Qia

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Frostmoon Lake
Mentions: Sya (@PrinceAlexus)}

---

The snow around Frostmoon Lake lay thick and untouched. Orion walked silently, his dark cloak sweeping behind him. Wind tore across the frozen shore but left his clothes undisturbed. Snow fell gently now—no longer sharp, just soft and dull as dust. The lake stretched under the gray sky, still but not frozen, its surface black and glassy. It reminded him of a lake from his childhood. He’d named it Brightwater, though it had no true name. That southern lake had rested between sunlit mountains under Aurelia’s endless summers. To him, it had seemed enchanted, even holy. He’d believed the sun god turned its waters to gold each dawn.

Here at Frostmoon, there was no sun. No warmth. Just cold stillness, beautiful but hollow. A grave for what was lost.

But even graves demanded respect, and Orion had work to do.

He hadn’t stopped at the inn after leaving the post office. His body, though hardened by years of survival, hummed with a quiet ache. It wasn’t thirst for blood or hunger for food. It was deeper—an ancient, clawing need for life itself. Over time, he’d learned to feed that hunger without causing pain. Mostly.

He followed the edge of the woods where twisted bushes clawed through the snow. These plants were survivors, stubbornly gripping the frozen earth with roots that dove deep, hunting for hidden pockets of warmth. Orion knelt by a cluster of shrubs swallowed by white, sweeping his gloved hand to clear the snow. Then, bracing himself, he pressed his palm to the icy ground beneath.

The energy transfer began sluggishly. A faint thread of shadow seeped from his fingers into the earth, winding through the roots. The plants shuddered but held back, their leaves trembling as if afraid. Slowly, their strength trickled into him—uneven, reluctant, like water dripping through a cracked cup. His skin warmed a little, and the knots in his shoulders loosened. But a chill lingered at the base of his spine, sharp and unshakable, like a splinter of ice.

When he withdrew his hand, the shrubs lay brittle and gray, drained but peaceful. No pain. No struggle. Yet Orion’s hunger still gnawed at him, quieter now but unsatisfied. A prickle of unease crawled up his back. Not enough. He shoved the thought aside. Dwelling on weakness was dangerous.

Orion trudged farther along the trees, boots sinking into the snow as his eyes swept the ground. He scanned for movement, for color—anything that defied the endless white. Near a cluster of jagged rocks, he spotted it: winter grass clinging to a shallow slope, its frost-coated blades brittle and yellowed. The sight was almost pathetic, but survival often was. He knelt, brushing the snow aside with stiff fingers. This time, he didn’t hesitate. His palm met the frozen soil, bracing for the familiar pull.

The energy, this time, came in rough waves, sharp and grating. The plants resisted—roots thrashing, blades jerking back—as if the ground itself rejected him. The connection strained, threatening to snap. Heat flashed in his fingers, hot and sudden, then faded to empty numbness. Orion pulled his hand away, shaking it as if flicking off an insect sting. The grass lay wilted, partly drained but not dead, its remaining blades clenched tight. It had broken free. Defiance. Something so ordinary, yet stubborn enough to survive.

He breathed out slowly. His breath fogged the air. His face stayed blank—years of practice made sure of that—but tension crept back into his shoulders, knotting his neck.

Not enough. Not right. This mirrored the previous day’s failure: his shadows flickering out mid-fight while others defended themselves. He’d blamed the cold then. Blamed exhaustion. But twice now, his power had wavered.

Patterns warned of danger. Patterns meant traps.

Ignoring the unease, Orion stood, brushed snow off his knees, and walked to the lake. It sprawled ahead, silent and vast. No wind. No hint of sunlight to mark the time. The world felt frozen, as if holding its breath. He swept snow from a flat rock and sat, eyes fixed on the water.

The cold seeped into him now, but it no longer stung. Not like the early days, when his veins still burned with mortal warmth. Back then, the cold had been an enemy—a thief stealing sensation from his fingers, his lips, his heart. Now, it was a companion. Predictable. Honest. His hands rested loosely—one on his knee, the other gripping the boulder’s edge. His fingers no longer ached, but they felt distant, as if part of someone else’s body.

He stared at the lake’s black-glass surface, watching snow vanish into the dark. It shared only its shape with Brightwater, he realized then. That lake had pulsed with life—sunlight glinting, dragonflies darting, boys laughing as they jumped from rocks.

Frostmoon didn’t laugh. It waited. Silent. Uncaring. Did it see him as he truly was—not alive, not dead, just….existing?

Orion exhaled slowly, and the breath turned silver before fading. He did not often allow himself to dwell like this. But here, in the hush of snow and silence, the memories crept in with the cold. Aurelia. His son. Evangeline. The boy’s laughter, his stubbornness. He missed it all.

He had not written the child’s name in the letter. He couldn’t.

It was honestly enough that he’d written at all.

His hand drifted to his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the folded paper tucked safely within—the one he had received, not sent. Sya’s letter. As odd as it was, it had steadied him more than he cared to admit. She had seen through him in ways few ever tried to. Her words had been a bit unhinged, but they had also been heartfelt. Part of him wished he could respond in kind. Part of him feared she’d see too much if he did.

The wind shifted directions.

Then, a sound.

Soft. Delicate. The crunch of snow under something small.

Orion turned.

A white fox stepped from the trees, its fur matted with frost. Thin ribs pressed against its coat. It moved slowly, like it wasn’t sure it belonged here anymore. It paused at the edge of the clearing, ears twitching. Hungry. Wary. But not scared.

It took a step forward. One paw, then another, until it stood near the lake’s edge, just a few feet from Orion. Its eyes locked onto his, bright and unflinching, and in them, Orion saw no fear.

Only a question:

Which of us is the predator?

And the answer waited quietly beneath his skin.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Eye of the Beholder
Interactions: Open
Mentions: Sya (@PrinceAlexus), Ivor (@SkeankySnack)}

---

Thalia glared at the flour bag as if it had called her a name to her face. In turn, the lumpy sack slumped on the counter like a lazy drunk, its rough surface coated in pale powder. She crossed her arms and cocked her head sideways, half hoping the stupid thing might sprout a label saying How Not to Ruin Bread: A Guide for Former Rich Girls Who Can’t. But no such luck.

The tavern’s main room felt heavy with quiet, broken only by the wind whining through boarded-up windows and the occasional groan of the wooden floors. A handful of people still huddled near the fireplace, wrapped in scarves and suspicion, their eyes darting toward the front door that had been locked the entire night. The bar itself stood abandoned, though someone had left out a sad spread of stale bread, wrinkled apples, and mystery meat under a greasy cloth.

Thalia didn’t mind picking through leftovers—hunger was a blunt teacher. What she did mind was being expected to turn flour into actual food. It was simply too big an ask for a girl like her. The noble houses of Aurelia had many rules, some of which were spoken plainly and some passed through generations in the silent way of tradition. Nowhere in those teachings had anyone ever instructed her on what, precisely, to do with a bag of flour at ten in the morning after a town lockdown.

Lark had plopped himself by the hearth the moment they’d entered, his tail giving a single thump against the floorboards as if to say, Feed me or else. Thalia’s father trailed behind her, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled face as he eyed the sad breakfast spread. He looked like a man who’d long ago stopped expecting anything better than whatever he could snatch with his hands. Thalia had noticed this about him lately—how he adjusted without fuss. Or maybe “adjusted” wasn’t quite right. He wasn’t ignorant of their crumbling status, their shrinking world. But he didn’t rage against it. Instead, he treated their downfall like bad weather—something to wait out. Something you couldn’t shout into changing.

He hadn’t argued when their servants had quit. Hadn’t flinched as their grand home’s doors were sealed one by one. Hadn’t blinked when friends had vanished like smoke.

It wasn’t surrender he exhibited, though. It was patience. A trait Thalia had never quite mastered.

Her jaw tightened as he ripped a hunk of bread like it was no different from the delicate pastries they’d once eaten on silver trays. Maybe it wasn’t, to him. Maybe he’d always known their glittering life would crumble. Maybe that’s why it stung—his quiet acceptance felt like a mirror, reflecting all the ways she hadn’t let go.

“You’ll scorch a hole through that flour bag with those eyes,” her father grumbled then, shuffling past her to poke at a plate of shriveled carrots.

“I wasn’t glaring,” Thalia replied, arms crossed. “I was… considering my wide range of options, as usual.”

He snorted, tossing a bread crust to Lark. The dog caught it midair, tail wagging. “Last time you weren’t doing something you were clearly doing, we had to air out the kitchen for days.”

“That was a new recipe.”

“It was toast,” he said, chewing, “You were making toast.”

Thalia snatched the driest bread roll she could find, ignoring his chuckle. Dawnhaven’s idea of a meal—stale bread and lumpy vegetables—made her miss Aurelia’s citrus-glazed cakes. But missing things was dangerous. It meant admitting they were gone.

Thalia had just slumped into a chair and bitten into her rock-hard roll when the tavern door crashed open. A blast of icy wind rushed in, followed by a booming voice that practically rattled the cups on the tables.

“Good morning everyone!”

Thalia blinked. Slowly.

She turned just in time to see what could only be described as a walking avalanche of fur and muscle stomping cheerfully inside. For a brief moment, her alcohol-blurred memory scrambled to place him—had he been at the feast? Or was this just what the gods conjured when they wanted to test one’s bravery?

Then came the realization: blight-born.

A proper one.

She’d seen them before, from a distance and heard references in hushed tones, sometimes described with words that sounded less like facts and more like folklore. But this was the first time she’d really taken one in. Not glimpsed through foggy eyes and mind. But really looked.

And stars above, he was moon-blighting massive.

Not just in height—though he easily towered over everyone in the room—but in presence. He wore his size like a declaration, all red hair and glowing eyes and scarred confidence, the kind of man who could lift a cart off someone or hurl it at someone and not break a sweat either way. She watched as he laughed easily, joked with the innkeeper- a snake! How inebriated had she been last night?- in a language she didn’t recognize, then handed off what looked like a bottle with a wink before turning toward a red-haired woman sitting deeper in the room.

Thalia released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and quickly turned her eyes back to her bread. Not that she was scared, exactly. Just… reminded that Dawnhaven didn’t play by the same rules as her home had. Here, a blight-born didn’t arrive, if they did, with armed escort or fanfare—they walked in like regular people. Talked like regular people. Smiled like—

She tore a bite from the bread a little more forcefully than necessary.

“You like the bread that much?” her father muttered as he took the seat facing her, voice dry as ever.

“Hardly,” Thalia replied, reaching for her mug. “Just readjusting my definition of ‘morning person.’”

Nocturnal Memoirs: An Urban-Fantasy Mafia Epic

@Herald Had Dom approach him for some free food. :)

Realms of Sun & Shadow

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_{Location: Seluna Temple
Interactions/Mentions: Daphne (@PrinceAlexus), Katherine (@SpicyMeatball)}

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Elara stepped through the temple door. It shut behind her with a soft click that felt too loud in the empty space. She paused, the sound lingering like a held breath. Around her, the air was cool and still, quieter than the forest outside but heavier too, as if the walls were holding their breath with her. Faint traces of incense clung to the stones, sweet and dusty. High above, the ceiling curved like the inside of some giant creature’s ribs, shadows nesting between pillars. The place felt half-asleep, she decided—a thing not quite ready to wake.

She’d imagined temples as grand, but not like this. Not so still. Temples dotted the Lunaris kingdom like stars, places people went to find answers. Elara had visited plenty, always for others: her grieving father, her sick mother, Amaya’s endless rituals. Never her own. Now, her boots whispered against the floor, and she wondered if Seluna even knew her name. At the far end of the hall, a silver crescent moon glowed faintly on a raised platform. It looked lonely, she thought, like it missed the sky.

She stood quietly near the entrance, drawing the too-large cloak more tightly around her. The scent of Aliseth clung to it still, calming her in the same way he had during their conversation.

Her eyes drifted toward the woman who’d opened the door for her. Robed in black and silver, adorned with Seluna’s sigil, the priestess stood with the calm authority of someone accustomed to thresholds—between night and dawn, death and mercy, goddess and mortal.

Elara inclined her head in greeting, her voice soft but steady.

“Good morning. Forgive the intrusion—I wasn’t sure if anyone would answer.”

She paused, her gaze flickering toward the still corners of the hall, and then back to the priestess.

“My name is Elara,” she said at last. “And… I think I’m meant to be here. Though I was not entirely sure why this morning and…I’m still not sure if I know, genuinely.” Perhaps a bit too genuine on her part.

She hesitated, then lifted the small wicker basket she’d nearly forgotten she was holding. The handle, smoothed from use, creaked softly beneath her fingers.

“Well—” her voice warmed with the faintest flicker of self-awareness, “except to help. In the smallest way that I can.”

Inside the basket were simple offerings: folded linens, salves for wounds, a bundle of dried herbs tied with twine, and a few spare candles she’d gathered from the servant stores. Nothing grand. Nothing that would merit recognition. But it mattered to her. The act of bringing it, unasked, felt like a stitch in something frayed—perhaps even something fraying within herself.

And if she lingered here a little longer, among strangers and stillness, it meant postponing the inevitable walk to the royal cabin. Just for a while. Just until she remembered how to wear the shape of a handmaiden again.

It was only then that she noticed it. The scent was initially hidden behind the incense. And then she saw them. Bodies. Laid out with care beneath simple cloth coverings. The breath in her throat snagged for just a second. Not from fear. Just a memory of the last she’d seen of her mother. She’d looked like that, too. As if her body had remembered how to be present but forgotten how to belong in the world anymore.

Elara turned her gaze away almost as soon as it landed. She wouldn’t dwell. She couldn’t. This wasn’t her grief to carry—but it brushed against her anyway, soft as a thread unwinding in her chest.

A rustle of movement drew her attention to something, or someone, behind the priestess. Another woman, taller, broad-shouldered, with violet eyes, a soldier’s poise, and a casual air that felt strangely at odds with the sacred hush around them. Elara’s gaze lingered for a moment, curious, but didn’t linger long. She didn’t know her. Probably one of the royal guards, judging by her uniform, or a knight-in-training under one of the nobles. They rarely crossed paths with handmaidens, even in a place this small.

The guard leaned toward the priestess, murmuring something that made the older woman nod. Familiar. Close. Elara’s stomach twisted. Not jealousy, exactly. Just a hollow feeling, like hunger. When had anyone ever looked at her like that? When had she ever been that sure of where she stood? The guard strode past, boots crunching snow outside, and Elara swallowed the ache.

Temples were for truths, she supposed. And here was hers: Duty wasn’t enough. Not anymore. She wanted… something. A path to follow. Maybe even a person to trust. The thought scared her. But as she stood there, basket in hand, Elara let herself imagine it—just for a breath—before turning back to the priestess.

Nocturnal Memoirs: An Urban-Fantasy Mafia Epic

I think I said no cus it's more interesting to just have it both ways when it makes sense (i.e. Mafia vs Mafia, Badges vs Badges, and Mafia vs Badges). Plus a bit more realistic.

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

Scotti moved.

So did Selene.

She was on him in seconds, cutting through the market’s tangled arteries. Her boots pounded the metal grates, each step sharp but steady as she dodged carts overflowing with junk parts and shoppers haggling over prices. A cloud of greasy smoke from a fried-scrap stall blurred her vision, but she lunged right, squeezing between two towers of dented engine cores. She didn’t yell his name—wasting breath was for amateurs. Ahead, glimpses of his faded hoodie flickered like a signal: there, then gone, boots skidding around a corner.

He leaped over a vendor’s table. Selene veered left, ducking under sagging cables that snagged her jacket. Her shoulder clipped a shelf of flickering holoscreens, sending one crashing to the floor. A voice shouted insults behind her. She ignored it.

The kid slammed into a dented door at the corridor’s end. Selene lunged, fingers grazing the frame—but metal shrieked as it sealed shut. No hesitation. She rammed her body against the door, once, twice, until the hinges snapped with a groan. Stale heat hit her face as she stumbled into a dim hallway. Steam hissed from fractured pipes above, cloaking the air in fog. The reek of rust and overheated wiring clawed at her throat.

A shadow flitted ahead, rounding a corner. Selene sprinted, boots slipping on damp metal. The hallway narrowed, walls closing in like a trap. Flickering orange lights revealed tangled pipes, some dripping with condensation. A crooked sign dangled by one bolt, its faded letters barely legible: Restricted. Maintenance Zone. Her pulse thudded in her ears, louder than the distant hum of generators.

Selene took one step forward.

Then she stopped.

The ducts stretched ahead, dark and narrow, like the gaping mouth of a creature forgotten by time. Selene hesitated at the entrance, her gaze tracing the crooked edges of the corridor beyond the bent warning sign. These weren’t the clean, regulated tunnels of the upper city—those were safe, mapped, and controlled. No, these were Dominion’s skeleton, ancient veins left to rot after newer systems replaced them. Rust coated the walls, and the air smelled faintly of burnt metal, a scent that made her throat itch.

The old vents were abandoned for good reason.

They twisted in every direction, a chaotic snarl of passages that burrowed under storage bays, brushed against sealed-off zones, and vanished into pitch-black depths. Stories claimed they linked to the first tunnels ever dug into the planet’s crust—tunnels that supposedly shifted when no one was looking. Selene had heard whispers of scavengers who’d entered these ducts and returned babbling about echoes that didn’t match their footsteps. Her jaw tightened. She’d never believed the rumours… until now.

Going deeper was dangerous.

The lower levels trapped heat like a furnace, and the air turned heavy, making every breath feel like swallowing ash. People who ventured down here either vanished or crawled back broken, their eyes hollow as they muttered about shapes in the shadows—things the Council pretended didn’t exist. Selene’s boot scuffed the dust-covered floor, stirring up a cloud. Not a soul, she thought. No one’s been here in years. But the hair on her arms prickled anyway.

She didn’t move forward.

The black case under her arm felt heavier suddenly, though she knew it weighed barely anything. Krell hadn’t told her what was inside. She’d dealt with his kind before, though. Smugglers. Hackers. People who traded in tech the Council banned or ignored. What he’d given her was likely off-grid. Illegally modded. Old Dominion systems spoke in dying languages, and this case might contain something that understood them.

A map, maybe.

A translator.

A way through.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t about to let it slip into someone else’s hands—not when someone had already tried to put a tail on her before she even touched it.

Selene exhaled through her nose. Then she crouched, pressing her palm to the floor just past the sign.

Warm. Dust-thick. Stable enough—for now.

She rose.

And stepped into the dark.

---

Mentions: Scotti (@The Savant)

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

I'll probably get one more post out today hopefully before that gm post :)

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Fractured Reflections
Final Part

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_{Location: Elara's Home---> Seluna Temple
Collab Between: (@Dark Light & @Qia)}

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“If I could step beyond all expectation, all duty, and chase only what calls to me…?” Elara would not lie. Nor would she answer with something merely palatable. So instead, she turned slightly, studying the longest, straightest path leading toward the temple—the one Aliseth had stepped just beside, never quite on.

Her boot descended, crushing its crisp edge into slush.

“There was never truly a choice for me. Only the illusion of it.”

A laugh escaped her, self-aware and resigned. “You see it too. However many forks you draw, my feet know their road.”

The temple loomed, its spires piercing the sky like accusing fingers. She met Aliseth’s gaze, her face a mask of ice save for the faint thaw in her eyes.

“But if I had the choice?”

A pause.
Something flickered in her eyes, something nearly spoken.

The door had been ajar. Just enough for her to see the light spilling out, golden and warm, flickering against the stone walls of her childhood home. Just enough for her to hear the low murmur of voices within—the steady cadence of her father’s, the softer tones of the healers, and beneath it all, the rasp of shallow, weakening breaths.

She had lingered. She had waited. Just a moment longer. Because to step forward was to surrender to the inevitable—to let the clock’s hands snap shut. So she’d frozen, a silver-haired fox caught in a snare, until silence fell. Not a sigh, not a gasp. An absence, voracious and final, devouring the room’s warmth.

Elara blinked, the present settling over her like freshly fallen snow.

Her breath left her in a slow, measured exhale. Then, deliberately, she stepped past the lines Aliseth had drawn.

“Some paths claim us before we choose them,” she said. “They simply… are.” She turned, studying him as if his face held a cipher. “Do you believe your roads still fork, Aliseth?”

"Fork? Mi'lady." He questioned rhetorically as he connected his sword back to his belt.
The question was a pause, a grab for time, while he considered her choice and those laid out before himself. A distraction while he hid his disappointment.

"I don't believe in black and white." He said firmly as he looked up to the black sky above and held out a cold hand to catch the falling white snow.
"I don't believe in left and right."
With more of a casual movement to his step he went and stood in the circle he made for Elara and studied the paths.
"But despite fate and destiny convening against me." He looked up and caught her eyes, adding a weight to his words.
"I do believe, I know, it's always my choice where I go next."

He made no further signs of movement towards the temple.

He meant her to hear his words. A truth he’d wrestled down, and made peace with.

She admired it. Envied it, even.

But belief was a different sort of magic. One Elara hadn’t quite mastered.

She stepped to the edge of the circle, her gaze lowering to the fractured lines beneath her feet. Then her eyes lifted again to meet his.

“That certainty of yours…” Elara said softly. “It’s rare. I don’t think I’ve ever known it.” A beat. “But I find I don’t want to dismiss it, either.”

The admission hung between them for a moment before she continued. “Perhaps… I need to believe the road ahead isn’t a mirror of the past.” The words were no vow, but a seedling breaking soil—tender, green, trembling toward light. She glanced toward the temple—still towering, still immense—but this time, she didn’t flinch.

“Come with me?” Elara’s words were barely louder than the snow falling around them. “If a new path exists… perhaps it demands two sets of footprints.”

The words slipped out before she could temper them. A part of her—small but growing—meant them.

But almost as quickly, the handmaiden blinked, as if awakening to her own forwardness.

Heat bloomed in her cheeks once again. Her fingers grazed the coat draped over her shoulders—his coat, its wool still whispering with the cedar-and-iron scent of him. The fabric’s memory of warmth seared her skin, a silent rebuke: You don’t own his tomorrows.

Elara glanced down, the flush deepening. “Unless…” she added, more gently now, “you’re expected elsewhere. Or this—” she pinched the coat’s edge, a half-hearted tug, “was meant to be returned before now.”

She tilted her head, a rueful smile curving her lips.

“Regardless… thank you. For the warmth. And the reminder that the road doesn’t always end where we think it does.”

Aliseth was pleasantly surprised as Elara stepped toward him. Her sweet, soft scent permeated his senses. Her proximity broke all the etiquette drilled into him during his training, but he didn't care—not now, not ever again.

He did not retreat nor shy away from her, he couldn't even if he wanted to.
It was like invisible strings were pulling him her way.
As if gravity had changed direction and she had become the centre of his world.
It was as if he needed the exhale of her breath just to breathe.
Or the warmth of her body and her body alone could bring him to life.
It was as if the answers to the universe lay in her eyes, if only he surrendered himself to them.
He felt like she was the last spec of color in a world of white and grey, and to move away now would be to lose it all forever...

So instead of stepping away, he found himself inadvertently leaning in, drawn towards her, going as far as he could without actually stepping. Like the circle around his feet was a magical barrier and the only thing keeping them apart.

He chose his own destiny'

Symbolic he thought it be, that she should be standing along the deepest most direct line before him while he himself was found inside the bubble. Intoxicated as his mind was, he could think of little beyond her scent and beauty.

His eyes sunk deep into hers as he softly shook his head with an elegant polite refusal. Smiling sweetly, he reached up and took her gently by the wrist, careful not to touch her skin with his cold hands as he removed her grip from it.

His hand stopped her.

Not forcefully, not in warning—but gently, with purpose. As if to say: you don’t have to.

And something inside her… paused.

His fingers lingered at her wrist, warm even through the leather of his glove, and her pulse stuttered like a bird trapped behind glass. She’d known restraint before: Amaya’s glacial decorum, the rigid choreography of service, the way duty clipped her voice into measured tones. But this—Aliseth’s proximity, his breath fogging the air between them—was a language without rules, a silence louder than any command.

Her eyes lifted, meeting his, and the world narrowed to the space between them.

He did not kiss her.

But he could have.

And that knowledge pulsed through her like a second heartbeat.

She did not retreat.

She also did not lean in.

Because some boundaries, once crossed, cannot be redrawn—and she wasn’t sure which version of herself she’d lose if she reached for more.

So she hovered, a leaf caught in a draft, torn between the ache to fall and the terror of landing.

---

Amaya.

Her name ghosted through Elara’s mind like a breath fogging glass.

The princess, marble-carved and untouchable, whose affection had been a distant star—visible, admired, never grasped. Aliseth’s need was different: immediate, unguarded, a flame that threatened to melt the frost she’d nurtured for years. It wasn’t betrayal that hollowed her chest, but mourning—for the version of herself who’d once believed love could be earned through service, stoicism, and vanishing into another’s shadow.

---

It didn’t feel like betrayal.
It felt like grief.

And grief, Elara had learned, could wear many faces.

---

She spoke, at last, her voice low—barely louder than the hush of snow.

“Do you think I care about station?”
The question came without warning, the tension of it sharpened by honesty.
“Do you think that’s what this is? Some unspoken rule that says I can’t stand beside you?”

Her words held no scorn—only sorrow. Because she had seen it in his eyes, the way he hesitated to step fully across that line. Not because of her—but because of what the world had told him she represented.

“If I was born to a pedestal… I never asked to be put on it.”

She looked down, then, at the coat still draped over her shoulders.

The warmth still lingered.

So did the ache.

“You remind me there’s still a version of myself beneath the role. Not just the handmaiden. Not just her.”

Her hand gently covered his wrist—still gloved in its own distance—but she didn’t move it away.

“But I don’t know who that woman is yet.” A breath. “I think… she wants to believe in something. Or someone.”

Another pause. Then, quietly:

“I think she wanted you to kiss her.”

Her gaze flicked up, meeting his again.

“But I’m not sure she could’ve kissed you back.”

Then, softer:
“So…thank you for both those things.”

"I choose for this to be where we part ways." Aliseth whispered ever so softly, a slight tinge of regret staining his voice. His hands were still connected to her, the space between them having become space enough only for the mingling of their warm breaths or the radiating heat of their bodies. "Please, keep the cloak, for now at least. It is my selfish desire that you have reason to seek me out for I would very much like to spend more time with the Elara who is more than a handmaiden"
In a softer tone, he continued, "No matter the direction you take, Elara, you are not the same person who left those footprints earlier."
Aliseth glanced back at the path they had trodden only moments before—traces of their shared steps delicately etched into the snow. "Those paths, those footprints, they are our roots from which we grow.”

He raised a hand to cup her cheek as he gazed into her eyes.

"And you Elara, are ready to blossom. Believe in yourself.”

Step by reluctant step, he backed away, his lingering fingers slowly releasing her as he stepped out of the enchanted circle cut into the snow. Regaining his composure, his posture straightened, and he assumed the formal bearing of a guard. With a precise salute—fist pressed against his chest followed by a deep, respectful bow—he addressed her.

"Lady Elara, your company has been a pleasure, and a kindness I fear I have not fully deserved. It has been an honor to make your acquaintance."

Just before turning away, his guarded composure faltered for a heartbeat, revealing a longing in the depths of his dark eyes and a playful, hungry smile tugging at his cold lips.

His leaving felt akin to stirring from a sweet dream, the comforting haze dissolving swiftly into the sharp clarity of waking. Elara stood rooted in place, her gaze trailing after Aliseth as the unseen threads connecting them strained thin and then snapped soundlessly as the chill air reclaimed the space between them.

“You are ready to blossom. Believe in yourself.”

How effortlessly he had spoken those words, as if belief were as natural as drawing breath. Yet in his eyes—those dark mirrors reflecting quiet sincerity—she had glimpsed an authenticity that tugged at something deeply buried within her. Not because faith came easily, but precisely because it did not.

Minutes ago, she’d left her home armoured in duty to cover her sorrow; now, stripped of pretense, she felt both flayed and forged anew.

Elara strode toward the temple doors, the entrance yawning before her, its carvings of the goddess leering with eyes chiselled to judge. She paused, half-turning, though logic told her the path behind lay empty. Old habits, she supposed, died slower than hope.

Their mingled footprints were already fading, devoured by night’s insatiable maw.

Sighing, she turned for the last time and struck the temple doors with three raps.

Do You Have RP Pet Peeves?

When the post code with sparkly images and banner and colors is deeper and more complex than the character it's for

@Mistress Dizzy

shit don’t call me out like that. jk jk xD
But fr, it’s wild when the post code is giving Oscar-worthy visuals and the character’s got the depth of a puddle. Like congrats on the sparkles, but who are you?? 💀

I get that some people just really love the aesthetic side—and that’s cool! But man...felt. To play devil’s advocate though… sometimes people just find joy in the visual side of things. Like, coding can be its own creative outlet, and not every character needs to be a five-layer trauma onion to be valid. Some folks might still be figuring their character out, or maybe they express them better through aesthetics at first.

Plus, flashy code might actually help get into the vibe of a character. It sets a tone—even if the depth isn’t all there yet, it could be coming. Not everyone develops their characters the same way, and that’s okay too.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Fractured Reflections
Part 3

---

_{Location: Elara's Home---> Seluna Temple
Collab Between: (@Dark Light & @Qia)}

---

Aliseth quickly cleared his throat and regained his composure as he turned away, standing tall once again.

"Sorry m'lady, I deviate from your question. I'm not sure exactly what I expected, but it certainly wasn't you." His words, although mysterious, held an unmistakable compliment hidden within, said with a soft admiration.

She ought to have brushed past the words—ought to have turned the conversation elsewhere. And yet, without glancing at him, Elara found herself wondering… what exactly had he expected? What had he seen in her before?

What had changed?

And why, against her better judgment, had these words nearly slipped from her lips?

But another thought surfaced before she could bury it:

“But what about your survival?”

Elara had left before answering. She had stepped away, pulled herself back into the silence because she hadn’t known what to say—because she had not wanted to be seen. Not like that. Not as something fragile, something to be cared for. And now, here was Aliseth, staring at her in a way that felt entirely too familiar.

Amaya's scrutiny still burned within her memories, coupled with Flynn’s words that had encroached upon spaces she had once confidently occupied. Amaya had permitted it, had yielded ground willingly, and now—was Aliseth similarly reshaping her identity, encasing her within confines she had neither created nor consented to?

Elara compelled herself forward, her fingers shifting against the cloak's fabric in rejection of these silent implications.

“You mistake me, Sir Aliseth,” she might have said, her tone poised, carrying just the faintest hint of distance to make it all seem like nothing at all.

But she held her tongue.

Instead, she walked on, gazing forward, as though the moment had already passed.

“We are almost there,” Elara said after some time, her voice restored to what it was before.

Although near imperceivable, Aliseth felt it, more than he could physically rationalize, the mood had changed. A new regret layering itself upon the many he already wore.

He gave a pleasant nod, its meaning obscure, as in his mind he saw the many choices, the many possible words, splintering off from his every step.

In the end, he followed a familiar path and remained silent. Allowing his thoughts to focus on the road ahead as a tension slowly began to infiltrate his muscles.

Slowly the town started to fade away behind them as they reached an all too familiar stretch of road leading to the temple. A single long path encroached on either side by a shadowed forest where even the sporadic lantern light dared not tread. It was hours later but the air still had an unnatural feel to it, as if tainted by the lingering effect of both death and magic.

Despite the eerie silence, Aliseth felt as though he could still hear the screams and commotion echoing off the nearby trees.

The snow had long covered the blood and footsteps but in his mind, he saw through the soft coating and bore witness to the carnage that was no more.

He did his best to keep stride, to be a pillar of support for Elara, but also he did not hide from his face the myriad of emotions that plagued him.

Then he saw it, or what remained. The ice sculpture, its jagged edges dulled, a soft snow covering its wilted form, but there it was, standing like a grave marker, a stark reminder.

“It hasn’t melted.”

The words emerged involuntarily, slipping softly past Elara’s lips without her conscious bidding.

For a moment, she wondered if she had spoken aloud at all, the snowfall’s hush swallowing the syllables whole. But no—the tension that coiled subtly in Aliseth’s stance confirmed he had heard her.

And yet, the fact remained.

Why hasn't it melted?

Why hasn’t time erased this, as it erases all things?

Intellectually, Elara understood the rational explanation. Merely a day had elapsed since the incident, and the air retained its bitter edge, the frost relentless in its hold upon the land. Practically, logically, the frozen figure had no cause to have diminished, no reason for her anticipation of its disappearance.

But logic held little sway over hope.

It was magic. A thing summoned into existence, shaped by will and intent. Not natural. Not real. And if it wasn’t real, then surely it should have faded, dissipated like a half-remembered dream upon waking. It should not still be here, standing in defiant, crystalline silence.

It should not retain power over them still.

She understood that time eroded all things eventually, smoothing and washing away memory like sediment. Yet, she still detested that this remained defiantly intact.

Because, with it, so did the weight of that moment.

She felt, with acute certainty, that Aliseth carried the memory too—probably in the exact visceral manner she did, etched deeply into sinew and breath, woven into the fabric of his presence.

A thought flickered at the edge of her mind: What does he see when he looks at it?

Elara’s fingers flexed around the handle of her basket. Then, without turning, she spoke again.

“Strange, isn’t it?”

The ensuing silence stretched, one heartbeat, then another, elongating the interval until it bordered on discomfort.

Finally, Elara shifted, turning just enough to cast a sidelong glance at Aliseth, waiting.

"I know it's white, but I see blood."

He replied softly. His voice only audible because of the sheer silence that surrounded them. His breath was heavy as he stared at the unnatural monument that shouldn't exist. Its presence was an abomination, yet it was also a display of the princess's power.

"She did this."

He added without explanation, eyes still glued to the structure.

"I see a body without a head, I see the ice breaking beneath my feet, I see futures changing and being taken away. I feel the cold of that magic permeating my very bones."

"I see all the 'choices' not taken."

He walks forward slowly through the snow and tentatively raises an outstretched hand towards the ice.

"What about you, what do you see?"

He asked in return, before adding another question.

"It is a personal question and you do not have to answer. What is your greatest regret?"

His fingers slipped through the cover of snow as his palm pressed against the cold smooth ice. His eyes portray thoughts that were a million miles away, extending beyond the mere recent couple of days. Only Elara's voice would draw him back to the present.

She did not immediately answer. Instead, she followed the movement of his outstretched hand, watching as his fingers pressed against the ice’s smooth surface.

What did she see?

“I see what remains,” she murmured, her gaze drifting across the ice’s surface. “I see the questions left unanswered. The things we were too late to change.” A quiet exhale, barely there. “I see permanence, where there should be none.”

She turned her head just enough to glance at him. His hand still rested against the ice, the distant weight in his eyes betraying the question that lingered between them.

An intensely personal question.

Her greatest regret.

Elara had never fully voiced it—never granted it the permanence of open acknowledgment, least of all to anyone who wasn’t Amaya. She could have easily deflected, smoothly diverting his attention as she had before. And yet...

“My mother lay dying,” she began, her voice subdued. “We had all been summoned to her bedside, each of us aware that the end was imminent.”

She paused—not from uncertainty, but to allow the gravity of remembrance its rightful place.

“I found myself paralyzed outside the door,” she admitted. “Fearful of witnessing her decline, fearful of confronting a change I knew would fracture something fundamental within me.” Her lips pressed together, holding back the smallest tremor of sorrow.

“I told myself I needed a moment. Just one. I remained outside the door, listening to my father’s voice, to the small talking of those who were already there. I believed—” She inhaled deeply, “—I genuinely believed that time would grant me mercy.”

Her lashes lowered gently, shielding her gaze as it settled pensively upon her fingers lightly clasping the basket's chilled handle.

“But death offers no patience for the timid or hesitant. I learned that the hard way. And grew from it.”

An extended silence stretched gently between them, laden with a quiet acceptance she had borne privately for years, never entirely relinquished nor fully expressed.

“I was too late.”

Aliseth was taken aback by her reply, he was unprepared for such vulnerability and raw honesty. He felt the full weight of every word, every pause, every breath. The implication of her truth was unmistakable. With his hand still resting on the sculpture, he turned to face the handmaiden, giving her his undivided attention, hanging on to every word. That single moment had undoubtedly shaped her core, defining the woman she had become. He found himself at a loss for how to respond to such a monumental truth. It wasn’t something to fix or compete with, nor was it meant to draw attention or elicit sympathy, it was simply a fact of her life, as heavy and painful as it was, it was a glimpse into her soul.

Instead of trying to fill the silence, he honored the weight of the moment and echoed her own words: "Death offers no patience."
Stepping away from the frozen sculpture, he left his handprint behind. The ice glistening and slick in the shape where it had melted to his touch. Clenching and unclenching his cold fingers he watched the warmth come back into them before looking up at the sky.

"Death offers no patience,"
he muttered once more as if those words were tipping some invisible scales in his mind. Suddenly, a new question spills from his lips.

"Do you recall what it was like to gaze upon the rising sun? To witness the birth of a new day, its golden rays reflecting off dreamy white clouds against a brilliant sea of blue? I remember the idea, the concept, the words... but I can no longer envision those gorgeous hues of pink and blue in my mind."

Unable to conjure that image, greeted only by a blanket of snow and a backdrop of darkness, he turned his gaze back to Elara and stepped closer.
"Only now, I regret not spending enough time appreciating them while… well" His words trailed off, hanging in the chill air, not needing to be said. Then his thoughts resumed, heavy with memories and regret: "I remember when oceans were blue, a thing I never imagined could be taken for granted." He let out a sigh. His thoughts slowly leading to a conclusion but getting stuck along the way.

"I have fought my whole life, Elara. I'm tired of fighting. I... I think I just want to enjoy what I have left while I still can." He hesitated, as if an apology hovered on his lips, before speaking again: "They say she can fix this—that it is prophecy. If so, then why hasn't she? Why delay, dragging it out? People are suffering and dying... and for what? I will keep my word until my last breath, but... Elara, who am I serving? Our savior or...?" His voice failed to conceal his inner conflict. He was torn, divided—questioning those he served was not a quality of those in his line of duty, and he knew it was unfair to burden Elara, who was already suffering in her own way. Yet, he had to know, who it was that he, much like Elara, had forfeited their lives in service to.

“Is she worth it? Does she deserve it… All those paths not taken, the choices…
All the choices never made?” There was a hint of sadness in his eyes as he looked upon her now.

Elara had always perceived people like Aliseth as figures shaped irrevocably by conviction and duty— warriors whose strength, valour, and very essence were pledged unwaveringly to an ideal surpassing personal ambition. Yet now, he stood before her, voice tinged with vulnerability, questioning the merit of their collective sacrifices.

A man who had spent a lifetime fighting was asking if it had been for nothing.

A query neither posed lightly nor answered easily.

“She is no deity, Aliseth. Nor has she ever aspired to be one,” Elara responded calmly, her voice clear and devoid of misplaced reverence. Her gaze ascended gently, meeting his, seeking meaning within the solemn depths of his troubled eyes. “Nevertheless, she remains our beacon of hope. Both of them do.”

Yet, was hope alone sufficient?

Could it possibly sustain them?

Slowly, her attention returned to the sculpture before them—an unmelted relic of frozen anguish. The persistent preservation of the past was undeniable, resistant to forgetfulness or release. How many such reminders would they be forced to confront before the final chapter was etched into history’s cold annals?

“I offer her my trust,” Elara continued quietly. “Not from blind obedience, nor obligation dictated by prophecy, but from witnessing the sorrow she carries—the torment embedded in her heart from the immense burden placed upon her.”

She paused, throat tightening with restrained emotion.

“You wonder if she merits such loyalty?” she queried rhetorically. “That answer eludes me. But consider this—never once has she demanded our lives, yet we willingly give them.”

Another contemplative pause stretched gently between them.

“If my faith does not rest with her, Aliseth, where else should it reside?”

'In yourself.' was his reactive thought, but the words never made it past his lips.

"She might not demand our lives, but she holds them all in balance." He replied softly as he joined her one last time in looking at the pillar of ice.
"And there are those that are giving it."

'How long until he too was counted amongst them?'

Already Aliseth had started to close himself off from that sudden spill of vulnerability. He was backstepping, retreating. It was evident in his voice, that subtle change, composing itself as before. It was in his face, as it solidified once again chasing the emotion from its surface. His rigid posture returned as internally familiar walls fell back into their allotted places.
However, it was always his eyes that betrayed him. In them, there was a tired sadness, a loss of identity, purpose and a lack of faith. He had been searching for an excuse but found nothing in Elara's words.

He was about to say more, he looked ready to continue on to the temple when suddenly his head snapped to the side and his hand fell to the hilt of the sword on his hip. He stared intently out into the darkness of the forest, silent, alert, searching.

Elara remained silent initially, carefully observing Aliseth as the burden of his unspoken thoughts visibly tightened around him, constricting him like invisible armour.

When his head suddenly jerked aside, however, his hand swiftly grasping the familiar hilt of his sword, her breath momentarily halted in surprise.

Elara possessed no weapon to draw; instead, her eyes intently tracked his gaze, peering warily into the shadowed reaches of the forest.

“What is it?” she asked softly, voice edged with cautious tension.

Instinctively he put her to his side and behind him, taking a step towards the sound that set him alert.

The snow continued to rob sight and sound of his senses allowing whatever was out there, whatever was watching them, to get far closer than it should.