant vigilance. She recalled bearing children, feeding them, and swaddling them when they cried like terrors through the night. Her husband looked back on it with fondness. She on the other hand…

Rowan knew the look behind her eyes, but he also knew his wife’s pride was the most fragile and sacred thing to her. She would not dare challenge him openly twice, not when he was poised to stop her where she stood. It was a small, simple blessing that he would not shirk, choosing to move on and save them both the trouble. His hand moved toward his son who remained steadfast at Rhea’s side after the chaos that befell the Járnbjørn introductions. "My second born son and heir to the Ninefold, Dorian."

With a reassuring squeeze to Rhea’s arm, Dorian slipped free and stepped forward. His right hand pressed gently to his chest while the other tucked securely behind his back. He dipped low and steady into a bow, offering all of the unweb children, the son included, a warm uneven smile and slight nod of his head.

"And my lovely daughters, Maeve and Rhea." Both Princesses stepped forward as they had with every family before, lowering with their practiced poise and elegance. Maeve was sharp and exact, a mirror of her mother in every sense. While Rhea was a little more fluid, her light dulled from earlier but there was still a warmth behind her eyes and in the faint curl of her smile.

"My daughter Rhea is quite fond of children." The King’s attention turned back to the Tyrcell daughter and her content child nestled in her arms. "If you ever need any assistance or simply a friendly, understanding face, I’m certain she would be elated."

At the mention of her name, Rhea’s head lifted. Her bright eyes found her father’s affectionate grin before drifting to the mother and her small baby. Her own smile grew slightly as she raised her left hand in a small wave as if everyone in that hall did not already know who she was and she needed to single herself out. But, nevertheless, she spared the young mother an additional nod before her and her sister returned to their places.

The way the King sought to lift his youngest after the cacophony of the previous House introduction did not escape Araminth. Neither did the flutter in her chest at the thought of her son being held by a princess. It was a silly thing to put weight on, but it was there. After the feast, Lord Tern would rant and rave at how the baby had upstaged his own children during introductions. In private, Lady Sable would remark that Tern was lucky the Járnbjørn disaster had preluded their House, because it was his behavior that stained them all. She would pay for it. Then Junia, or perhaps Corbin, would weather that. But for now, these brewing abuses were held at bay, and Lord Tern kept his best smile.

"You have a beautiful family, my King. Strong heirs. The legacy of House Storvane is well guarded." It was a legacy he'd very much like his blood to be a part of. Tern swept a hand out to Lady Sable. She took it, cool marble sliding over his patchy, damp skin. "Allow me to introduce my wife, the saint, Lady Sable."

Lady Sable clearly had a few years on the lord. The fabric draping her head covered the gray hairs that would have been obvious as she curtsied to the royals. Her face was one that would have been wise if there had been more warmth to it. Instead, it was stern and world-weary, her last drop of pride clenched fierce in the set of her jaw. Lord Tern gestured,

"My eldest, Branwen."

Branwen refixed her eyes forward. She curtsied mechanically, counted in her head to three, and as she was straightening, Lord Tern was moving on,

"My little wildflower, Junia."

Junia stepped forward and let her satin skirts flourish as she curtsied. She allowed her eyes to flick up as she bowed her head, giving a coy look to the prince. The lights were spreading out around him and turned his face dark and impenetrable in her vision. Her medicine was taking full effect now. She tried to hold in her laugh, but it carried on her words in a pleasant way, "I still hold my breath and think I'll wake from this honour, Your Majesties. I do hope friendship finds us this Summer." One last meaningful look towards the black blob that was the prince's face. Lord Tern beamed and swung over to his son,

"Here stands my only son and heir, Corbin."

Corbin bowed gracefully. He gazed over the Storvane sisters and their brother, conceding that they were all beautiful, but the prince especially gave him a tingle down his back. Terrible enough was the title and power he carried, worse still were those dashing curls, sculpted jaw and dimpled chin. He tucked these thoughts into the camp of jealousy and swore not to revisit them.

"And my niece, Lady Araminth of House Wroth, with her son, the young Lord Hector," Tern finished.

Araminth curtsied. This went quite well, all things considered.

King Rowan’s smile remained wide and radiant as his gaze drifted to each member of the Tyrcell, giving them each his undivided attention and a gentle nod of acknowledgement. "You have a beautiful family, my Lord and Lady. I am certain your late brother would be pleased to see how much his daughter, and the rest of his family, have flourished."

He lowered himself into another final bow with his right hand pressed against his chest. "It is a great honor having House Tyrcell within my halls. I look forward to the friendships we might foster in our time together. I do hope your visit will be everything you wish for and mom." Rowan allowed himself one more selfish glance down at the baby, letting the ache build in his chest for but a moment before he turned and ascended the dais once again, to stand beside his family.

^{interactions ....|.... house storvane ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir}

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^{daemric ...|... outfit ........ aenora ...|... outfit ........ rhaevyn ...|... outfit ........ aelyria ...|... outfit ........ the great hall}

The Varrows stood at the front of the Great Hall, close to the dais, and to the right of the King, as it was intended. While they were not equals with the royals—not yet anyway—the High Steward was the right hand of the King, and as such his place was close and at the ready, as tradition demanded. They stood as a stoic line of pale skin and paler hair, a wall of black and green separating the other nobles from the royals, like a hierarchy in flesh, placing themselves above the rest, an arm’s reach from the throne.

Rhaevyn lingered at the end of the line, farthest from the aisle like a protective bookend opposite his father with his sister and mother between them. It was a position of purpose, but not out of vigilance. The farther he was from the procession of royals, the less he had to feign curiosity in the Queen’s shadow and the Storvane’s black sheep. He showed a moderate level of interest, making a show of leaning around his mother slightly to steal glances of crimson hair and gowns of ivory and blue. But overall his stance was a little too relaxed, a little too leisurely. His weight shifted to one leg, his other foot lazily extended to the side. His hands rested on the pommel of his sword that was strapped to his hip, a comfortable stance that exuded strength in his ease.

Unlike the other nobles in the room who presented their power like a sharp blade lying on a table, Rhaevyn didn’t flaunt or boast. He had heard the tales of his combat prowess that spread through the Ninefold, knew the whispers that called him The Eclipse, a shadow of darkness and death that washed over his enemies like the night. It was a title earned and heralded, one that he would not argue or brandish, but he’d let his dark reputation proceed him and lay the groundwork so he could simply… be. Strength openly displayed could intimidate weaker men, but it was the hidden blade, poised but out of sight that real men feared.

Aelyria stood as though sculpted there, an elegant constant amid the slow tide of velvet and murmured power. Her posture was immaculate, shoulders eased back, chin lifted by the smallest dignified degree, hands folded neatly at her waist as if they had been arranged by an artist who understood restraint as its own form of beauty. A soft smile rested upon her lips, gentle and grateful, the expression of a lady who knew how to look honored by proximity to the throne, how to appear quietly awed by ceremony and lineage and the weight of tradition. The emerald and black of her gown pooled around her feet like shadowed water, its gold embroidery catching the torchlight in faint, reverent glimmers. She looked, to any watching eye, perfectly content to be exactly where she was—fortunate, dutiful, pleased.

Inside, her thoughts were less charitable.

Her gaze drifted, delicately veiled in politeness, over the gathered houses, the peacock silks, the overwrought jewels, the desperate tailoring meant to scream relevance into uncaring fabric. Some wore their importance like armor too large for them, clattering with every breath. One man in particular drew a flicker of her attention; a lord, if his sigil spoke true, clad in riding leathers still stained with the road, dust clinging stubbornly to his boots as though he had ridden straight into the hall without the courtesy of a bath, let alone a change of clothes.

Ghastly, she thought, with serene finality. Had his house truly lacked the foresight to arrive with time enough to present themselves properly? Or was disorder their native language, chaos stitched into their banners? Either answer reflected poorly. Aelyria kept her smile sweet and untroubled as her judgment settled into place, neat as a bookmark slid between pages.

A quiet hum slipped from her throat before she quite realized it, a soft, wandering note born of idle boredom rather than any melody she knew. Her mother’s head tilted a fraction in her direction, one silver brow lifting in gentle reprimand. Aelyria turned her eyes at once, offering a small, apologetic smile, warm and fond, the sort reserved for private corridors and childhood memories. The hum died obediently in her chest.

Her attention wandered again, this time to the walls of the Great Hall, where the King’s Guard stood in silent formation. Dark sentinels stitched into the architecture itself. They were remarkably still, she noted, as though carved rather than born. Armor polished to a mirror’s dull gleam, every plate aligned, every strap fastened with ritual precision. Their swords hung at their sides like patient thoughts, neither threatening nor decorative, simply present. Helmets concealed most of their faces, steel flowing over the shape of noses and framing their faces efficiently, leaving only mouths, eyes, and their brows to betray the men beneath. In the torchlight, they resembled a line of ravens perched along stone flooring, dark and watchful, creatures of omen and order.

Most of them were indistinguishable in their discipline, until two were not.

Near the far pillar stood a pair whose stillness faltered just enough to be interesting. One was tall and broad shouldered, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested familiarity with consequence rather than disregard for it. Beside him stood a shorter guard, red brows visible beneath his helm, pale skin stark against the dark metal, face utterly impassive, as if it were a mask he’d dedicated his life to perfecting. Aelyria watched as the taller man glanced sideways, then again, his mouth twitching with poorly concealed amusement. He wiggled his eyebrows, actually wiggled them, before tilting his head subtly toward another section of the hall, gesturing with a fractional jerk of his chin.

The shorter guard followed the motion, his visible brow knitting in confusion. Aelyria, curious now, let her own gaze drift in the indicated direction.

And paused.

The object of their attention was impossible to miss; a man who seemed less forged than assembled, enormous even among soldiers. He towered over the rest, easily seven feet tall, broad as a fortress gate, armor stretched to its limit across a stocky frame. Sweat streamed down his face in earnest rivulets, darkening the edges of his helm padding, glistening on his upper lip. His expression was a portrait of pure human misery, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, mouth drawn tight as if resisting some internal catastrophe of the most undignified kind. He looked, quite sincerely, like a man fighting for his life against his own body.

Aelyria’s upper lip curled before she could stop it.

Only a fraction. Only for a heartbeat.

She returned her gaze to the two guards just in time to see the shorter one roll his eyes, fondness unmistakable even through the rigid frame of his helm, while the taller man smirked openly now, clearly delighted, as if any crack in the other man’s composure was a private triumph. It was a small, human exchange, fleeting and ridiculous, unfolding in the shadow of banners and crowns.

And she had watched it all.

The realization stirred a faint, incredulous amusement in her chest. Is this what boredom does to me now? Observing guards as one might birds upon a gate, cataloging their habits, their hierarchies, their silent languages. The thought might have embarrassed her, had she not already mastered the art of compartmentalizing her own nature.

Her thoughts brushed, briefly, against the matter of marriage, the whole purpose she was here, against the subtle weight of expectation threaded into every gathering, every glance from ambitious mothers, every measured pause from hopeful fathers. She felt nothing for it. No flutter. No anticipation. If fate were unkind enough to bind her at all, then only a prince would suffice. Anything less would be an insult disguised as a ceremony, and she had no interest in the prince, or any of the Lords that sauntered in.

She smoothed her expression, restoring it to gentle neutrality, tucking away her private assessments as easily as one slides a book back upon its shelf, spine outward, contents hidden, perfectly accessible should she ever wish to revisit them.

Her father moved at last, and the shift was so subtle it felt inevitable, like the tide answering a moon no one needed to name. He waited for the lull with practiced patience, for the final eager house to exhaust itself of introductions and performative reverence, until the space before the dais stood briefly unclaimed. Of course he would go then. The High Steward did not scramble for notice, he assumed it, stepping forward only when the moment itself had been properly cleared. Aelyria straightened instinctively as he turned, beckoning with a quiet, authoritative gesture that required no haste, only obedience.

She followed in measured steps, skirts whispering softly across stone as they advanced, her expression brightening into something warm and receptive, eyes lifting toward the dais as though the honor were freshly bestowed rather than long anticipated. Her father’s presence changed the air around them, not louder, not heavier, but settled, like a hand laid firmly upon the spine of the room. When he spoke, his voice carried easily, respectful and kind without bending into deference, a tone honed by years of standing precisely where kings required him. “My Grace, might I have the honor of introducing my family to you?” he asked, before bowing deeply to the royal line upon the dais, every movement precise, reverent, and perfectly timed.

Aelyria mirrored the motion a breath behind him, lowering herself into a graceful curtsy that revealed nothing but gratitude and composure. From the corner of her eye, she caught the faint ripple of attention spreading through the hall, the subtle recalibration that followed House Varrow wherever it went. This was not the eager ambition of lesser houses, nor the stiff pride of ancient bloodlines clinging to memory. This was something quieter, more dangerous, confidence born of proximity, of power exercised rather than displayed. And as she rose, smile serene and posture flawless, Aelyria knew with quiet certainty that this was exactly where they belonged.

Rhaevyn followed his father’s advance, a few steps behind with his mother’s hand lightly hooked around his forearm. Her presence was fluid and graceful beside him, the fabric of her skirts brushing his leg as she glided across the Great Hall. She was a woman of timeless grace, who carried power, sharp and silent, like a blade concealed beneath her gown that rustled with every movement. Aenora Varrow was a woman with a presence not unlike the Queen, demanding respect and reverence in every room she entered without ever speaking a word. It was a strength that was silent and venomous like poison, sickly sweet to the unknowing eye but deadly when least expected. Her smile was charming and bright, illuminating behind her eyes as if it had always lived there. She curtsied when expected while he dipped his head low into a proper bow alongside her.

While everyone else in his family stood before the King with a radiance that looked as natural as the sun—a farce that was no more common than sunlight in Gloomfen—Rhaevyn remained silent and assessing as his gaze swept across the royals that lined the dais. None of them were strangers. They were all faces he had met at one time or another when he visited his father over the years, but he was no more familiar with them than he was with the smiles painted across his family’s faces. The King was far too kind, likely to get himself killed or send the kingdom into ruin. The Queen was not unlike his own mother but lacked the power to sway her husband. An heir with a mind for whoring rather than politicking. A daughter so rigid that one inconvenience could snap her in two, and another daughter that brought scandal upon the royal name and claimed innocence. What more mattered? Rumors were currency in the Ninefold and that was what reflected upon himself and his family, not the truth. He had more desire to throw himself upon his blade than marry one of the royals.

The King’s smile widened as he clapped his hands against the armrests of his throne and moved to his feet. He wasted no time descending the stairs and meeting Lord Daemric as equals, two friends that fought through war and the struggles of the court side by side. While the High Steward and his wife have graced the Black Citadel for decades, he deserved the same time and respect given to all the other Lords, if not more. "My friend, I would be delighted. I am grateful for the journey your children have made to join us here. It warms the heart to see a family united within my halls."

Aelyria watched her father’s smile unfold with quiet reverence, though she knew it for what it was. To the untrained eye it was warmth, an old comrade’s gratitude, a steward’s humility before his king. To her, it was silk drawn carefully over steel. Lord Daemric bowed with perfect depth, neither too low nor too shallow, every motion measured to the breadth of a breath. There was nothing soft in him, only precision, only intent disguised as loyalty.

When he spoke, his tone carried that same careful construction. “I’m most grateful for this event, my Lord,” Lord Daemric murmured in reply, turning his gaze onto his family, allowing his face to intentionally soften in a way that was familiar to Aelyria when it was only for show. There was nothing soft about her father. “It gives my family the chance to gather in one place, an occurrence that is seldom possible now that the children have grown into the responsibilities of their standing.”

He turned back to the King, eyes alive with pride that was not faked, perhaps the only true feeling her father permitted himself beyond disdain. “It is my honor to present my beautiful wife, Lady Aenora.” His gesture was deliberate, gaze more possessive than loving as it lingered on his wife for a breath longer than necessary as she stepped forward and curtsied. “My eldest son, the pride of Gloomfen, Lord Rhaevyn.” When his attention settled upon Rhaevyn, Aelyria caught it, the subtle narrowing of their father’s gaze, the silent command woven into paternal acknowledgment; behave, smile, be charming.

Rhaevyn didn’t need to hold their father’s gaze to know its intent. It had been drilled into him as a boy, repeated before every presentation, and spoken as gospel the handful of times he had graced these very halls in his adolescence. He stepped forward, poised and strong, with his head held high, but not too high to be considered disrespectful. His left hand did not move from its perch atop the pommel of his sword, but his fingers hung lazily, an intention to show comfort rather than opposition. He bowed gracefully, as was expected of him, and as he stood upright once more a smile graced his lips. It wasn't jovial or warm like the King’s, but there was its own enigmatic charm that faintly curved at the right corner of his mouth. Just enough that his father wouldn’t make a scene, not now anyway.

"A pleasure, as always, Your Grace," he greeted the King with the same honeyed words he always did whenever he visited the capital. Rhaevyn loathed court and all the ass kissing that came with it, but he knew how to play his part. Although six months was… a long time to be on one’s best behavior.

“And my most precious daughter, the jewel of our family, Lady Aelyria.”

She had already moved before the final syllable left his mouth.

Emerald skirts swept in a controlled cascade as she dipped into a flawless curtsy, posture unbreakable, balance immaculate. The gold embroidery at her hem caught the light as she lowered herself, lace sleeves whispering faintly with the movement. When she rose, her expression bloomed into something luminous and sweet, dimples pressed delicately into her cheeks, eyes bright as though this moment alone had been worth the journey across the King’s Fist.

"It is a true honor to be before you and your family, my King," she murmured, voice gentle and clear, pitched perfectly for the dais to hear without ever straining. Gratitude laced her tone, admiration softened its edges. Her gaze drifted, measured, deliberate, to Prince Dorian. She let it linger just long enough to suggest intrigue without impropriety, curiosity without too much improper hunger. A small, almost shy smile curved her lips as her lashes fluttered, the picture of a young noblewoman quietly enthralled by royal presence.

Inside, she felt nothing of the sort. Rather the sight of the Prince disgusted her, if she were being quite honest. But she knew precisely how to let the hall believe otherwise.

The King’s smile was unwavering as his gaze shifted to each member of the Varrow household as they were presented, meeting their bows and curtsies in kind. "You have a remarkable family. As always it is a pleasure to see Lady Aenora and Lord Rhaevyn grace these halls. But I am thankful to have an opportunity to finally meet your daughter as well. She gets her beauty from her mother, no doubt." He stepped aside, assuming a place near Lord Daemric so that his own family was in full view as he motioned up toward them. "Not unlike my own daughters. They were fortunate not to inherit much from myself," he jested with a laugh that was all radiance and warmth.

"While most of your family is familiar with my own, let me reintroduce them all the same." Rowan’s attention shifted to his wife who was a paragon of beauty, even as she remained cold and austere. "My beautiful wife Valenya."

The Queen stepped forward, and while there was still no small part of her that was upset with her husband, she knew better than to challenge him twice in one evening. She lowered herself into a proper curtsey with a smile that never quite reached her eyes, then returned to her place beside her daughter and the throne.

"Dorian, my son and heir."

The Prince had remained steadfast at Rhea’s side after their introductions with House Járnbjørn, if only to help shield her from their mother’s angry sidelong glances. He gave her hand a gentle pat before slipping his arm from her hold so he could step forward. He had noticed Lady Aelyria’s gaze and the way it lingered when she was presented. She was a beauty, no one could deny that. A woman of the marshlands with hair like snow, but there had always been something about the Varrows that shifted the air when they entered the room. He could not help but wonder if she held the same sort of power. His gaze remained on her showing the same level of intrigue she showed him, but whether that curiosity was born of an interest in her character or an interest in her family, he was not certain.

After Dorian returned to his place, the King motioned for his daughters to step forward. "And, of course, my darling daughters, Maeve and Rhea."

Both Princesses moved forward in unison, silks and satin softly brushing along the dais as they lowered into perfect curtsies. Rhea did not look anywhere in particular, keeping her gaze focused on the stone beneath the Lords’ feet, or the embroidery around the hem of the Ladies’ skirts. Maeve on the other hand kept her attention locked on Rhaevyn who rested solely at the top of her list. Her attention focused to a single point like a predator locking onto its prey. His presence was a force, preceded by the combat prowess she had only heard whispers of. He was handsome not unlike some of the other Lords, but where others were dark haired and of the earth, his light hair and cold air made him stand apart. He was not known to be charming, but she did not need charm… She needed power, a title, and a name. She could have charm for the both of them. Her attention lingered unabashed, target locked, as her and her sister returned to their places among their family.

The King’s praise drifted over her like sunlight over still water, warm, generous, entirely expected. Aelyria lowered her head just enough to acknowledge it, her pale lashes dipping as a modest smile curved softly at the corners of her mouth. A faint color rose along her cheeks, delicate and convincing, the sort of blush that suggested humility rather than calculation. It would have been easy to believe she was touched by the compliment, perhaps even overwhelmed by the attention of a monarch’s favor. In truth, she merely noted how easily kindness from a king softened a room.

When she lifted her gaze again, it wandered, as if by accident, toward Prince Dorian.

Their eyes met.

For the briefest moment the world seemed to narrow to that shared line of sight, a quiet thread stretched between the dais and the place where House Varrow stood. Aelyria held his gaze just long enough to make the moment unmistakable before her composure wavered with practiced perfection. Color deepened faintly in her cheeks, and her eyes slipped away as though she had been caught in some private admiration, lashes fluttering as she turned her attention politely toward the floor for a breath. It was ridiculous, theatrical even, but she executed the performance with such gentle authenticity that it felt almost spontaneous.

Beside her, her father stepped forward just enough for his voice to carry with the appropriate warmth. “Your daughters have grown into beautiful young women, my King.” His tone held the respectful cadence of a loyal servant speaking before the throne, humble admiration woven carefully into every syllable. To the court it sounded sincere, even affectionate, the voice of a steward who had spent decades in loyal proximity to royal power. Aelyria knew better.

“They truly take after your wife,” Lord Daemric continued smoothly, his expression bright with courteous charm, “Just as your sons surely take after you.” He offered the King a smile that shone with admiration, perfect, polished, and utterly false. Aelyria recognized it instantly, the same expression she had watched him wear before nobles, generals, and rivals alike. It was the smile of a man who understood that flattery, like a finely sharpened blade, was most effective when the victim never felt the cut.

Aelyria allowed her own expression to soften once more, lifting her gaze again as though the exchange itself had reassured her. The faintest hint of that earlier blush remained on her cheeks, lending her an air of youthful sincerity that balanced beautifully against her father’s composed diplomacy. Anyone watching would see a daughter proud to stand beside her family beneath the gaze of the throne. Only she knew how easily the performance settled upon her shoulders, like silk, like armor, like a second skin.

"Thank you, my Lord. Your kindness and loyalty has been a cherished boon as King." Rowan’s smile beamed as he gave Lord Daemric a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I look forward to the opportunity for our families to grow closer over the following months." His attention shifted back to the young Lady Aelyria, bowing his head toward her. "I do hope you enjoy your first stay in the Black Citadel. My home is your home, as your family will no doubt tell you," he added, pressing his hand against his chest, giving House Varrow a parting bow before he ascended the dais one final time, before returning to his family’s side.

Rhaevyn was not as skilled in the placating of nobles and royals like his father and sister. He could bow, nod, and recite the pleasantries his father had driven into him since childhood, but he lacked the gentle touch of charm they possessed. He did not become a warrior through forced pleasantries and feasting. A blade does not peacock before it stabs, its honed edges glint in the light as a harsh warning of power and intent. He was the marshlands’ blade, sharp and calculated. It was not his job to charm or seduce, but to remain vigilant. He was as warm as tepid water, but he followed formalities, as was expected of him, if only for his mother’s and sister’s sakes.

Once the King started the slow ascension back to his throne, Rhaevyn slowly turned toward his mother, right arm bent in quiet offering. "The feast should be starting shortly," he commented observationally and factually, lacking any pretense of enthusiasm. Once in the ballroom he knew he could disappear beneath shadows and wine, but the feast called for more socializing and charm that he mustered over a year’s time. There was no avoiding it. So like any skilled warrior, he’d rather face it head on and get it over with rather than avoid the inevitable.

Lord Daemric received the King’s final words with the same polished grace he had worn throughout the exchange, his expression composed into something warm and appropriately humbled. He returned the parting bow with smooth precision, neither too deep to diminish himself nor too shallow to invite insult. In the torchlit splendor of the Great Hall, beneath the gaze of nobles and royals alike, he looked every inch what the realm believed him to be, a steadfast steward, trusted confidant, loyal friend of the crown. Yet beneath that immaculate surface, Aelyria knew her father’s mind was already moving three steps ahead, fitting the King’s genial warmth into the careful machinery of opportunity. Men like Rowan were easiest to manage when they mistook kindness for strength.

Beside him, Aelyria dipped her head with practiced sweetness, pale lashes lowering as she offered the King one last smile, the one her mother had taught her before she was tall enough to reach a banquet table. It dimpled her cheeks just so, softened her mouth, and made her appear every bit the grateful young lady overwhelmed by royal generosity. "You are most gracious, my King," she said, her voice clear and light, touched by the kind of sincerity that was all the more convincing because she knew exactly how to counterfeit it. When she straightened, she did not look back toward Prince Dorian, though she could feel the weight of the royal dais at her back like the lingering heat of a fire. Instead, she turned with elegant obedience and slipped her hand into the crook of her father’s arm as naturally as though it had always belonged there.

Together, they moved from the dais in measured steps, the polished stone gleaming beneath their feet, the murmurs of the Great Hall swelling again behind them like a tide reclaiming shore. The hall seemed changed now, though in truth it was only that House Varrow had finished being seen. Aelyria could feel the glances that followed in their wake, curious, calculating, envious, speculative. Let them look. Let them wonder. The family’s place at court was never simply occupied, it was asserted, quietly and with absolute certainty, as if the very architecture of the Black Citadel had been designed to make room for them.

"The King was so nice," she said at last, her tone bright and girlish, pitched just loud enough for any passing ears to hear the innocent remark and nothing more. She tilted her head to look up at her father as she spoke, the picture of a daughter charmed by royal hospitality, still dazzled by her first formal welcome into the heart of the realm. The image would have been almost laughable, had she not worn it so flawlessly. It sat upon her like lace, delicate, and entirely strategic.

Lord Daemric glanced down at her, and for a fleeting instant, something almost indulgent touched the corner of his mouth. "Indeed," he drawled softly, the single word rich with private meaning. No more was needed. He knew she understood.

Aelyria looked ahead again, her gaze settling upon the glittering hall before them, on the nobles shifting into clusters, the servants preparing for the feast, the slow unwinding of ceremony into something looser, more dangerous. Her smile remained, but it changed. Just slightly. The sweetness stayed at the surface, but beneath it something finer and sharper unfurled, a blade hidden in velvet, a thought sharpened to purpose. The corners of her lips curved with the faintest edge of satisfaction.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @Sleepy Tani}

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^{rowan ...|... outfit ........ valenya ...|... outfit ........ declan ...|... outfit ........ dorian ...|... outfit ........ maeve ...|... outfit ........ rhea ...|... outfit ........ ballroom}

The soft murmur of restless conversation grew and began to fill the Great Hall as the formal introductions came to an end and the warm glow of the setting sun that poured in through the windows was replaced with the cool luminescence of the moon. The evening chill had settled into the bones of the Citadel, stealing away the suffocating heat and humidity of summer for something cooler, and far more tolerable for when the feast turns to frivolity. As day grew to night, the heavy tension of politicking and formality waned as presentations concluded. When no more houses came forward leaving the floor before the dais vacant, the King rose from his throne a final time. He stepped forward, raising his hands—still weathered and calloused even after years of privilege—to beckon for everyone’s attention and silence as he addressed them once more.

"Well met, everyone.

My neck is stiff from the weight of the crown and ceremony, as I suspect your backs could use some respite from all that bowing and pomp.

I am pleased to have been given the opportunity to meet each and every one of you. I am grateful to see that the next generation of Aethoria is in such capable hands. You have done your houses, and holds, proud today. But I’ve always found that you learn more about one another over a drink rather than formal introduction.

The musicians have been waiting long enough and the kitchens are starting to smell too good to ignore. It is time to put the politics aside and enjoy each other's company.

Let us adjourn and feast!"

The King clapped his hands together jovially with a luminous smile that beamed brightly across his face. After concluding, he turned slightly toward the Queen, and his light flickered, if for but a second, before pushing it away to dwell on later. He cleared his throat and extended his arm toward her in offering, as was expected, but that did not stop the icy chill that passed between the pair as they locked limbs and began descending the steps without so much as a sidelong glance to one another. No words were shared. Not there. Not openly. They had mastered the art of conversation through body language and the shared rigidity that laced through their muscles while moving in sync with one another. It was a rehearsed dance, poised and perfect as royals needed to be, because they both understood the price of appearances. Anger was saved for private, not the prying eyes of court.

The Storvane children lingered upon the dais, preparing to follow in their parent’s footsteps. Before Dorian had the chance to take his place at his sister’s side, Maeve had sidestepped him and seized Rhea by the upper arm, holding her in place with a vice-like grip. She tugged her sister closer until they were shoulder to shoulder and her venomous words could look little more than whispered gossip about prospective suitors. "It has not been a single day, yet you already seek to embarrass me." Her tone was cold and biting like the chill that blew down from the mountains in the dead of night, but her smile was warm, almost conspiratorial in its falsehood.

Rhea, on the other hand, was not as skilled at masking her emotions. She gasped at the sudden tug and the fingers that curved so deeply into her ivory skin that it was likely to bruise. Her gaze was sharp and incredulous as she attempted to tear her arm free and step away. "You embarrass yourself," she replied, matching tone for tone. With a more forceful yank she pried her arm free and took a small step back, putting some distance between them. "Who will you turn your hatred towards when it is your own arrogance and lack of kindness that keeps marriage from your grasp?"

Before Maeve was given the opportunity to respond, Rhea turned away, rubbing her arm where the phantom ache of her sister’s grasp still lingered upon her skin. Her obscene amount of skirts made her feel like she was wading through water, steps slowed and weighed down as the fabric rustled against the stone underfoot so loud it was almost deafening. She approached the edge of the dais where Declan waited with his right arm bent just enough for her to rest her hand in the crook of his elbow.

"What was that about?" he asked, looking down at her with the curiously furrowed brows of a brother wishing to be privy to sibling squabbles.

"Nothing," Rhea hissed through clenched teeth, huffing as she fought to grab a handful of the fabric that encapsulated her so that it did not constrict her with every step. "Maeve is just…" She kicked her skirts in frustration, like they had offended her as much as her sister had, or they merely suffocated her like everything else in the Citadel. Either way. "Maeve," she added with an irritated scrunch of her nose, as if that was answer enough, because anything and everything her sister did could be summarized as simply… ‘Maeve.’ She took a second to gather herself, closing her eyes for a moment and taking in as deep of a breath as her corset would allow before letting her brother begin to guide her down the dais.

Declan took each step before her, keeping his foot steady on the stair so that she could find it for guidance when sight alone could not aid her in navigating the pool of fabric around her. "Ignore her," he suggested quietly, lowering himself down another step. "Her nerves make her… Well…"

"A bitch," Rhea completed his sentence with a blunt sort of sincerity.

He tried to stifle his laugh, but it still slipped through the cracks of his amused smile. "I was going to say irritable," Declan corrected quietly as they reached the ground safely in one piece, without any tripping or further embarrassment.

Rhea shook her head dismissively with a contorted and annoyed sort of expression, but she did not argue or offer further insult.

"Soon enough she will have far too many suitors to juggle. Then she will forget all about tormenting you," he offered as he led her across the Hall in the wake of their parents.

"Do you truly believe that?" Rhea asked, looking up at her brother, brows raised and an unconvinced scowl curling at the corners of her mouth.

Declan cleared his throat, attempting to temper the guilty smirk that curved beneath his dark beard. "We can certainly hope." The siblings held each other’s gaze for a beat or two, before a warm laughter roared to life between them as it had when they first entered the hall, bright, unbidden, and carefree in a way that eased tensions if only for a moment or two.

Meanwhile, back upon the dais, Maeve scoffed and rolled her eyes in that shrewd and self-righteous way she often carried herself. She glared at the back of Rhea’s retreating head before conceding and stepping beside Dorian, taking his arm a bit more aggressively than what was called for.

He looked over at her with a stunned and amused expression, as if his sister’s temper was far more entertaining than it had any right to be. She was like a spoiled child who was not happy unless everyone else around her was more miserable than she was. A superiority complex she inherited from their mother that she carried with a little less grace and far less intimidation, which added no merit to her sharp edges. She was a hound that was all bark and no bite, thus entirely amusing for all the wrong reasons.

"Do not bring me into this," Dorian jested quietly as he looked down at the whiteness in her knuckles from her unnecessarily tight grip.

Maeve didn’t wait to be guided, half dragging her brother along toward the edge of the dais. She began descending the steps one at a time, never relinquishing her hold on him, using him as support and an unwilling outlet. "You cannot remain indifferent forever," she rebutted, tone hushed and masked behind a practiced smile while her gaze skimmed the pool of Lords and viable suitors.

"Sure I can," he replied with a warm laugh that mirrored their father’s in the crowded bustle of the Great Hall. Dorian’s head tilted toward her, hovering close enough that his errant curl brushed along her cheek with each step. "Have you ever considered that perhaps it might be easier to find a husband with… Oh, I do not know…" His free hand rose to rub at his chin pensively—dramatically—softening the blow of his words with theatrics and humor. "Kindness?" His head dipped while his brows rose, holding her gaze like a quiet challenge for her to seek out the warmth that once lived in her heart before their mother snuffed it.

"No." Her answer was clean, concise, and offered little to no emotion. Maeve let the silence suspend between them for a moment as her gaze drifted toward their parents who parted the sea of nobles with their presence. "Mother did not change herself for father," she continued, slowly turning her head toward Dorian as if her gaze alone spoke of the weakness of kindness and compassion. "Why should I?"

He sighed as his voice dropped to something softer and more serious than he ever used, as if he intended to reign wisdom, if for only a moment. "Father… was at war." It was a tale they both knew well, but Maeve always seemed to conveniently forget that little detail. Of course their mother didn’t need to change who she was when marrying their father, it was a marriage made of necessity, out of an alliance to win a war… or die. It did not take a wise man to see the unhappiness and lack of love between the two of them. His sister could claim all she wanted that love was not necessary for a strong marriage, but Dorian wouldn’t believe her. He refused to believe that that was the sort of union she desired.

"We are both unwed, childless…" Dorian continued as some of his sarcasm slipped back into his tone, light, warm, and always to be taken with a grain of salt. "Old—"

"I am not old," Maeve quickly interjected, raising her chin in distaste as if the word ‘old’ alone was an affront to her very existence.

"Mother had seen eighteen winters when she gave birth to Declan… You are old."

Maeve scoffed, shoulders tensing as the weight of her age—and therefore her declining fertility—came into question. "What is your point?"

"My point, dear sister," he replied, slowing their steps so they remained far enough away from their siblings so they were not overheard. "Is that maybe you should not look a gift horse in the mouth and try to be a little nicer… For the sake of your future husband, if no one else."

She did not initially respond, remaining silent and pensive as their steps slowed to match their family while Rhea and Declan burst into laughter ahead of them. Maeve stood a little taller, rolling her shoulders and perfecting her posture as if seeing her siblings unravel before her made her wish to present herself as the stark contrast. It was only then that her hold on Dorian’s arm eased as she spared him a quick, judgemental glance. "You are beginning to sound like Declan."

"Am I?" The words fell from his lips with the sort of surprise often reserved for far more dire circumstances. Moments that left him stunned and animated, with a hand dramatically pressed to his chest. "Is this what sobriety does to me? It’s dreadful. I should remedy that at once," he mused with a weightless chuckle and a gentle squeeze to his sister’s arm, which would undoubtedly make her roll her eyes and turn her head from his in disgust.

At the front of the procession, the King and Queen, who were led through the gathering nobles by a pair of guards, approached a set of dark mahogany double doors nestled between two large stone hearths on the eastern side of the Great Hall. A pair of servants who stood ready, and easily overlooked, took hold of the ornate handles and pushed open the towering doors to the adjoining ballroom. The wood groaned and iron hinges creaked as the magnificence came into view and the savory scent of a feast, days in the making, flooded into the room like its own silent invitation.

The room before them was a wonder and crowned jewel of the Black Citadel. Whispers and rumors often spread throughout the Ninefold about the obsidian cavern ballroom, but it was a rare sight that lived in legend. Most never received the opportunity to gaze upon it. Halfway through the room, just beyond carved stone and columns, the Citadel blended into a cave as if finery and nature were one in the same. Spandrels gave way to stalactites, candlelight shifted to the cool glow of moonlight, and stairs were carved of stone, following alongside the flow of water that trailed in through the hanging valley above. Reflections of yellow firelight and silver moonlight glistened off the falls like stars as it poured down the side of the cavern and trickled along nature made steps into a rippling pool that hugged the far side of the ballroom. The site of it nestled beyond the ballroom floor was like something out of a fairytale, where one dance could transport someone from the structure of court into the wilds of a dream.

Upon entry they were first greeted with two long tables of dark oak, adorned in navy table runners that came to a point with braided silver tassels at each of the heads. The chairs were ornate in the ways only a keen eye would recognize: carved legs and arms that curved to match the architecture of the room, cushions upholstered in the richest velvets and studded with polished silver, each one identical with the decadence befitting a King. Candelabras encompassed in delicate filigree of leaves and wings lined the center of the table, interspersed between platters of roasted aurochs basted in dark ale, peppered pheasants, and a glazed suckling pig resting on a bed of greens and cloves. Trays sprinkled throughout the settings were towering with honeyed figs, wheels of sharp aged mountain cheese, and delicate pastries, flakey and warm from the oven, filled with jams and custards from all across the Ninefold. Smaller, less adorned tables hovered around the outskirts of the room for household retinue and cherished friends of the court. While they did not dine on silver plates, nor drink from gold-leafed chalices, their offerings were the same, from every beast and fig, down to the imported Karthosian wine.

Dark obsidian stone arched overhead, carved meticulously by artisans from centuries passed. Half a dozen chandeliers the size of carriages hung from the ceiling, holding countless candles, bathing the feast in a dim, warm glow. Beyond the tables the room curved around an empty circular center that waited for the whisper of skirts and the quiet tap of shoes lost in dance following their meal. The small protruding balcony of the minstrel’s gallery hugged the southern wall, hidden in plain sight behind spandrels and dark curtains. Their music, a soft, welcoming cadence of strings and pipes echoed throughout the grand hall, mixing with the gentle roar of conversation, chairs dragging across stone, the shuffle of servants weaving through the chaos, and the soft rushing of water that tinged the air with the sweet scent of a mountain spring.

The King and Queen made their way toward one of the more extravagant tables where the Lords, Ladies, and esteemed members of the High Council would dine. They did not take their places at the heads of the table, instead settling in the middle among their friends and allies, one of the few demands Rowan would not budge on, no matter how much his wife detested it. Meanwhile, their children gravitated toward the opposing table, identical in every way down to the place cards organized meticulously along the settings to ensure the Queen’s hand was always present, even down to whom they could converse with over dinner.

Declan guided Rhea along the length of the table, searching the various cards until they found her name, lost somewhere in the middle where the young Lords and Ladies met. She did not study and memorize the various suitors to know who was the eldest or offered the most prestigious alliance, but she was not naive. She recalled their introductions and the faces that fit each name. Her mother sat her in the middle like an after thought, surrounded by the men and women that she did not deem worthy enough to be closer to Maeve or Dorian. She was placed between second sons because she did not need to make an advantageous marriage or a love match. She simply needed to marry before her past could tarnish the Storvane name or her sister’s chances at claiming a highly sought after Lord.

While her shoulders sank, if only moderately, Declan’s smile never wavered as he released her arm and began pulling out her chair. "It’s not so bad," he reassured her quietly as he stole glances at the names that surrounded her. "Lord Emil seemed kind and he is a familiar face." His gaze fell to the place card to her right. "And Lord Valerius obviously enjoys riding, so you share a common interest."

Her smile returned slowly, not as bright and a bit apprehensive, but still authentically her. "Do you always see the sunshine through the storm?" Rhea asked as she stepped between the table and her chair. Her hands swept along the back of her skirts, holding them in place as she lowered herself into the seat with a soft sigh.

"Someone in this family has to," he mused with a grin far too warm than it had any right to be as he gently scooted her chair in. "Out of all of our siblings, I believe you are the most likely to marry," he added little more than a whisper, making sure his voice did not carry. Rhea’s head snapped around abruptly, looking up at her brother with a stunned sort of incredulity. Declan chuckled, resting his gloved hand upon her shoulder. "I am serious. You are not a drunk or a lecher or…" He paused for a second, trying to find the correct word once again. "...Irritable."

He squeezed her shoulder once before slowly stepping back, letting his hand return to where it rested upon the pommel of his sword. "Remember to breathe—" he emphasized the word dramatically with a pointed and playfully stern glance, "—and you will be fine." Declan pointed toward a column along the circumference of the ballroom that lingered near their parent’s table. "I will be just over there if you need me and Coren should be nearby."

Almost on cue, the guardsman in question entered the ballroom and stationed himself similarly on the outskirts of the room, close and within view of Rhea. Beneath the narrow slit in his helmet she could see the squint in his eyes and the subtle shift that hinted at a small smile taking root. He raised his hand, just barely at his side, and gave her a fleeting wave of acknowledgement before becoming still as stone like the rest of the King’s Guard.

Rhea let out a deep breath, puffing out her lips dramatically, as if she had been holding it in since the moment they entered the Great Hall. She shifted in her chair, glancing over her shoulder toward her brother who was already making his way toward his post. "Thank you," she called after him quietly, trying her best not to draw attention as the other nobles started funneling into the ballroom.

Declan looked back at her for only a second, flashing her a quick, affectionate wink. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The clink of his armor shifting preceded him as he slowly crossed the ballroom. With every step the brotherly warmth he wore open and unabashedly slipped back beneath his breastplate for safe keeping, something to cherish and guard when the duties of his position took precedence. His smile slowly faded, it was not an expression of indifference, but the alert stoicism of a guard who handled his job with the utmost severity. He stepped into his post with a practiced attentiveness. While all the people before him would feast and revel, he was a guardian that kept to the shadows and not finding respite until the candles burnt out and only servants remained in the hall.

House Varrow entered the ballroom second behind the royals, as was their place. And while Rhaevyn had no intentions on marrying any of the Ladies, let alone one of the Princesses, he was also aware of the role he had to play, especially before the eyes of his father. Whether it was a boon or a hindrance, he was not the type of man that did things with subtlety. He could play the long game, but a bold act before others were willing to risk their comfort was his best opportunity to set the pace.

He tenderly passed his mother’s hand off to his father’s other available arm before setting off. His haste was hidden beneath the ease of his long and steady strides, and the confident air he brandished like a coat of arms. He paid no mind to the place cards or where his name fell. His attention was solely focused on the eldest daughter as her brother guided her toward her seat. When Dorian went to pull out her chair, it was Rhaevyn who materialized beside her with a charming smile and a hand extended, his palm up turned. "Allow me, your Grace." He bowed his head in deference, making sure not to crowd Princess Maeve, but still remain close enough that his presence could not go unnoticed.

A single brow rose with an impressed curiosity at the Lord’s boldness. Maeve gave her brother a quick, dismissive nod, which he heeded without argument. While Dorian wouldn’t admit it outloud, if someone else wanted the burden of catering to his sister, then he was not going to complain. He gave the Lord a parting nod, then wandered off toward the opposite end of the table. Instead of taking a seat, he waited patiently with his hands cupped behind his back, ready to offer assistance to any of the Ladies who were willing to accept it. While chivalry came naturally to him, he was also aware of the watchful gaze of his mother. He might have had every intention to get lost in spirits as the night progressed, but he also wished to avoid as much of her ire as possible.

"Thank you, Lord Rhaevyn." Maeve’s voice was sweet and laced with honey as she placed her hand lightly into his awaiting palm.

His fingers, strong and pale, curled around her hand with a gentleness that contrasted his stoic and commanding presence. He guided her to the space before her chair with a practiced patience and a Lord’s poise. But before she could reclaim her hand, Rhaevyn lifted it slowly while lowering his head to close the distance. His lips brushed against her knuckles before pressing against her skin in a warm, lingering kiss. It lasted a second longer than what was proper, but if he noticed, he did not let on. His head tilted up, just a fraction, just enough for his piercing gaze to reach her from beneath his strong brow. "Forgive me, your Grace." His voice was rough and low like a secret shared between the two. "I had to be the first to properly greet you." The tip of his thumb swept along her knuckles once, before releasing her hand and stepping behind her chair.

Maeve had expected charm and flattery, but she was not prepared for how well it worked… Or perhaps how well it worked coming from someone as handsome as Rhaevyn Varrow. He was the sort of man that carried a fierceness with him unlike other men—like her father—who fostered compassion. Tales of his prowess had reached many ears, hers included, and a man who was as skilled with his tongue—words—as he was with his blade was someone she needed to keep her eye on. While Rhaevyn was already at the top of her list, his boldness intrigued her and did not go unnoticed. Her smirk came effortlessly, with a predatorial arrogance of a woman who felt like she had already won. She lowered herself into her seat, brushing her skirts into submission, while he pushed the chair in behind her. "But you already know me, my Lord," she commented, hands hidden in her lap as the tips of her fingers trailed along the skin that still felt the lingering warmth of his lips.

"Ah," he mused, punctuated with a low hum. Rhaevyn’s hands curled around the back posts of her chair as his head dipped slightly to hover closer so his hushed words could reach her ears. "Who is to say we cannot get reacquainted." His smirk grew like a silent challenge, lingering in the space beside her just long enough to catch her gaze before letting his hands fall to his side and finding his way to his own seat… which conveniently happened to be directly across from her.

As the nobles took their seats and the servants began carving into the various delicacies laid out before them, there was a subtle shift throughout the room. The rigid formality of the Great Hall faded into the dim warmth of the ballroom, and the rehearsed introductions gave way to the dangerous, silver tongued dance of the court. While the wine began to flow and conversation grew louder, every lingering glance, shared toast, and whispered confidence carried a weight that could bolster a house, or be its undoing. The pleasantries were over. The hunger that swept through the room wasn’t reserved for the feast, but for the power and prestige promised with the right match. Behind the clatter of silver and the flow of wine from crystal decanters, the board had been set. The true games of the season had begun, and in the Ninefold, the first move was often the most decisive.

^{interactions ....|.... rhaevyn varrow ............... mentions ....|.... emil, valerius & house varrow ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#ffc300 ....|..... outfit .....|..... #0a6d6b ....|..... outfit .....|..... sylas's cabin}

After another quick shower, unable to tolerate the blend of sweat and cold seeping into her skin, and the dirt that clung to her fresh grazes, Evelyn tried to absorb herself in a book. On her bed, in her small kitchen, on the couch. She tried to close her eyes and nap. Even settled for meditation but there was no denying her mind was ill at ease.

Her eyes opened with a sigh, knowing well the cause. In addition to the abysmal day itself, she agreed she would abstain from Sylas, thus in the instance she went to check on him…she wasn’t sure she could trust herself. Since her attraction first turned physical with him, she had been very liberal with touch. He could shut it down, sure, but she didn’t want to put herself in that position. A child of Eris being the voice of reason over a child of Nemesis indicated how over her head she was and Sylas shattered her control.

Yet, her eyes persistently flickered to the hanger where his coat hung, fingers wringing around each other. A good excuse as any but one he’d see through.

She did want to thank him for both the coat and breakfast…
She gave another sigh, wrapped herself in a jacket, folded Sylas’s coat around her arm and began the march across camp to his cabin. Her confident strides lost their pace as worry increasingly crept in as she gnawed on her lip. What was she walking into?
The hesitance brought her to a full halt along his path, at the steps that led to his cabin. She glanced over her shoulder, a voice inside advising to turn back and leave, but the rational part of her brain pushed it aside. A decision wasn’t about to be dictated by superstition, a knot in her gut and uncertainty.
Evelyn proceeded to his door, knocked and waited, shifting her weight from foot to foot, looking off in the surrounding trees.

Nothing. Her hand hovered over the door handle. Her fingers slowly curled around the knob and she felt the door give way under the light pressure. Unlocked. Evelyn paused again and checked over her shoulder. He would be nearby then. Or ignoring visitors. Something said likely the latter if anything. She closed her eyes, braced and opened the door. "Sylas?" she called. She could feel the contrast of the heat in the cabin and cold outside that persistently nipped at her and blew snow through the threshold.

Still no answer.

Evelyn stepped inside, closing the door narrowly behind her. She wandered a few steps in but dared not venture further. She tucked his coat to her chest, hugging it to her as if it was a safety vest. She let her eyes roam over his cabin interior.

Sylas had tried to distract himself, as he often did when alone in his cabin, but nothing held his interest and his thoughts continued to wander. He managed to make some semblance of lunch that he hardly touched, not realizing he didn’t really have an appetite until the food was prepared and on a plate. Just another way to keep himself busy, another failed attempt. He eventually settled for a shower because at least he could be productive and get clean, and hope that the steaming water would wash away his conflicted feelings or motivate him to turn his frustrations on Daniel or Sloane’s new friends… Something.

He stayed in the stream of the shower with his hands pressed against the tile until the water ran cold and longer still. It was only when the chill found its way to his bones that he forced himself to clean quickly and get out. He stood on the bathmat, water dripping off his naked body as he started drying himself with a towel. Just as he finished roughly scrubbing what dampness he could from his hair, he could have sworn he heard the sound of a door closing. His brows furrowed as he quickly tied the towel around his waist and made his way down the hall.

Sylas was prepared to kick someone’s ass for intruding, compel them to leave, or use them as an emotional punching bag for his frustration, but when he stepped out into his living room and saw Evelyn standing not far from the door, he just… froze. His gaze fell to his jacket clutched tightly in her arms, then back up to her eyes, but he said nothing.

Her eyes found him but she couldn’t muster either greeting or explanation, lips frozen as she took Sylas in, damp messy hair and only a towel secured around his waist.

"I—" She swallowed, not quite able to find her words or rip her gaze from Sylas’s body. She had seen it before. Felt it before. But apparently that didn’t make her impervious to him. She cleared her throat and her senses with it. She lifted her eyes to his with new resolve. "I came to say thank you. For breakfast and the coat." She gestured to it in her arm. "I would have stayed longer if I…could." There was evident hesitation on her confession. And she knew he’d be sweet and compassionate, but Evelyn dared not bring to light his gentler and considerate qualities slipping through. The same way she dared not to tell him she just wanted to check on him.

His cabin seemed stifling with his judgemental, expectant gaze boring into her. She swept her hair to one side under her beanie, exhaling slowly, hoping some miraculous breeze would sweep through his cabin.

Sylas’s chest heaved with every breath, like they were measured, counted, controlled. He didn’t move as she spoke, just listened with a clenched jaw and muscles that slowly grew tense with each passing moment. There were questions, judgements, and accusations that churned behind his dark eyes, but he was also aware of the fragile balance that hung between them. He knew the hypocrisy that tainted the air around them. The same anger that ignited in Evelyn the night before now festered in him. Envy, jealousy, unparalleled possessiveness of seeing the person he wanted with someone else. Daniel. Fucking Daniel.

He bit his tongue, swallowed the words he wanted to spit like venom and slowly approached. The expanse between them was large, larger than he ever wanted it to be, but Sylas didn’t dare move a step closer. He stopped just far enough away to extend his arm, reach out, and take back his coat. "You could have kept it," was his only response as he crossed the room and hung it up on the hook it lived on earlier that morning.

Obligingly, Evelyn handed over the coat, her brows pinching together briefly in how Sylas moved and talked. Stiffer than usual but he was always deliberate. "I didn’t want to assume anything." Usually her eyes tracked him and his every move, but she lost herself in wondering what had warranted his distance.

Without her barricade now, Evelyn didn’t realize the extent of comfort the coat gave her. Something to fidget with and clutch; the only real acceptable reason to be in his cabin. She folded her arms across her chest in substitute as she struggled with her thoughts. Her eyes flickered back to him. "Are you okay?" She offered quietly, almost afraid to ask. But she needed to know before she turned tail and left.

Sylas stilled, his hands still hanging from the fabric of his coat as he drew in a deep breath. He didn’t know how to answer the question. A million venomous words flooded his mind and dammed behind his clenched jaw, all sharp and envious… Weakness and jealousy, that’s what it all boiled down to. "You’re so… frustrating," he admitted low and quiet, almost like a growl. He released his hold, finally turning to face her. "You get mad at me because you thought I kissed Nelly, but you won’t be with me… and then fucking Daniel."

Her eyes widened. "That’s your problem?" She asked, incredulous. Her eyes flickered away to temper her immediate annoyance and bite back what she wanted to say. Arguing with him wouldn’t get her far, much the same as fighting fire with fire. Evelyn stewed on it for a moment. "Can I show you something?" Her eyes moved back on him, keen to make her point.

She approached him, taking in a short almost imperceptible breath—another brace, and held her hands up in surrender as she stood before him. She wasn’t going to use her powers, hurt him or break their promise to refrain.

Evelyn tugged his wrist from his side and entwined her fingers through his before he could oppose. "There’s this sensation. Something we learn in early childhood to do as a safety precaution." As much as she tried to minimize the gesture, she couldn’t deny the smallest spark holding Sylas. She looked at their hands contemplatively. "From here I can numb you to feeling or make you feel every sensation." There was a brief flicker of suggestion in her tone and eyes as they lifted back to his, but it quickly evaporated, easily dismissed as nothing.

She released his hand and stepped away. "I helped Daniel with his pain not...seduced him."

Sylas held his ground, not stepping forward but not away either as she approached. He didn’t fight when she took his hand, simply remaining silent and stoic with measured breaths and tensed muscles. Once his gaze shifted, sliding along her arm to where she laced her fingers with his. He could understand—sort of—how a more caring person like Evelyn would feel inclined to help a friend or whatever in pain. That wasn’t the problem. "I looked over at you and saw him laying beside you with your hand on his chest… That fucking sucked, but you know, I still waited." His head tilted, just a fraction to look down at her. "I sat and watched your second run to be supportive. I even went to you afterwards… and guess who got there first?"

He looked away as he took a small step backwards, creating more space so he didn’t act on impulse and let his body act without thought. Sylas drew in a deep breath, running his tongue along the back of his teeth. "I didn’t say you were seducing him. If anything, maybe he’s trying to seduce you. But I wasn’t going to stand around and watch when you made it very clear that you want my affections… private."

Everything she wanted to say was only a retort. ‘Your sister re-ran the course too. How was I supposed to know you were there for me?’ ‘Yeah, well I looked over and saw you inches away from Nelly’s lips then you thought you could waltz over to me.’ ‘You kissed me in front of everyone!’ All things that would only escalate matters.

Whatever happened between him and Nelly was not the same. She didn’t dangle the son of Hecate on a hook then go play with Sylas. Though she wasn’t sure why she bothered defending it. But, since she was feeling so demonstrative and he couldn’t apparently understand why she was mad at him last night, she’d make that point too. "Imagine something for me, Sylas." She wasn’t sure hypotheticals were effective for him but it was worth a try. "It wouldn’t bother you if I came along while you were..." She weighed on the right words and the right scenario as she wandered behind him. "Being your charming self, getting to know our new peers and I interrupted?" Her hands snaked down his shoulders, following down his arms then her fingertips drew inwards drifting to his sides along his ribs and up his chest. Interrupted was putting it mildly. She leant her head forward, almost touching his shoulder, eyes carrying across the room like there was an audience. "What if I claimed you in front of them?" She reiterated.

Evelyn drew back once more. Despite the small primal side that appreciated being publicly claimed, she was confident that when Sylas did any degree of conversing and an assuming person came along and attempted to lay claim to him, it would jar his purpose and he wouldn’t exactly be appreciative of it.

Then it dropped. Her flirty façade, the show and tell, the soft velvet voice. "New Year’s took me off guard Sylas. It could have been you or anyone else and I would have reacted the same.” Though that wasn’t entirely true. She probably wouldn’t have kissed anyone else back initially. And she only pushed him off because he was forbidden fruit and appeared to have just finished something with Nelly.

"And what if you did?" Sylas’s head tilted to the side as his face contorted into something incredulous and challenging. "You have no idea how deep my feelings run… Do you?" He ran his hands back through his damp hair before dragging them down his face. "I don’t care what I’m doing or who I’m talking to. There’s nothing I’d want more than for you to claim me in front of everyone… openly, without shame. I don’t give a fuck what other people think."

She focused elsewhere, preventing her teeth from clenching and sighing. Maybe she really did have no idea about how deeply his feelings coursed. But that she would ever bump up to a priority like he made it sound and that he’d enjoy some primitive display of ownership done on him… She doubted it. Obviously he wasn’t an imaginative person and Evelyn could prove it later if she was desperate enough.

But more importantly, and what she hadn’t got to address in his earlier statement. "I never said I wouldn’t be with you," she said, her tone serious and low.

"Sure, Evelyn," he conceded, his tone dropping to something that was little more than a whisper as he crossed his arms over his bare chest. "But you didn’t say you wanted to be with me either." Sylas clenched his jaw while exhaling deeply through his nose. "I won’t pressure you or force you. But until you make the decision to be with me… You’re not. But I also can’t pretend like it doesn’t bother me seeing your hands on someone else." His fingers gripped his arms a little bit tighter as a way to force himself to remain calm. "I didn’t make a scene because I knew it’d piss you off… I don’t know what else you want."

Evelyn pulled off her beanie. "Look, I’m tired, I’m upset, I screamed at the leader, and have been mentally and physically beaten by a course," she said matter of factly, barely managing to keep the frustration from etching in her tone. She peeled away her coat, setting her layers on the arm of the couch nearby and collapsed into the seat. She wasn’t after sympathy, rather, giving him a disclaimer she was defeated and in no state to play mental chess.

"I know what I want," she stated plainly. "It’s never been a matter of not wanting you, Sylas. I’m just not sure I should have you." All of which had been painfully evident in their past encounters. But he insisted on verbal admission.

"I…" he started, sucking in a deep breath as he tried to parse out his thoughts before speaking. "I can’t help you make that decision," he confessed quietly, irritation still clung to his words, but there was still a raw honesty beneath it that only came out around her. Sylas swallowed, head downcast as he paused for a second.

"While you bring out the best qualities in me, that obviously isn’t saying much." There was a dark cynicism that clouded his words as he motioned generally back and forth between them, as if their constant fighting and clashing was example enough. "I am a violent, vindictive, and jealous man. I know what I am and I’ve told you as much." He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he gritted his teeth through his own frustrations and the two warring halves of his mind. "I could never in good conscious tell you to pick me, no matter how much I want it."

Sylas’s chest tightened as his own words and thoughts turned venom inside him. The only thing more rare than honesty and vulnerability from him was a genuine smile. It all twisted and churned uncomfortably beneath his skin like the serpents of his inner thoughts and feelings were constantly at odds. He could only handle so much before the need to move and withdraw into the safety of his shell. "I…" He rolled his neck through the discomfort. "I should get dressed before…" He shrugged and shook his head before wandering across the room and disappearing down the hallway.

A single inquisitive brow arched up. But the minute his back turned, she exhaled, slumping forward, covering her face. She wished she could scream into the abyss. He could shut up now and then about his bad traits. He could try and help and be persuasive at least. That would make things slightly easier.

As the thought slotted in place, she got up abruptly and followed Sylas where he disappeared to. He could extort all he wanted from her, but he didn’t get to treat her as a fool. She didn’t sell her soul for him to act disinterested. "Sylas!" she said sharply. "You wanted me to say I want you. Now I’ve admitted as much but you’re still unsatisfied. What the hell do you want?"

Sylas had barely set foot into his bedroom, his towel half removed when he heard her follow behind and snap at him with a bite he couldn’t recall ever hearing before. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth before pivoting on his heels and turning to face her. He quickly tightened the towel around his waist once again before bracing his hands against the doorframe on either side of her. He tried to walk away, to calm down and avoid arguing like they always did, but she had to follow, she had to prod his shell until it cracked and everything just came flooding out. "I want you!" His words were sharp and raw, cutting through the space between them. "I don’t want to just fuck you, Evelyn… I want to be with you."

His breaths came ragged and heavy as he tried to make sense of the chaos she had turned his mind and emotions into since the moment he met her. "Gods know it wasn’t on purpose," his words came out shaky and desperate as he took her face in his hands with a gentleness that felt so different compared to the anger and frustration that flared behind his eyes. "You consume my thoughts from the moment I wake up until I find sleep and even then you haunt my dreams." Sylas held her gaze intently as every confession kept escaping one word after the other.

"I am… kind for you." The sentence fell heavy from his mouth like each syllable was weighed down by a truth he couldn’t take back. "I lie, manipulate… toy with people like they only exist for my amusement. I would kill without batting an eye… and then there’s you." His face leaned a fraction closer for emphasis, like she needed to do more than hear his words but understand them. "I quell my darkest urges around you because the thought of hurting you makes me sick."

He swallowed, pulling her closer until their chests pressed together as if severing the space between them would somehow make his words cut deeper. "I hate how much we fight. I hate making you unhappy. And I fucking hate having to suppress my feelings and hide—for you—while you’ll touch and be seen with other men."

Evelyn stared wide eyed, a doe frozen in fear from the moment he spun to meet her. Everything else that followed only muddled her thoughts as her heart thundered dangerously against her chest. Her breath hitched when he took her face in his hands, but her gaze didn’t move from his. What tumbled out was not some simple confession back as expected, but something that seemed to pour out like he was teetering on the edge for a long time. Like a man pushed. Every word landed with surreal weight, impact and consequence. Her mouth parted, but she couldn’t speak. Not even a meek croak. Instead, she just stood there, locked in his green eyes, pressed against him.

Sylas’s chest rose and fell as his breaths filled the narrow space between them. The silence dragged on for several seconds, tense and electrified, until his final words came out little more than a whisper. "I don’t want to be your secret. I want to be yours."

With that, he took a step back and slowly dropped his hands from her face. He didn’t say another word as he turned around and wandered deeper into his bedroom. Sylas pulled his towel from around his waist and tossed it onto the bed with little care if she saw him or not. He trudged toward his closet, skin still flushed from frustration as he stepped inside and tried to sort through his wave of emotions while looking for clothes.

She didn’t notice how tense she had been, including shallow breathing, until she was left panting for breath when he left the small proximity and resumed changing. She looked to her right, the path to the exit clear, then glanced back in his room where he was obscured by his closet.

Evelyn wrung her fingers around each other and hesitantly stepped into his room. There weren’t any appropriate words. She approached him cautiously. Before Alex’s trial in Olympus, she had joked about being a fly that could change the nature of a spider…the phrase ran through her again as a cautionary tale. Still, her fingers reached out, letting him know she was there, lightly skimming his back. She placed a soft kiss at the center of his spine. An apology and gratitude in one gesture.

Sylas grabbed the first pair of boxers available in his dresser and pulled them on. Not a second after the elastic snapped to his abdomen, he felt her gentle, hesitant touch against his back. His body froze like a wild animal caught off guard. He pressed his hands against the top of the dresser, using his grip on the wood to both ground himself, and keep him from giving into the soft caress of her fingers. When he felt her lips against the bare skin, his breath hitched. The muscles along his shoulders tensed as his head tipped forward, hanging downtrodden and in weak resolve to hold his ground. No matter how much he wanted to hold her, kiss her, or take her right where she stood… He meant what he said that morning and he had to stand behind that.

Her eyes were trained intently on him, studying for his reaction cautiously as she tried to be there for him. His head only sagged and she felt his muscles coil and tense beneath her touch. The contact was unwanted right now. She backed away, granting him space again, moving slowly and eased towards the middle of his room. Evelyn knew it was her turn to talk. To say something after the beast exposed his belly. But what could she possibly offer to soothe him.

For a moment she stood there silently, wrangling with nerves and putting her thoughts in order. "I assumed I was only a toy to you. A privileged one maybe, but a toy nonetheless," she admitted.

Another moment passed, Evelyn thinking on how to best address their private affair. Then it came out, erratic, sudden—a confession off her chest. "I didn’t want Nemesis’s judgement." She could see herself being mocked for it. The gods had better things to do than get involved in their children’s relationships, yes, typically, but if Nemesis was invested in a subject, everything went under microscopic detail and she knew gods could be petty and wrathful. If she saw something she didn’t like or that ruined her reputation… Evelyn would have rather not risked it.

"I don’t mean to be public with others and put you in the shadows. I wouldn’t ask you to endure that had I known how you…feel." The latter word fell from her lips with cautious weight.

Sylas lingered behind in his closet, needing the moment to get a grip and piece back together his shell. Being raw and vulnerable was… not him. It was like an out of body experience where he was watching himself through the eyes of another, screaming at himself to shut the fuck up but he didn’t listen. His skin crawled like he felt out of place in his own body as the war that had been waging between his mind and heart finally reached its breaking point. Rather than face it, he sought to repress it like he did most things, clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders before getting dressed.

Once clothed, he padded across the cool tile toward the door that led to his room. Sylas crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned his right shoulder against the doorframe. He didn’t speak, listening to Evelyn’s words as his gaze traced lines in the grout along the floor, or fixated on the snow falling outside his window. "I would tell you not to live your life in accordance to your mother, but that would also make me a hypocrite," he finally responded, his tone was plain, factual, missing the fire beneath the honesty he had a moment earlier.

"Well… Now you know," he added solemnly. His gaze eventually found its way back to her, heavy and serious but also honest in a way he only was around her.

I’m trying, can’t you see that? But the words never left her. Instead, she inhaled and nodded, seeing his tough exterior slowly build back up brick by brick. The window was closing to access him. Her gaze fell elsewhere. Indeed, that would make him a hypocrite. Now she knew a lot about their connection. Yet she only wanted to wrap him in her arms and whisper affirmations. But he would hate that. Or so she presumed.

Her eyes lifted slowly from the bottom of the doorframe, finding the courage to look back at him. He could hear this one time, and one time only. "I only want you." For as awful and toxic as he could be, there was one undeniable fact—Sylas consumed her.

Wishing to spare further uncertainties and back and forth for the day, Evelyn extended a hand out to him. While her hand wavered, a decision sat under the palm of her hand and she inclined her chin. He could come to her or she could go.

Sylas studied her gaze, weighing the truth and hesitancy that sat heavy behind her eyes. While he didn’t move at her words, not an inch beyond the slow rising and falling of his chest with every breath, and the steady pensive blink of his eyes, his heart betrayed him. It quickened behind his ribs, fast and erratic like a traitorous sliver of humanity beyond the cold persona he had embraced. That was the real truth of it all, what it boiled down to… The unbidden and unavoidable yearning that was intoxicating and addicting. He wanted her when he shouldn’t, the very fabric of it was destined to end in destruction… Yet… She wanted him too.

His eyes slowly trailed along the edge of her jaw, down the curve of her neck, and caressed the length of her arm until they settled on the extended hand. Evelyn held it out, unsteady but determined, a silent ultimatum hanging in the balance between them for him to accept or never be offered again. Sylas could read the subtext. He could feel the heaviness and vulnerability that laced something so simple.

His legs moved before his mind could formulate a decision. The soft padding of his bare feet against the tile was the only sound that filled the deadly silent room alongside their uneasy breaths. Sylas stopped before her, close enough that they shared space and the air around them stirred with every breath and movement. He looked down at her, holding her gaze as he raised his hand slowly, stopping when it hovered so close beneath her palm that she could feel his warmth radiating from it. "Are you certain?" he asked. His voice was deep and quiet with the severity of that single moment. "This… is all or nothing."

Another sharp inhale came from her nose as Sylas delivered a blow to her stomach. He gave her many warnings about his character and reminders and even checked with her, giving her room to withdraw from him in all aspects. She should be appreciative of that. Locked in the eyes of him, she knew the right thing to do. But Evelyn understood the stakes and he needed to stop doubting that. "Can you just come here?" She said, only gentleness in her now as she awaited their hands to close around each other. "Or do you prefer I run?" There was the slightest undertone of a taunt in her, but as she paid it more mind she became equally as intrigued.

Sylas could hear the foreign softness in her tone. It was a sound that caught him off guard. He was used to their fiery tempers lashing at each other unrestrained until anger gave way to passion, but tenderness was different. He could count on one hand, if at all, the number of times they allowed themselves to be unguarded around each other without coaxing it out of each other through heated words and jabs meant to cut past their shells. It felt fragible. He was never good with… delicate things. He had fought and argued to reach this point, but now that it was offered, a new fear sunk in deep, entangling itself around his ribs. Trust was something he had never been offered, nor someone’s heart. He didn’t know what to do with it or how to handle it with care.

His gaze fell to their hands and how they were close enough that every pulse and breath drew them closer. Sylas hesitated for a long moment as he studied the way her ivory skin curved along her fingers. He contemplated pulling away, letting her walk out the door and never come back. That was the smart decision. He had been trying to convince her of that, but she didn’t listen. Was it crueler to give her what she wanted knowing he’d likely destroy it or withhold it after yearning for her to the point of madness? He could weigh that decision until the day he died and never make a choice, and while locked in that endless torment, his body instead chose for him. His hand raised the remaining distance and pressed his palm flush against hers. His fingers then slowly curled around the side of her thumb and slid along her skin until they curled around her wrist, gentle but possessively firm.

The first thing she felt was a cruel chill ripple down her spine as Sylas finally met her hand. She expected relief. She was part relieved but it was as if her body knew it had betrayed her mind, agreeing into being his possession. And somehow that made her dance closer to danger than ever before.

The sensation didn’t pass either, cold sweeping through her entire body as they only coiled their relationship further. Evelyn’s eyes dropped to his hand embodying the exact slow teasing torture she felt wind around her internally but made no attempt to escape. Her eyes flickered up on his, darkened with want but always careful. "Are you feeling better?" She asked softly.

Sylas didn’t answer right away, filling the silence with an indiscernible, "Hmm." His thumb absently stroked the inside of her wrist in a steady and grounding rhythm as he was lost momentarily in thought. Anger, passion, and manipulation were his natural state. This was… different. He was once safe behind his shell of cold indifference, and while he fought for more, now that he had it, the realization that he had to let her in struck something inside him. He could protect her and please her, but vulnerability stuck in his throat like a dry pill.

He inhaled slowly through his nose as his gaze slowly lifted to meet hers. Sylas looked calm and stoic like he always did, the only thing betraying him was his elevated pulse that raced through the veins of his wrist where her fingers rested. He swallowed before speaking, quiet and measured, like now every word he spoke held an unseen weight he didn’t know how to carry gently. "That was a lot," he confessed, speaking to the whirlwind of emotions that often spiraled around them whenever they were together. "I’m processing." It was the best answer he could give, honest in a way that twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

A small smile twitched at her lips. "I know the feeling," she offered quietly. For once she envisioned them alike–in the same compromising position, at war with themselves to some degree but…choosing…this. Evelyn glanced down at their hands like a place of surreality.

Evelyn cleared her throat and pulled him along gently to guide him to the foot of his bed. "Sit a moment."

When he settled in place, Evelyn shifted in front of him carefully, remaining on her feet. Now that she could set eyes on him properly, without him turning away, without the protection of his height, she really looked him over, as if he bore an open wound to assess. Evelyn reached for him, hesitated—not wanting him to feel smothered, then ran her fingers through his damp hair. "Do you want some space?" Kind as he may have been to her, she didn’t possess the ability to quell Sylas when he was agitated or ill at ease, even when she wanted to, so she asked.

Surprisingly, Sylas did not fight her instruction or gentle guidance as she directed him to take a seat at the foot of the bed. He lowered himself, settling himself before her while his hand never released its hold on hers. His gaze slowly lifted to meet hers, submissive in a way he had never been before, didn't know how to be. He was always the type of man who needed to be in control, with both hands on the steering wheel. But in that quiet surrender of allowing himself to be hers as she did him, he let go… if only for a second, head lulling subconsciously into her touch, like her embrace alone was life giving and life stealing.

The question was simple. A yes or no would have sufficed, but even in this strange new openness he found himself in, he couldn’t form the word. It was as if admitting that alone was too much, whether or not it was true. His free hand curled around her waist, fingers pressing gently into her as he beckoned her forward. Sylas pulled her closer, just a step or two, until she stood in the space between his knees. His chin nearly brushed against her stomach as he tilted his head back to look up at her in silent surrender. The words fell quiet in the small space between them and shockingly unguarded. "I left the door unlocked for a reason," he finally admitted.

Her hands stilled for a moment, letting herself be guided nearer by his touch, if only because it was fair. Her gaze stayed steady on him until his admission left him. She expected him to dismiss her so he could process all the things that tumbled from his lips alone and slip his cold mask expertly back in place. But it was a rare moment, and she enjoyed being proven wrong. He continued to surprise her, even in these moments. She nodded slowly and moved her hands to cup his face, thumbs stroking his jawline, fingers curling towards the nape of his neck, her movements careful as ever, almost reverent.

While typically she would ask outright how she could help or change subjects to divert from their moment of vulnerability, she instead let silence settle between them, drinking Sylas in just as he was now, like she was committing it to memory. Raw. Unguarded. Hers. "Then I’ll stay. As long as you like," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sylas’s thumb gently stroked her abdomen over the soft fabric of her shirt. He could not deny that he desired to be with her, but not in the passionate haze that all of their intimacy lived within. He didn’t want to take her, he wanted to worship her. He wanted to undress her slowly, piece by piece, with a tender reverence, while his lips caressed every bit of ivory flesh the moment it became free. But he also understood the strain of training and how she was one of the unlucky few who had to do it twice. Sympathy might not have been one of his strong suits, but he’d be unsurprised if she was exhausted physically from training and emotionally from their hot tempers that didn’t know how to simmer until they had boiled over first.

Rather than pressing his own wants, he gently squeezed her sides as he looked up at her. "I imagine you’re tired," he commented softly. "I can leave you to rest or… hold you while you sleep. Whatever you wish." Sylas’s words were quiet, barely louder than a whisper with a gentleness he hadn’t shown since Pandora’s box. For once, there was no reason to argue or yell. There was only a quiet calm that settled in his cabin as their desires finally aligned without denial or manipulation.

A small smile twitched at her lips. Not cruel or mocking just…at the odds of having the son of Eris like this, considerate and catering to her. Going against the discord stigma of his line and what dark things he was capable of.

While she could feel the pull of exhaustion now the adrenaline had waned; she didn’t want to break the spell of this moment. "Well, if you’re truly offering," she began, shifting away from him only to unfasten her boots. "And you have nothing better to do, you can hold me." For a moment she stood there, giving him time to withdraw or reconsider perhaps. Then, when no objection came, she moved to the edge of his bed, lying down facing outward.

She waited another moment or two for Sylas to settle behind her before reaching back for his arm and hugging it to her chest as she pressed back against his body. His arm gently tightened around her waist, pulling her closer as he nuzzled into her hair, warming the back of her head with the soft cadence of his breaths. Evelyn didn’t immediately close her eyes but absorbed him curled around her body to fit. There was a small part of her—proud, victorious, spoiled to have him physically wrapped around her. And another part that screamed this was all on borrowed time. But for now, she enjoyed it, settling into his embrace before sleep eventually took her.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... daniel & nelly ............... collabs ....|.... @xNocturnax}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#c7b29b ....|..... outfit .....|..... #54998e ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

The warmth of the shower had barely faded from his skin before Kacper turned his attention toward the kitchen, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms as he surveyed the space with quiet intent. The ribs were already working on the grill outside, their slow scent drifting in each time the porch door shifted on its hinges, but that alone felt insufficient. He moved through the small kitchen with deliberate efficiency, pulling ingredients from the fridge and placing them in neat rows along the counter before beginning. Romaine was chopped into clean, uniform strips, croutons were measured rather than poured, and parmesan was shaved into thin curls that he arranged with unnecessary precision. Caesar dressing followed in a careful drizzle, pepperoncini sliced and placed in a small bowl off to the side like an afterthought that had still been meticulously considered.

The potato salad came together quicker, boiled cubes folded into a simple mixture, stirred until the texture felt right beneath the spoon, but even then he paused to smooth the surface flat before transferring it into a serving bowl. Everything was placed in order along the counter; salad to the left, potato salad beside it, cutlery aligned parallel to the edge, plates stacked with mathematical symmetry. He stepped back, head tilting slightly as he adjusted the placement of the pepperoncini dish by an inch. Behind him, Onyx watched from atop the couch with lazy approval, while Opal padded across the floor, pausing to investigate each new scent with delicate curiosity.

He moved next to the corner where he had set out bowls earlier, two small ceramic ones for the cats and a larger stainless one he’d added almost absentmindedly for Rocco. The water dish was filled last, set down so its surface remained perfectly still. Opal circled his ankles once before settling near her bowl, tail flicking in mild impatience, while Onyx stretched and leapt down to join her with a soundless grace. The soft rhythm of their movement grounded the quiet hum of the cabin, turning preparation into something almost domestic.

With everything inside arranged, Kacper wiped his hands on a cloth and headed toward the porch, already reaching for the bottle of BBQ sauce to finish the ribs. The door swung open—and instead of the expected empty threshold and winter air, he found Sloane standing there, basket in hand, framed by the cold.

He blinked once, surprise flickering across his features before smoothing into something warmer, easier. “Hey,” he said, voice softer when he realized what she was doing. His gaze flicked briefly to the basket before returning to her face, brows knitting just slightly at the way she lingered there. “You beat Kat here.” The corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile as he stepped aside, the warmth of the cabin spilling outward like an invitation. “Why are you standing in the cold?”

Steam from the grill curled behind her, carrying the promise of food and warmth into the sharp air between them, while somewhere inside Opal meowed curiously at the new presence beyond the door.

Well, if Sloane was attempting to make a stealthy getaway, she took too long. Somewhere in the middle of her internal debate and her own physical struggle with lifting the basket, the door opened and she was met with Kacper. She gasped quietly and her eyes went wide from his sudden appearance. It was his porch, she should have expected it. Yet, she was left standing there like a stunned idiot, cheeks nearly as red as her sweater as she chewed on the inside of her cheek. Her gaze trailed from his surprisingly warm expression, to the bottle of barbecue sauce in his hand, and then to the grill nearby on the deck that she had completely missed. "Of course," she muttered under her breath as her attention fell to the basket clutched tightly in her cold pale hands. "You have food." She sighed softly, tapping her thumbs against the wooden handle.

"I uh…" She looked back up, gaze flitting back and forth between his eyes as she tried to think up a suitable response and fell short. Sloane shifted the basket to one hand with a quiet grunt so the other was free to nervously brush wind-blown hair behind her ear. "I’m… not good at lying," she confessed barely above a whisper, her expression deflated as her shoulders sagged slightly. Rather than skirt around it—because she could see it plain as day across his face, even if he didn’t say it—she was honest and admitted it outright. "I was leaving."

Sloane couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Accepting that she was caught and couldn’t very well leave now, she stepped in through the door as Kacper stood there expectantly still holding it open. She set the basket down on the ground momentarily then motioned for Rocco to follow her in and sit on the doormat. The puppy heeded her instruction with a small whine that said he’d much rather jump on the unfamiliar person or aggressively sniff the white kitten he clocked on the other side of the room. "I know. But I have to get the snow off your paws first," she spoke to him softly with a gentleness reserved only for animals as she crouched down in front of him. She slipped her bag off of her back and pulled out the towel she had packed. She took her time doing her best to remove what she could so he didn’t trail wet pawprints halfway around Kacper’s cabin.

"Go on." She motioned that Rocco was free to go and he didn’t waste a single moment. The excited pup ran over to the small ball of white fur, stopping just shy of toppling it so he could sniff it aggressively before playfully dipping his front half and wagging his tail enthusiastically. Meanwhile Sloane took her time removing her snow-caked boots one at a time and set them down beside the entrance. She scooped back up her bag in one hand and the basket in the other, then took about two steps further into his cabin and stopped. Deep down she knew he’d likely want her to make herself comfortable, but comfort was also the farthest thing from her mind. She was just trying to get past her mortifying embarrassment and second guessing her decision to enter in the first place.

Kacper’s eyebrows climbed almost imperceptibly when Sloane admitted she had been leaving. The surprise wasn’t theatrical or exaggerated, it was the quiet kind that lingered behind his eyes as if he were turning the words over in his head, trying to see where they fit. For a moment he didn’t say anything at all. He simply watched as she crouched to dry the snow from Rocco’s paws, the small ritual unfolding with a tenderness that felt oddly intimate in the warm quiet of the cabin. His gaze softened slightly, thoughtful, while somewhere behind him Opal leaned back a fraction at the sudden arrival of the large, enthusiastic dog, her tail flicking in short, uncertain arcs before curiosity won out and she leaned forward to sniff him delicately once he’d scampered over.

Rocco’s playful bow startled a low, delighted purr out of the white cat, loud enough that Kacper heard it clearly from across the room. Onyx, not to be outdone, slipped down from his perch near the hearth and padded over with regal interest, tail held high like a banner. Kacper finally stirred from his silent observation, stepping forward with an easy movement and gently lifting the basket from Sloane’s hands before she could protest. “You know,” he said, tone careful but casual, as though offering her an escape route he fully expected her to take. “If you don’t want to… it’s okay. I won’t be offended or anything. It’s been a long day.”

"I…" Sloane tried to argue and keep ahold of the basket, but she was tired, he was stronger, and even in her stubbornness, she appreciated the quiet chivalry. "Thank you," she whispered as a grateful—albeit still very embarrassed—smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She lingered in the middle of the cabin for a second or two longer before conceding with a weary sigh as she started unbuttoning her coat. The dark wool slipped down her arms revealing her fuzzy burgundy sweater that was neatly tucked into a matching floral skirt. She gathered the jacket in her hands and hung it on a hook beside the door, along with her scarf.

Kacper had just reached the counter with the basket when the quiet sound of buttons slipping free caught his attention. It wasn’t loud, barely more than the soft shift of fabric, but in the calm warmth of the cabin it carried easily. His hands paused around the handle as he glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment he forgot entirely about the basket he was holding. Sloane had shrugged off her coat, the dark wool sliding down her arms before she hung it neatly beside the door, and the firelight seemed to catch the color of her sweater in a way that made it richer somehow. The burgundy knit was soft and textured, the shade deep against her skin, and the small white ruffle at the collar gave it a delicate edge that felt almost out of place in a place like camp, like something from another life entirely.

His gaze drifted lower before he could stop it. The floral skirt she wore carried those same warm tones, deep reds, muted rusts, hints of autumn petals scattered across dark fabric, and it fit close at the waist before ending far shorter than he expected. The sheer tights clung to the shape of her legs, catching the firelight in faint shadows that traced the line down to her feet. Something in his chest lurched unexpectedly, his pulse knocking harder against his ribs like it had just been startled awake. It was ridiculous, he told himself immediately, dragging his gaze back toward the counter as if the wooden surface had suddenly become very interesting.

He cleared his throat under his breath and turned away entirely, setting the basket down with deliberate care. The small movement grounded him again, giving his restless hands something to do while he forced his thoughts back into order, surprise flickering across his face at the neatly packed contents. For a brief second his expression tightened with something like concern. “I’m sorry,” he added, glancing back toward her with a small, almost sheepish frown. “I didn’t realize you planned to bring food too. I… was trying to be nice.” One shoulder lifted in a quick, self-conscious shrug, the kind that tried to brush off effort before anyone could examine it too closely.

Her bare, stocking wrapped feet softly thumped across the wooden floor as she slowly approached the opposite side of the kitchen counter. Sloane’s eyes rose from where they had been staring at the knotted wicker of the basket to meet his gaze. His apology hit first, but it was his frown that settled in her stomach like rotten food. "No, don’t." Her arm autonomously stretched across the kitchen island until the tips of her fingers gently rested on top of Kacper’s hand. "It was spur of the moment. I was going to eat before coming… And then I thought about how you both hadn’t eaten…" Her voice trailed off, cheeks reddening as her gaze fell to where her touch still lingered. She cleared her throat while slowly withdrawing her hand.

"It smells really good," she offered the compliment quietly like a fragile olive branch. "I can just… take it back to my cabin after—" Her words fell short as she watched him open the basket, ignoring her offer like lunch was intended to be a potluck all along rather than an unintentional competition of kindness.

Despite his words and hers, he had already begun unpacking the basket.

It wasn’t deliberate at first, more instinct than intention. His hands moved carefully, methodically, lifting the sandwiches out one by one and placing them onto a plate he retrieved from the cupboard without hesitation. The cabinet doors opened easily beneath his touch, as if he’d lived there longer than a single afternoon. Each sandwich was arranged with quiet precision, edges aligned neatly so they sat in a tidy row. The cookies followed, transferred to a smaller matching plate and placed just slightly to the left of the sandwiches in what his mind considered a logical layout.

The sodas were next. He opened the refrigerator and slid them inside along the middle shelf, spacing them evenly so the labels faced outward in neat symmetry. Chips were set to the direct right of the sandwiches, angled so the bag didn’t crinkle awkwardly against the plate. It was a rhythm he barely noticed himself performing—an old habit of control and order that soothed something restless beneath the surface. By the time he stepped back, the counter looked less like a casual meal and more like a carefully arranged spread.

Only then did he glance back toward Sloane again, a faint crease still lingering between his brows. The fire crackled softly in the hearth behind him, throwing warm light across the wooden beams and polished countertops. Rocco’s tail thumped enthusiastically somewhere near the cats, while Opal chirped curiously and Onyx circled the newcomer with dignified suspicion. Kacper rubbed the back of his neck once, the small motion betraying a flicker of uncertainty that rarely surfaced in him.

“You’re allowed to stay,” he added quietly after a moment, voice softer now but still lightly edged with humor. “But you’re also allowed to change your mind.”

Sloane swallowed, weighing his words along with the unfamiliar furrow in his brow and softness in his tone that felt… different in the privacy of his cabin, like there was a small part of him that wasn’t putting on a show for the sake of others, or himself. He almost seemed sad that she nearly left, which sat uneasily in her chest, making it difficult for her to remain silent. For whatever reason, she didn’t want him thinking it was his fault that she wanted to leave, even if that meant admitting a truth she didn’t want to speak into existence. "It’s… complicated," she admitted, barely above a whisper, like the gravity of it was too heavy to speak any louder.

She parted her lips to continue but was interrupted by a small prick in her leg. Sloane winced softly as her gaze fell to a little ball of black fur by her feet. The kitten was propped up on his back legs with his paws reaching up her calf, claws curled into her tights creating small tears. While someone else might have been upset that their tights were ruined, she only giggled as she looked down at the bright blue eyes staring back up at her. "You’re a little menace, aren’t you?" she mused. The cat mewed in response before she leaned over to detangle its claws from the sheer fabric and picked him up, as he made it very clear that was what he wanted.

Her left arm cradled the cat against her chest while her right hand teased the small creature, dipping in and out from tickling its belly, booping its nose, and letting the little killer latch onto her, gnawing and kicking playfully. By the time Sloane turned back around to face Kacper, her pale hand was already covered in the small puffy cuts from cat claws and small pin pricks from his teeth, but she hardly seemed bothered by it, continuing to play with him regardless. "I wasn’t joking when I said I attract chaos," she continued, unable to help the small laugh that slipped free at the irony of the little ball of chaos in her arms.

Kacper exhaled slowly when he saw exactly who had claimed Sloane’s attention. His eyes flicked down to the small black culprit dangling triumphantly from her tights, and he tipped his head back with a quiet, long-suffering sigh that carried the unmistakable tone of someone who had dealt with this exact behavior many times before. “Onyx,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head while the kitten wriggled happily in Sloane’s arms, utterly unapologetic for the tiny ladder of claw marks he’d left behind. His gaze lingered on the shredded tights for a second before returning to the cat with mild reproach. “You’re not getting any treats tonight, you menace.” The kitten, of course, looked entirely pleased with himself, batting enthusiastically at Sloane’s fingers as though he had just accomplished something impressive rather than mildly destructive.

"Woah, woah," Sloane argued with a soft and airy tone. "He can’t help how sharp his claws are. If anyone should not get treats it’s me, for ignoring him so he had no choice," she mused with a warm smile, booping the kitten’s tiny nose intermittently while she spoke.

Across the room, Rocco had apparently decided Opal was the most fascinating creature he had ever encountered. The puppy bounded around her in small excited bursts while the white cat darted and twisted through his orbit with surprising agility, tail flicking like a banner of chaotic delight. Kacper watched the scene for a moment, amusement tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth before he turned his attention back to Sloane. “He’s a little dick,” he said plainly, though the fondness in his voice softened the insult considerably. “Don’t let him scratch you up too much. He doesn’t know when to stop.”

Sloane gasped dramatically, keeping her gaze locked on Onyx as his little teeth and claws latched onto her bare hand with a playfully little growl. "Noooo…" She sang the contradiction, sparing him a sidelong glance from beneath loose brunette hair that fell from her barrette. "I’m fine," she reassured him quietly. "I’m tougher than I look."

He set the basket aside properly, nudging it into alignment with the edge of the counter before picking the BBQ sauce back up in his hand. For a second it looked like he might head back outside to the grill, but instead he paused and leaned his hip lightly against the counter, bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. The fire cast a slow amber glow across the room, warming the wood walls and softening the quiet between them. His attention settled on her again, not intrusive, not demanding, just present as he listened to the words she had offered earlier, the quiet admission that things were “complicated.”

Kacper didn’t push her to explain. He simply watched her play with the kitten for a moment, the soft laugh she let out lingering in the warm air of the cabin. Something thoughtful flickered behind his eyes before he spoke again, tone easy but gentler than his usual teasing bravado.

“Chaos, huh?” he said, glancing briefly at the wrestling puppy and cats before looking back at her. “If that’s true, I think you’re in the right place.”

Sloane’s smile faded, taking a deep breath before her eyes slowly rose to meet Kacper’s gaze. "I don’t really have any friends… It’s lonely…" The admission was quiet, followed by a small shake of her head as she tried to figure out how to share something she had never really told anyone before. "But I isolate myself for a reason." When Onyx began to settle in her arms, she substituted the playful goading for tender pets along his head and ears. "It’s like everything I touch… breaks?" Her head tilted to the side and brows knit together pensively as she considered her following words. "People get hurt, cheat… leave…" Her last word came out slower, heavier, like admitting that was the crux without stating as much. She closed her eyes, trying to push past Sylas’s words as they teased along the edges of her mind.

She slowly opened her eyes to look across the kitchen counter toward him with a sad smile of resolute acceptance. "I was leaving because I like you and your sister… and I wanted to spare you that." And keep them both off of Sylas’s radar. Sloane might have been bad at lying and loathed doing it, but that was one truth she’d never be able to admit.

Kacper listened without interrupting, though the slow tightening of his jaw betrayed that every word was landing somewhere deeper than he liked to admit. The easy posture he had leaned into against the counter straightened little by little as she spoke, the teasing humor that usually lived in his eyes fading into something more thoughtful, more grounded. When she finished, the quiet hung between them like the last note of a song, delicate and fragile in the warm cabin air. He shook his head slowly, almost to himself at first, as if he were gently disagreeing with a thought that had wandered too far.

“Well…” he said at last, drawing the word out as he pushed himself off the counter. He set the bottle of barbecue sauce aside with deliberate care before crossing the kitchen, each step unhurried but certain. The faint frown tugging at his mouth softened the usual sharpness of his expression, and when he stopped in front of her, the height difference forced her gaze upward. For a moment he simply looked at her, as though trying to understand how someone could carry a belief like that about themselves and still smile the way she did.

“Do I look broken to you?” The question wasn’t accusatory, just quietly earnest. Something in his chest tightened at the thought of her locking herself away from the world like that, declaring herself a kind of walking disaster meant to be endured from a distance. He reached out then, fingers curling gently around her wrist, though he paused long enough to lean forward and give Onyx a pointed little boop on the nose. The kitten blinked in surprise before settling back into Sloane’s arms with mild indignation.

Sloane sighed, shaking her head in disagreement. As she said, it was complicated, and just as difficult to explain without sharing the full picture. Perhaps—in another life—if she spoke the truth about Sylas, he’d listen, but some strange pang in her gut told her it’d likely have the opposite of her desired effect. She foolishly wanted Kacper to just… listen and accept her words, but in the short time she had known him she quickly learned he wasn’t the type to do anything he didn’t want to. Warning be damned.

"No, but—" she went to argue but stopped when she noticed him move. Even though she saw it coming, Sloane still flinched as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. It wasn’t sharp or violent, nor was it startling like it had been back in the arena, more like he simply caught her offguard. The memory haunted the edges of her mind like a vignette, marbled floors, raised voices, and the lingering ache of cold fingers curled deeply into her flesh. She cleared her throat attempting to erase the glimpse of her past and mask the shift in her demeanor. Her eyes were fixed where Kacper’s finger brushed the cuff of her sweater, unable to meet his gaze as the embarrassed flush settled along her pale cheeks. "Sorry," she whispered.

Kacper felt it the moment it happened. The movement was small, so small most people might have missed it entirely, but it ran through her arm like a ripple beneath still water. Her body tightened for a fraction of a second beneath his grip, a subtle recoil that had nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with memory. The shift stopped him immediately. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t tighten his hold either; instead he simply froze there, fingers resting lightly around her wrist as though any sudden motion might shatter something fragile between them.

His thumb moved almost without thought, brushing once over the delicate beat of her pulse beneath her skin. The gesture was slow and careful, nothing like the teasing confidence he had shown earlier in the day. There was patience in the touch now, an unspoken question that didn’t demand an answer. His eyes lifted to her face, quietly studying the way her gaze dropped toward their hands, the faint color rising along her cheeks, the effort she made to smooth over whatever had flickered across her expression. Kacper didn’t rush her past it. He simply waited, steady and present, as if the moment itself deserved room to breathe.

When she murmured her apology, his brow creased slightly, not in irritation, but in quiet confusion. His thumb swept once more across her wrist, gentler this time, the touch more grounding than restraining. For a moment he searched her face, trying to read the story written in the hesitation she hadn’t explained. Then he gave the smallest shake of his head, the corner of his mouth softening as though the word sorry had no place in this moment at all.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual swagger, warm and steady in the low-lit cabin. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Kacper’s comment was so simple that it caught Sloane off guard. She blinked in quiet disbelief, letting her gaze flick up to him briefly before falling back to her wrist then to the kitten curled in her arm, finding it to be a safer place to look. You didn’t do anything wrong. His words replayed in her mind as she tried to come to terms with it. Had anyone told her that before? Sloane could recall countless times she messed up the perfect balance of the lives around her, especially Sylas’s, from something like her recklessness with Pandora’s box, to the miniscule, imperceivable sleights that triggered her brother daily. Apologizing had become second nature for her, whether or not she knew what she did, it was easier to accept the blame and apologize. Sometimes it meant a warning, or lighter bruises… Sometimes it actually worked.

"Hmm," Sloane hummed pensively behind tight lips and a furrowed expression. It was like trying to rewrite something that had been hardwired into her for years. She could hear his words, parse out their validity, but something was lost in translation as they settled. "Ok," was all she could think to say, soft and uncertain, resting uneasily like uneven floorboards. It didn’t lay just right, warping and shifting under strain, but it could hold… for now, at least.

Then Kacper tugged her hand upward, firm but gentle, until her palm rested against the center of his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat met her touch immediately, strong and certain beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He held her there for a second, letting the quiet rhythm speak for itself before his gaze flicked down to meet hers again. “Feel that?” he murmured. A small smirk tugged at his mouth then, softer than the ones he had worn earlier in the day, less armor, more honesty. “Not hurt.”

He tilted his head slightly toward the far wall, where the photographs he had carefully hung earlier lined the wood panels. In the warm firelight the images caught bits of reflection, childhood snapshots, crooked smiles, holiday pajamas, hiking trails frozen in time. “And look over there.” His voice softened just a little. “Not leaving, either.”

The blush that lingered on Sloane’s cheeks and across her nose deepened as her hand was pressed against his chest. Her gaze flicked up, studying his face with widened eyes and creased brows before falling and settling on her slender fingers that were splayed along the fabric of his shirt. She listened to his words, his arguments to the contrary, but with every reassurance he tried to give, her head shook in silent contradiction. "It’s been less than a day," she rebutted.

And still, in one singular day of training Sylas had already clocked them, swooped in, and started laying his trap. That thought alone made her stomach turn and her face twist into something regretful and somber. "... It’s already started," she whispered under her breath, a thought that accidentally escaped. Her eyes went wide at the realization, tempted to nervously scoop it back up and hide it, or ramble over it like it didn’t happen. Both would only draw more attention to it, so she remained quiet with her gaze locked on the fuzzy wisps that curled off her sweater’s sleeve.

Kacper noticed the shift in her expression before he fully processed the words she’d spoken. The quiet whisper slipped out like something unintended, something that had escaped its cage before she could catch it again, and it lingered in the air between them with a weight he couldn’t ignore. His brows drew together slowly, the easy confidence that usually lived in his posture tightening into something more focused. For a moment he watched her stare down at the sleeve of her sweater as though the soft fibers might offer an answer he couldn’t see. Then he leaned down slightly, trying to catch her gaze where she’d hidden it, his hand lifting almost instinctively to gently hook beneath her chin.

His fingers barely touched her skin as he tilted her face upward, careful but insistent enough to bring her eyes back to his. The gesture held for only a heartbeat before the realization flickered across his expression, awareness settling in like a sudden flash of self-consciousness. He released her immediately, hand retreating as if he’d stepped a little too far over an invisible line neither of them had acknowledged yet. Still, he didn’t move away.

Sloane’s body tensed, breath hitching as every fiber of her being wanted to flinch or pull away like a subconscious defense that didn’t know how to handle people taking hold of her. She fought the urge through heavy breaths and a tensing along her jaw. Her eyes closed before her head was tilted too high to avoid his, like there was safety in the dark. But in that same darkness was a different cabin and a hand, cold and soft from a life of privilege closed tightly around her throat. Before the memory could take hold, her eyes snapped open, reluctantly looking up at Kacper, hoping… praying that he couldn’t see the truth behind her solemn gaze.

“What is?” he asked quietly. The softness in his voice was different from the teasing warmth he usually carried, stripped of bravado in a way that felt almost intimate in the quiet of the cabin. His head tilted slightly, studying her face as though the truth might still be written somewhere there.

“Sloane,” he said, gentler now, the words careful but certain. “You can trust me.”

Trust. That was a word Sloane wasn’t sure she knew the meaning of anymore. Who was the last person she trusted? Liam? Lochlan? And before them? Still… She had trusted Kacper on the course, trusted him to bolster her or catch her. Whether or not she wanted to admit it to herself, she could feel the tendrils of trust slowly weaving and knotting when she was around Kacper… and Kat. It was the natural draw and safety of friendship, but it also tugged against her better judgement when she knew she should leave. The problem had never been her trust, but the price that came with it.

There was a quiet, undeniable part of her that wanted to say it, to alleviate the pressure that weighed so heavily on her that it was difficult to breathe. Sloane didn’t realize how much Liam’s presence eased her. Not because he was her own self-appointed guard dog, but because there was a solidarity in having someone who knew the truth, someone she didn’t have to hide and tip toe around. It was a boon she took for granted and then it was gone. She could tell Kacper, regain that small sliver of peace where she could breathe and just… be. But she knew that look, that subconscious, unbidden protectiveness that took hold the second someone slipped past his walls. It was dangerous, not for herself but for him, and Kat.

"I know…" The words slipped out on their own, a quiet confession she didn’t intend on giving. "But I…" Sloane struggled to find the words, fixing her attention at a single point on his chest between her fingers, unable to meet his gaze. "It’s safer for you if you don’t know." She nodded her head slowly, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as him. "I need to be better at protecting people who make the poor decision to be in my life." Her tone was more playful than it had any right to be given the seriousness of the conversation, but even behind her teasing words there was a truth that could not be ignored. She had to do better, even if that meant keeping people at an arm’s length. And with that thought she took a small step back, as if a few more inches made a difference… it didn’t.

Kacper stared at her for a long moment after she stepped back, the distance between them so slight and yet somehow suddenly immense. His hand, which had just been warm against her skin, fell uselessly to his side. Then he shook his head, slowly at first, as though he were carefully rejecting each word she’d given him one by one. A breath left him through his nose, not quite a laugh and not quite frustration, and when he spoke his voice was quiet but threaded with something sharper beneath it.

“Do you really think I care about safety like that?” He tried to smile for her after that, but it came out crooked, softer at the edges than his usual smirks and tinged with something tired. There was no mockery in it, no playful arrogance to hide behind, just a small, uneven pull of his mouth that looked more honest than he probably meant it to. He shifted his weight, one hand lifting in a vague, helpless gesture before falling again.

“I’m a demigod,” he said, the words plain and matter-of-fact, though there was bitterness woven through them like a splinter. “Sent to this super secret camp to be turned into the perfect little weapon for my father.”

The word father landed heavy, practically dripping venom. His jaw tightened visibly after saying it, the muscle there jumping once as though even the title itself tasted foul in his mouth. The fire in the hearth cracked softly behind him, amber light catching along the hard lines of his face while his gaze drifted past her shoulder, not avoiding her so much as searching for something steadier than the expression she wore.

“I’ll never be safe in any way that really matters,” he continued, quieter now but no less certain. “And neither will Kat. And neither will you.” He shook his head again, this time with more obvious irritation, though it wasn’t directed at her so much as the idea itself. The whole notion of safety, clean, permanent, promised, seemed to offend him on a fundamental level because it had never been something he, or his sister, were allowed. “The only reason Kat and I have survived this long is because we had each other.”

The words were simple, but there was history packed tightly inside them, old and bruised and deeply ingrained. It was there in the way his shoulders squared, in the faint darkening of his expression, in the deep disgruntlement that settled over him like a storm cloud. He looked at her again then, properly this time, and something about the sight of her standing there, small, braced, already half-gone in her own mind, seemed to catch him somewhere tender.

“Look,” he said, voice gentler now, though it still held that stubborn edge she was already learning he would never fully lose. “I don’t know who convinced you it’s better for you to be on your own…”

He trailed off for a second, lips pressing together before he forced the rest out.

“…but they’re wrong.”

There was no hesitation in that. No room for argument. The conviction in him was so steady it felt almost immovable, like stone warmed by fire. He shifted, just slightly, and his hand twitched at his side as though he wanted to reach for her again and was actively making himself stay where he was. “I’m not going to just… stop being here for you,” he said, and this time the words came slower, more careful, as if he were choosing each one with unusual precision. “Especially not when you look so…”

His voice caught. It was subtle, but unmistakable. Kacper looked away then, his eyes snagging on the rolling flames in the hearth as if the fire might be easier to face than whatever had risen in him. The light painted his profile in warm gold and shadow, and for one brief beat he said nothing at all. When he finally finished, the word came out quieter than the rest, stripped bare of teasing or bravado.

“Afraid.” He swallowed once, still not looking at her. “It’s like you’re afraid I’m actually going to listen to you,” he said after a moment, voice low and roughened by something he hadn’t quite managed to smooth over. “Even though you want me to.”

"Because I am." The admission came out sharp and startled like it took her as much by surprise as it did him. Her chest rose heavily beneath her burgundy sweater as if a piece of her carefully curated poise slipped, showing a glimpse of the frightened girl that lived beneath the strong and stubborn woman she outwardly presented. "I’m afraid of what being close to me does to the people I’ve cared about," Sloane confessed between erratic breaths. "And I’m even more afraid of being alone the rest of my life."

She could feel the burning, familiar sting of tears threatening to escape, but she wouldn’t let them, sucking in a sharp breath and blinking slowly to push past it. "I am so lonely that it hurts." Sloane closed her eyes as her free hand rested against her chest just beneath where the cat slumbered in her arm. "It’s this… gnawing pit in my chest that won’t go away and keeps me up at night."

Her fingers trembled where they pressed into her abdomen as she tried to swallow the lump that was forming in her throat. "I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have friends, to have people who care about me." She slowly opened her eyes, looking up at him with a devastating acceptance. "Just the glimpse of that with you and your sister is terrifying. I want it so desperately but I can’t have it. It won’t last… It never does."

The memories of Liam she had spent the past three months burying and repressing came flooding back into her mind as if it had all happened the day before. She remembered his bullheadedness, how he protected her without question, and wasn’t scared of Sylas or what he could do. She remembered how safe she felt around him and how the time spent with him slowly pulled her out of the shell she had built out of self preservation and survival. But what she remembered most vividly was how that loyalty resulted in him being sent to Tartarus. Sloane could still see the shadow of the man he was when he returned, downtrodden and hollow after being torn apart and put back together again in a single day that felt like an eternity. And then her trial… the vision of Sylas compelling Liam to slit his throat right in front of her eyes.

Sloane had thought she was past it. She had spent months, isolated in self pity trying to move past it, repressing the heartbreak and pain until she was able to try living again. She felt free of that burden for the first time when her and Duke commiserated together during the New Year’s party, but Duke… Her blood ran cold and chest tightened as her brother’s words played like a haunting omen through her mind. She reluctantly lifted Onyx from her arms, stirring the sleeping kitten as she gently set him down on the barstool beside her. The second he was out of her grasp her hands shook like even her body knew she couldn’t be trusted with something innocent and fragile.

"I had someone I trusted once, someone who knew… everything, the good and the bad, who wouldn’t let anything I said keep him away." The words started pouring from her like a desperate confession she had been bottling up in hopes it would be a cautionary tale so that Kacper might understand and listen. "He promised to be there for me and stay by my side. And he broke that promise, because…" She shook her head slowly as her voice trailed off, unable to finish her thought without mentioning her brother. "He left in the middle of the night without a word, just a note saying he was sorry and asking me to look after Rocco." A traitorous tear slipped down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away with the cuff of her sweater curled over the heel of her palm.

At the sound of his name, Rocco’s head perked up from where he was rolling on his back, playing gently with the small white kitten. He had been with Sloane long enough to know the signs of when she was losing her calm and her emotions were slowly taking over. The soft thud of his paws against the hardwood echoed with the crackle of the hearth as he crossed the cabin and sat down beside her. Then he leaned against her legs with a soft, reassuring whine like he knew what she was talking about even if she never once said his name. Her hand absently fell to gently stroke the pup’s head, her attention slowly followed, finding it easier to look down into his sad eyes rather than meet Kacper’s gaze.

Sloane sighed softly. "I still didn’t learn," she continued, her voice was somber beneath strained breaths as she attempted to ground herself through the steady rhythmic brushes of her fingers against Rocco’s fur. "I thought I might have actually been making friends… just yesterday. Four of them. And all four of them are gone today." It was only then that she was able to pry her eyes from Rocco and force herself to meet Kacper’s gaze. Her words fell heavy like they were weighed down by lead and the dead prospect of a life out of isolation. "That’s not a coincidence, Kacper," she whispered, her voice cracking beneath the tightness that coiled in her throat.

If she knew Kacper wouldn’t act rash then maybe… maybe she would have told him, but she didn’t trust the protective side of him to feign ignorance. Sloane didn’t need another protector. The truth only angered the people around her. It gave them the illusion of power and the upper hand against Sylas. He expected her to seek refuge in others and he was always ready for it. Friendships were dangerous because they gave her stability, stability gave her strength, and strength meant she could challenge him. She was starting to see the pieces moving just out of sight, but even with that knowledge it wasn’t enough to stop him or protect the people he sought to sink his claws into.

Kacper did not interrupt her. Not once. He stood there while her words spilled out in halting pieces and then in floods, each confession landing heavier than the last until the warm cabin felt too small to hold the weight of them. The easy humor had gone out of him completely. What remained was something quieter, steadier—his shoulders drawn taut, his jaw tight enough to ache, his eyes fixed on her with a kind of helpless concentration that bordered on pain. Every shaky breath she took seemed to catch somewhere beneath his ribs, and by the time the first tear slipped free, something inside him had twisted so sharply it made his chest feel raw.

He hated, suddenly and viscerally, the faceless shape of every person and every circumstance that had taught her to speak about herself like this. Hated the idea of her lying awake at night with that gnawing emptiness curling through her, convinced that wanting closeness was a kind of curse. Hated the thought of someone leaving her with a note and a dog and a wound so deep it had hollowed out the place where trust should have lived. And more than anything, he hated the way she said it all with that awful, resigned certainty, like she had already built the grave for every good thing before it even had the chance to bloom. When she finally looked at him again and whispered that it wasn’t a coincidence, he felt his hands curl slightly at his sides, not in anger at her, but in the kind of fierce frustration that came from wanting to pull someone out of a storm they’d mistaken for the sky.

For a long moment, he simply looked at her. His voice, when it came, was low and rough around the edges, all of its usual swagger stripped away until it was nothing but him. “Sloane…” he said, and her name sounded different in his mouth now, softer, fuller, weighted by everything he’d just learned. He dragged a hand over his jaw, exhaling through his nose as if he was trying to keep himself from saying ten things at once. His eyes flicked briefly to Rocco pressed against her leg, then to the trembling of her hands, then back to her face.

“I’m not going to insult you by pretending that doesn’t sound… awful,” he admitted, because gentleness from him had always come easiest when it was honest. “And I’m not going to stand here and tell you that losing people doesn’t hurt, or that what happened to you wasn’t real, or that it didn’t leave scars.”

He shook his head once, slowly, almost grimly. “But you’re blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault.” His gaze sharpened on that, steady and unflinching.

“People cheating is not because of you. People leaving in the middle of the night is not because of you. Other people making cowardly, selfish, or cruel choices does not magically become your fault because you cared about them enough to stay.” The words came more firmly now, not harsh, but anchored, like he was driving stakes into the ground beneath her feet one by one so the world would stop tilting. There was heat in him, yes, but it was the kind turned outward on her behalf rather than inward against her.

“And four people disappearing in a day?” he continued, jaw tightening. “That is weird. That is suspicious. That is absolutely something I would like to be angry about.” For the briefest second, a flash of familiar Kacper surfaced, sharp, irreverent, too willing to bare his teeth at the world. But it softened again as quickly as it came, his expression gentling the moment he saw how fragile she looked standing there.

“But it still does not make you the cause, even if someone else did it to hurt you, somehow, it is not your fault.” He took another step closer, close enough now that the firelight caught warm gold in his dark hair and softened the edges of the stubbornness in his face. His hands lifted slightly at his sides, then hesitated, giving her the space to refuse before he bridged it. His voice lowered further, meant only for her and the quiet little world of the cabin around them.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I believe that you believe it. I believe you’ve had enough bad luck, bad timing, bad people, and bad pain stacked on top of each other that your brain has started connecting dots that feel safer than hope.”

His mouth twisted faintly, not quite a smile.

“Because if it’s a curse, at least it makes sense.” There it was, that terrible understanding, spoken plainly enough to make it hurt. He knew what it was to choose the explanation that wounded you because at least it gave the suffering structure. He knew what it was to live by ugly logic because the alternative was chaos.

“But just because something feels true doesn’t mean it is,” he murmured. “Sometimes it just means it’s the story you had to tell yourself to survive it.”

His eyes dropped briefly to where Onyx had been set aside, to the tiny tears in her tights, to Rocco leaning into her as if the dog himself was trying to keep her stitched together. When Kacper looked back up, something in his face had softened into an ache so naked it would have embarrassed him if he’d had the energy to hide it.

“And for the record,” he said quietly, “You do have people who care about you. Right now. In this room.” He tipped his head toward Rocco with the smallest flicker of warmth. “That one is obvious, even if he is a dog.”

Then his gaze held hers.

“And so am I.” The silence after that was not empty. It pulsed with the crackle of the hearth, the soft rustle of fur on hardwood, the faint sound of winter pressing at the windows. Kacper swallowed once, and when he spoke again, his voice was steady in that maddeningly immovable way that meant he had already decided and the world would have to catch up.

It was easier for Sloane’s gaze to remain fixed on Rocco, the one tender constant in her life over the past couple of months. Trusting an animal was simple, effortless, but accepting Kacper’s words was a bigger hurdle… Like climbing a mountain after running an exhausting obstacle course twice. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t easy either.

"You barely know me…" Her words slipped out quietly, without giving herself a moment to weigh them and decide if they were worth speaking. Sloane’s hand ran down her face before settling over her mouth like physical restraint was the only way to keep her silent after the flood gates had opened. "I’m sorry," she whispered into her palm, unable to meet his gaze, instead fixing her attention on a small wrinkle in Kacper’s shirt at the center of his chest. While her words might have rang true, she should have kept them locked away, shouldn’t have interrupted him or argued. He had no reason or right to even consider caring about her… But she also had no right to tell him what he could or couldn’t feel.

It didn’t make sense and she didn’t understand it, but in the same way she tried to remove herself from his and his sister’s lives, he seemed stubbornly determined to remain. It was all very frustrating and confusing, leaving her stuck between what she should do and what she wanted to do.

“You keep waiting for me to treat this like a warning label,” he said. “Like if you tell me enough terrible things, I’ll suddenly get smart and run.”

A small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth, tired but genuine. “What if I told you, for arguments sake, that I’m not smart.”

He let that sit for a beat, and his smile grew just a little. “And I’m still here. I’m still going to be here tomorrow, too.” The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t sworn like some grand heroic vow. Somehow that made them hit harder. He said them like facts. Like gravity. Like the kind of promise he would rather die than break.

“You don’t have to trust all of that tonight,” he added more gently. “Hell, you don’t even have to believe me yet. But you do not get to decide I’m leaving before I’ve had the chance to prove I won’t.”

That, more than anything, sounded like him, stubborn, impossible, protective in a way that would likely get him in trouble and that he clearly did not care to correct. Then, slowly, so slowly there was plenty of room for her to pull away, he reached for her.

One arm came around her shoulders, the other around her waist, careful of the dog pressed against her and the space she still seemed to keep around herself like armor. There was no force in it, no suddenness, only warmth and solidity and the quiet offer of being held if she wanted it. When he drew her in against him, his chin rested lightly near the crown of her head, and the steady beat of his heart that he’d pressed her hand to earlier was impossible to miss now. Strong. Certain. Unmoved.

“You are not poison,” he murmured into the soft quiet above her, each word deliberate. “You are not a curse. And you are not going to be alone anymore, not if I can help it.” His hand moved once between her shoulders in a slow, grounding pass.

Sloane listened and weighed his comments carefully, like each word fell and wedged itself just right into the gaps of her own arguments and thoughts. There were several times she wanted to argue, but didn’t and let him speak for no other reason than he did the same for her. But even as all these reassurances came pouring from him, she couldn’t help the rising panic that churned and knotted in her chest. She shouldn’t have said anything. She should have kept those thoughts to herself and let Kacper be a little frowny or sad because she had considered leaving. That was easier than this… burden that burst free from herself. There was no reversing time or gathering back up the pieces and shoving it behind her cracked shell. It wasn’t fair for her to unload it all on him. It… she wasn’t his burden.

Her gaze had remained steadfast on Rocco while the back of her fingers gently stroked along his nose and up over his head in a slow and steady rhythm to keep her grounded, to keep the last shred of control she had left. But no matter how much Sloane repeated in her head to not look up, to remain strong, her resolve faltered when she saw movement out of the corner of her eyes. She saw it coming slowly, like he was approaching a wounded and cornered animal. She didn’t fill the space with him, but she didn’t pull away either, remaining frozen and rigid as Kacper gently pulled her against his chest. It wasn’t like when they were close on the course, all impulse and acting without thought to save her from falling. It was intentional, painfully so.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to let herself be weak just a moment longer while someone was willing to not just hold her, but bolster her. It was like after all of this time, Sloane was given permission to grieve… To grieve the person she used to be, the happiness she once had, and the disappearance of a person who had come to be an anchor in her life, torn away without a word or explanation. She was clinging to the first olive branch of kindness offered to her that wasn’t jaded and cut through pretense. It was a comfort that was so painstakingly foreign to her after all that time, that she wanted to be selfish and melt into it while she had it… Before Sylas or her mother or fate ruined some shred of happiness that found its way back to her again. Being strong all the time was exhausting, but it wasn’t fair to Kacper.

Sloane let herself have it, if only for a moment or two. She couldn’t bring herself to lift her arms or wrap them around him, but her head slowly lulled forward until her forehead rested against his collarbone. The gentle rise and fall of his chest helped her measure her breaths until they were in sync with his and some of her trembling subsided to something softer and more manageable. She told herself just a second longer, countless times until a few seconds became a minute.

Her hands finally moved. They were slow like they were laced with lead as she raised them and gently took a hold of Kacper’s sides. Sloane drew in a final deep breath before reluctantly holding him in place as she took a step back, putting some space between them. Her chest felt cold absent the warmth of his embrace, but she did her best to ignore it as she released her hold on him. She busied herself by wiping her bloodshot eyes and giving Rocco a gentle tap that said he was free to go back to playing, which he accepted happily and immediately ran back over toward the white kitten that waited impatiently for him.

"Thorry." Sloane’s thoughts were so conflicting that her words fought for space, coming out like incoherent garble. Her laugh was weak and frayed like the last sliver of her sanity slipped away. Just the tips of her fingers poked out from beneath the fuzzy cuff of her sweater as she buried her face in hands. "Thank you. And I’m sorry." She enunciated each word slowly and sharply, forcing her tongue to heed her thoughts.

After clearing her throat, her hands fell and she forced her red eyes to look up and meet his gaze. "That wasn’t fair of me to unload on you like that… And I’m sorry for that." There was a sharp prick against Sloane’s arm that caught her attention before she finished. Onyx, who had obviously not enjoyed being set aside, had grown impatient waiting and demanded her attention with a tap of his paw… and claw. Her shoulders sagged with a soft sigh and faint smile. She reached out and scooped up the kitten, who promptly burrowed back into the small crook between her arm and her chest.

Her fingers gently stroked the cat’s head or lightly squeezed his paws as she continued. "And thank you… for being… I don’t know, understanding, I guess." It was easy to apologize, but those words struggled to come out like she didn’t quite know what or how to say it. Kacper didn’t owe her anything, yet he listened and attempted to reassure her for no other reason than there was some kindness in him underneath his sardonic arrogance that he wore like armor. Sloane looked up once again, holding his gaze for a long quiet moment before a faint, bashful smile curled at one side of her mouth. "Can we… not tell Kat about this, please?"

Kacper would have stood there for as long as she needed. Minutes, hours, until the fire burned down to embers and the ribs turned to charcoal outside on the grill, he did not care. The rest of the world had narrowed to the fragile, trembling weight of her against him and the quiet horror of realizing just how long she had been carrying all of that alone. It made something protective and furious coil low in his chest, not at her, never at her, but at every absence that had left her this starved for comfort, this apologetic for simply needing it. The thought of Katryna ever looking like this, eyes red-rimmed, voice frayed, shaking like the act of being held was a luxury she had to earn, made him feel physically ill, a cold sickness settled in his stomach so abruptly it almost stole his breath.

And her brother.

That thought lodged like a splinter and refused to budge. Kacper didn’t know the full story, but he knew enough to know something about it was rotten. He could not understand, not in any universe that made sense to him, how someone who shared her blood could leave her to weather this kind of loneliness and fear. Katryna had noticed something was off, he remembered that now with a grim sort of clarity, and for once he found himself deeply irritated by how often his sister’s instincts were right. He decided, then and there, with the quiet certainty of a man setting a grudge into stone, that Sloane’s brother must be the worst sort of bastard, and he would rather chew glass than ever say that out loud to Katryna, because she would never let him live it down.

When Sloane finally stepped back, Kacper let her. He didn’t chase the space she put between them, even though the loss of her warmth left the room feeling strangely emptier than it had a minute ago. He watched her wipe at her eyes, watched her fuss with Rocco and then Onyx as if the animals gave her somewhere safe to put her hands, and something in his chest softened painfully at the sight. Her apology made his mouth pull into a faint frown, because of course she would apologize for it. Of course she would treat her own grief like an inconvenience she’d accidentally spilled onto his floor.

At her plea, though—Can we not tell Kat?—the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Scout’s honor,” he said immediately, lifting a hand to drag two fingers over his chest in an exaggerated little cross before extending his pinky toward her with all the solemnity of a sacred oath. “Stays between us. No problem.”

There was something almost boyish in the gesture, something intentionally light to break the heaviness without dismissing it. The grin that followed was small, but warm enough to take the sting out of the moment. He kept his pinky held out for a second longer, brows raised in silent insistence, as though he fully expected her to seal it properly.

“But,” he added, his tone gentling again, “You don’t have to apologize.”

That part he meant with a steadier sort of conviction. He wanted, selfishly, stubbornly, perhaps unwisely, for her to understand that this did not make her a burden in his eyes. If anything, it made the invisible wall around her easier to see, and therefore easier to decide he was going to keep chipping away at it whether she liked it or not. Gods knew she needed someone she could trust. Gods knew he was already far too invested in being exactly that.

Sloane smiled, slow and genuine at the way he didn’t hesitate to keep her spiral a secret, but put in the effort to make a show of his trust and a promise he seemed intent on keeping. She couldn’t fight the quiet laugh that escaped when he offered her his pinky. Something about the innocent gesture made the tension in her shoulders slack and a breath she had been holding slipped free in a sigh. Her eyes slowly raised to meet his gaze, taking in his last comment as she inhaled softly. "I… can try," she replied, giving him the best and most honest answer she could give. It felt ingrained in her to apologize for every inconvenience or weakness. It was likely she’d slip up more than she would heed his words, but she could try if nothing else.

She gave Onyx one more scratch under his chin before pulling her hand away. There was a moment of hesitation where something twisted in her chest like a sign that the pinky promise was something more than just that, although she had no idea what. Sloane considered brushing it off, but whether or not that was the conclusion her mind came to, her hand still raised. Her dainty pinky slowly extended then hooked around Kacper’s gently. "Thank you," she whispered quietly into the silence of the cabin. Her words landed with a somber severity, like a small fragile part of herself had already started trusting him despite herself.

Kacper leaned back against the counter then, just enough to look casual again, letting some of the weight bleed out of his posture on purpose. Not because he was dismissing what had happened, but because he wanted her to feel it in the room itself, that nothing had broken, nothing had soured, nothing had become too fragile to touch. The cabin was still warm. The fire still crackled. Rocco was still joyfully harassing Opal. Onyx was once again perfectly content now that he had reclaimed his chosen perch against Sloane.

“Seriously,” he said, a little softer, “I’m just going to keep being annoyingly understanding about it. Consider yourself warned.” That earned him the faintest glimmer of mischief, enough to make his smile widen into something easier, brighter, the sort of expression that made him look younger and far less sharp around the edges. He pushed off the counter, snagging the bottle of barbecue sauce again like they had merely paused in the middle of an ordinary evening rather than walked through the center of her grief together.

“Now,” he said, rolling the bottle lightly between his palms, “Want to go sauce these ribs with me?” He tipped his head toward the porch door, a playful gleam slipping back into his eyes, not false, not forced, just deliberate in its gentleness.

“I can give you the full tour after.” He spread one hand in a mock-grand gesture toward the cabin around them. “Not to brag or anything, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got the best cabin here.”

The air in the cabin shifted as the heaviness of what had transpired was packed neatly away and replaced with Kacper’s casual ease like it had never happened in the first place. While the change might have been jarring for someone else, Sloane was thankful for the diversion and the comfort in simpler conversation. She gently adjusted her hold on Onyx who was curled into a little ball that looked more like a feature of her sweater rather than a small sleeping bundle of fur. "Ok," she replied plainly with a smile that felt like it was slowly trying to find its way back to her natural soft light, when she was able to pretend the world was less cruel. "Although I don’t know how much help I’ll be. I’ve never cooked a day in my life."

Kacper rolled his eyes so hard it was almost theatrical, the gesture exaggerated enough to coax some of the lingering sadness out of the room and toss it aside like it had no business staying any longer. The corner of his mouth tipped upward as he looked at her over his shoulder, taking in the sight of Onyx curled so contentedly against the burgundy of her sweater that the cat looked less like a pet and more like some absurdly expensive accessory she’d accidentally acquired. Something warm and annoyingly soft stirred in his chest at the image, at the way she was starting to look less brittle now, less like she might crack if the room breathed too sharply. He hated how quickly he had already grown to care about that, but he supposed there were worse problems to have.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice threaded with dry amusement as he started toward the door, “You and Kat will get along just fine.”

He pushed the door open and immediately a blade of winter air came slicing into the cabin, sharp and cold enough to raise goosebumps along his arms where the heat of the fire had softened him. Still, he held it there for her without hesitation, one hand braced against the frame while the porch beyond glimmered under a thin dusting of snow. The smell of the ribs drifted in with the cold, rich and smoky, grounding the moment in something wonderfully mundane after everything that had passed between them. Kacper glanced back at her then, and the smirk he gave her was pure trouble—crooked, cocky, and easier than it had any right to be after the weight she’d just placed in his hands.

“Rest assured,” he said, all lazy confidence and playful arrogance, “I’m the best cook you’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting, so nothing you do could possibly mess up my amazingly wonderful food.”

Onyx somehow managed to curl in closer as the cold breeze swept across the room and collided with them. Sloane wrapped her arms more snuggly around herself and the kitten as she approached the door. She slowed, coming to a stop when she stood before him. "I've had a private chef my whole life," she confessed sheepishly with a smile that scrunched her nose.

Kacper’s eyebrows lifted, then waggled with immediate, shameless delight at that little confession, as if she had just handed him exactly the kind of ammunition he liked best. The sheepish scrunch of her nose nearly undid him in a way he absolutely refused to examine too closely, so he hid it behind a grin that turned boyish and insufferably pleased. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, letting the cold curl around him while the warmth of the cabin still clung to his skin, and looked down at her like this was suddenly the most important culinary rivalry of his life. “Still not as good as me,” he said with ridiculous confidence, the words delivered low and certain like a sacred truth. “Trust me.”

The grin that followed was bright and infuriatingly self satisfied, the kind that made it impossible to tell where the joke ended and the genuine pride began. But beneath the swagger, beneath the easy charm he wore like a second skin, there was still that quiet thread of something more, something steady and deliberate in the way he waited for her to step through first, in the way he made the invitation feel effortless instead of careful. He was giving her an out, yes, but more than that, he was giving her something normal. A porch. Ribs on a grill. Cold air. A ridiculous ego about cooking. The kind of ordinary moment that felt almost sacred after the confession she had bled into his kitchen. And as he stood there holding the door open for her, Kacper found himself absurdly, fiercely glad she had stayed.

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