Qia

Reign of the Usurper

N O T A B L E. L O C A T I O N S. O F. T H E. S U N D E R L A N D S

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THE RIVER COLONIES OF ASHRAYA The River Colonies of Ashraya form a vibrant, green lifeline along the northern border of the Sunderlands, a stark contrast to the severe and sun-scorched dunes that dominate the region. Sustained by the cool, constant flow from the Harrowfield highlands, this waterway carves a miraculous path of fertile land through the heart of the arid wastes. It has naturally become the primary intersection where the prosperous, green-dominated cultures of the north engage with the severe, tradition-bound societies of the deep desert. This entire region grew from a precarious string of military outposts and simple irrigation stations into the thriving web of commercial towns it is today. Heavy-laden barges journey southward, carrying essential goods like harvested grains, crafted pottery, sturdy lumber, and bundles of healing herbs. These northern shipments meet Al’Seren caravans arriving from the desert interior, loaded with precious cargo such as pungent spices, expertly worked metalwork, brilliantly colored fabrics, and intricate stonework. This constant exchange transformed a once-disputed border territory into an indispensable hub for international trade, political discourse, and the quiet blending of cultures. At the center of this activity rests the city of Ashraya, an architectural marvel built upon the river's broad delta. Its design features elegant, sweeping terraces of pale stone and a network of orderly canals that direct water to bustling docks, vibrant market squares, and countless agricultural plots. From first light until the stars appear, the city's quays are a cacophony of activity, with vessels from across the continent unloading their wares, creating an unceasing rhythm of commerce beneath the vast desert sky. A system of well-maintained roads stretches south from Ashraya, first connecting to the official capital, Ashmar, before branching into secure, fortified highways that delve deeper into the desert toward the Al’Seren stronghold of Azrahir. This network ultimately ends at the coastal powerhouse of Zareen Port, where goods from the overland routes are transferred to mighty seafaring ships. The security of this entire logistical corridor is maintained by a visible presence of garrisoned watchtowers, mobile patrols, and heavily guarded river crossings, all serving to deter bandits, mitigate regional conflicts, and protect travellers from the inherent dangers of the desert environment. In the modern day, the River Colonies stand as a powerful symbol of meticulously maintained equilibrium. This prosperity is not accidental; it is enforced through shrewd administration, strictly enforced commercial laws, and relentless diplomatic engagement. Their success represents a hard-won and ongoing collaboration between vastly different peoples, all united by their shared dependence on the river's sustaining flow............................................................................................	THE CAPITAL CITY OF ASHMAR Ashmar stands as the administrative and symbolic core of the Sunderlands, a capital city strategically positioned where the great river begins to dissipate into the smaller channels that bring vitality to the parched land. The entire settlement is constructed from a distinctive, pale stone that seems to absorb and reflect the relentless sunlight, and its layout is a masterclass in defensive design. It is built in a succession of tiered levels, each fortified ring serving as a protective barrier for the next, visually representing the practical and guarded nature of desert civilization. The apex of this structure is the Hall of Suns, a monumental complex that functions as the region's central seat of administration and a repository for the historical records of the desert's elite families. While House Al’Seren holds ultimate sovereignty over the Sunderlands, Ashmar is also the seat for a collection of lesser nobility and influential river families. These figures maintain their hereditary titles and a degree of local influence, but their power is intentionally structured to never rival the overarching authority of the ruling house, creating a controlled ecosystem of allegiance and subtle rivalry. This careful design reflects the city's two primary functions. On one hand, it is a grand arena for the pageantry and intricate ceremonies of statecraft. On the other hand, it is a supremely functional bastion, engineered to endure both military threats and the existential challenges posed by the merciless environment that stretches in every direction. The very walls of Ashmar tell a story of a people who have learned to thrive not by conquering the desert but by mastering the art of persistence within it............................................................................................	THE OASIS CITADEL OF AZRAHIR Emerging from the immense, arid plains of the desert, the Oasis Citadel of Azrahir appears as a shimmering vision of pale stone and radiant water. Its foundation is a legendary, crystal-clear aquifer, a source of life so potent it has sustained this fortress for countless generations. This stronghold functions as the ancestral home of House Al’Seren and the symbolic core of their rule. The citadel's profile is defined by its ascending tiers, brilliant white towers, and an intricate network of waterways that channel the spring's bounty throughout the complex. These reserves, along with shaded courtyards and luxuriant gardens nurtured within its walls, create a sheltered paradise where flora and fauna prosper, utterly isolated from the harsh conditions outside. It is within these secure halls that the Al’Serens safeguard their most valued treasures: ancient knowledge, sacred traditions, and the meticulously kept genealogies that form the historical record of their lineage. From a tactical perspective, Azrahir is virtually impregnable. The endless, shifting dunes provide a formidable natural defence, and the few routes leading to its gates are labyrinthine pathways, a secret geography known only to trusted allies. Any hostile army would find itself defeated by thirst and disorientation long before its banners were visible from the citadel's walls. It is from this position of ultimate security that the house directs its power, issuing the licenses that permit great caravans to travel, brokering the agreements that control commerce, and sending its envoys to distant lands. ...........................................................................................
ZAREEN PORT Carved into the dramatic meeting point of the desert cliffs and the Kraken Sea, Zareen Port operates as the indispensable maritime gateway for the entire Sunderlands. Its deep-water harbours are a constant spectacle of activity, filled with vessels distinguished by their distinctive copper-hued sails. The coming and going of these ships is orchestrated by the constant ringing of signal bells, whose echoes bounce between the massive, sculpted stone quays. The port's prosperity is the stuff of fable. It serves as the critical terminus where overland caravans from the deep desert unload their precious commodities—such as fragrant spices, uncut gemstones, religious artifacts, masterfully crafted arms, and vibrant pigments—onto deep-draft ships destined for global trade. In return, it acts as the primary entry point for foreign innovations, manufactured goods, and occasionally, dangerous new ideologies entering the realm. Beneath this prosperous and orderly surface, however, lies a grittier and more pragmatic reality that cements the port's true value. A network of smugglers operates through its shadowed wharves, intelligence agents trade confidential knowledge in its dimly lit taverns, and commissioned privateers—officially sanctioned by discreet patrons—protect Al’Seren shipping lanes while systematically dismantling competition. For generations, Zareen has functioned as both a defensive bulwark and an instrument of economic force. No other southern power can match the naval advantage it provides, and no external kingdom would risk confronting the city that commands the commerce of the southern seas, making it the unassailable linchpin of House Al’Seren's dominion............................................................................................	THE BRONZED EXPANSE The Bronzed Expanse is a vast territory defined by its searing temperatures and sands that possess a distinct, metallic radiance, gleaming like a field of polished brass under the oppressive gaze of the sun. For ages, this region was dismissed as a sterile and unconquerable wasteland, its value remaining hidden until generations of determined effort unlocked its secrets. This immense and unyielding environment now hosts a sophisticated logistical web of reinforced strongholds, supply depots, and carefully charted roads—an infrastructure carved out through immense sacrifice. It is here that the legions of the Sunderlands conduct their training, mastering the arts of survival, swift tactical strikes, and combat in a terrain that naturally eliminates those lacking the necessary physical and mental fortitude. Throughout history, the Expanse has functioned as both a protective barrier and a proving ground. In earlier eras, it was a haven for raiders, sand-pirates, and lawless clans whose attacks strangled the vital commerce of the south. Through a series of persistent and often brutal military operations, these hostile elements were systematically driven into the deepest and most remote corners of the desert, finally permitting merchant trains to travel its length in relative security, guarded by the disciplined ranks of the desert legions. While its immense scale and severity remain, the Bronzed Expanse today stands as the most critical strategic terrain in the Sunderlands. It is a living testament to a fundamental truth: that authority over the desert is not given but earned by those who have endured its trials and learned to thrive within its harsh embrace. True command belongs only to those who have paid for it in sweat and resolve. ...........................................................................................	THE WYRMWAY Beneath the scorching surface of the desert stretches the Wyrmway, an archaic and sprawling labyrinth of subterranean passages whose beginnings are lost to antiquity. The very rock of these tunnels seems to defy nature, embedded with threads of pure gold and strange, glass-like stone that imply a formation under impossible, searing conditions. This hidden highway creates a secure conduit between the inland territories and the sea, completely bypassing the perils of the sands above. For centuries, it has facilitated the clandestine transit of invaluable goods, sensitive communications, and the rapid deployment of forces, forming the most protected logistical channel in the Sunderlands. Access to its depths is a fiercely guarded secret, entrusted only to a select few guides and operatives bound by unbreakable vows. Foundational legends tell that the first Al’Seren patriarch was guided to this discovery by a great serpentine entity of sand and flame, an apparition that offered dominion to those with the courage to seize the power buried beneath the dunes. Regardless of its veracity, the Wyrmway has become an indispensable pillar of the region's authority, directly enabling its economic prosperity and ensuring its resilience against threats. ...........................................................................................

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#a9c9eb...|...outfit}

The mare’s ears pricked toward the doorway a full second before the old hinge let out its low, protesting whine. Maylisse, however, pretended not to notice. Her arm kept moving in its long, steady sweep across the horse’s side, the coarse fibres of the brush following the curve of its powerful shoulder. She finished the stroke, lifted the brush, and rapped it firmly against a leg in white cotton leggings, sending a small cloud of dust into the sunlit air. One more deliberate pass. Then another.

The truth was, the mare had been immaculate for the last quarter of an hour. This was no longer about removing dirt or smoothing its coat. It was a ritual, a repetitive motion that carved a pocket of order out of the uncertainty that had become her life after…well, who knew exactly when. All that mattered was that the rhythm was predictable, precise, and entirely hers to command, a luxury she found almost nowhere else truly. Only when she felt the last frayed edge of her own composure had been neatly tucked away did she deign to cast a single, slow look over her shoulder. Her lips remained sealed; the look itself was question and statement enough.

The figure standing in the entrance seemed entirely assembled from the wrong parts for this place.

It wasn't that she seemed like an outsider. Maylisse was accustomed to all kinds of unlikely people drifting into her orbit. Her mother’s life had been practically full of them. There were bankers who pretended to be philanthropists, nobles who treated kindness like a transaction, and men who confused bullying with charisma. She had even grown up around predators who smiled as they sipped champagne, who gave pretty names to their cruelty and called it ambition. Her mother had labelled them all ‘investments.’ Maylisse had simply called it training.

But this girl—this demigod—was different from any of them. Maylisse had never really been around others like herself before. She knew the stories, of course. She’d read the secret files from her mother’s contacts about the “others” born from the whims of the gods. She had pictured them as loud, arrogant, and smaller copies of their divine parents’ worst qualities. This one, however, seemed almost timid, a quiet contradiction wrapped in ordinary clothes. And that unsettled her far more than any show of power would have.

She was smaller than Maylisse had expected, and, strangely, she wore a pair of sunglasses in the dim stable, a choice that would have been funny if not for the rest of her appearance, which made it seem intentional. In fact, it all seemed to match the bored-looking sloth on her sweatshirt. Other details quickly formed a picture as well: the way her jaw tightened and then relaxed as if she were stopping herself from speaking; the subtle unsteadiness in her stance that suggested she wasn't quite balanced; and the tilted angle of her head that, behind those dark lenses, gave nothing away. People often hid their eyes when they were guarding their thoughts, after all.

In sum, this stranger had the air of a person who had clearly endured a protracted night and was in no mood to account for it. This arrangement was perfectly acceptable to Maylisse. Admissions of weakness were for priests and philanthropists. She was neither, nor did she have any desire to be.

“And yet,” Maylisse stated finally, returning her focus to the mare with another languid stroke, “you found someone.” Her voice was cool and flat, not meant to be friendly but not exactly cruel either. It was a testing remark designed to see how this girl would handle a conversation that offered no easy kindness or helping hand.

The only answer was a shuffling sound, the scuff of a shoe on the wooden floorboard that creaked under uncertain weight. The mare let out a soft, huffing breath, a visible puff in the cool air of the stable, and Maylisse’s mouth curved into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Come all the way in,” Maylisse directed, not pausing as she worked on the horse’s coat. “You’re letting the draft inside.” It wasn’t a request, the words carrying the simple authority of someone accustomed to being listened to, whether by animals or people. When the girl finally obeyed, pushing the door shut with a quiet thud, Maylisse didn’t turn around. She didn’t have to. She felt the mare’s large frame ease slightly instead, the way an animal does when it decides a new presence isn’t dangerous. That was a point in the girl’s favour. It showed a basic competence or at least a lack of outright stupidity.

With the door closed, the stable settled back into its quiet peace, the steady, rhythmic sound of the brush and the soft rustle of hay filling the space where hello or my name is would normally be. Maylisse had no time for such empty pleasantries, however. She would always prefer to measure a person by the character of their silence than by their awkward attempts to fill it. So, when she did choose to break the quiet again, her tone was almost thoughtful.

“So, who decided a stable was the place to be this morning and right before training? Are you lost?” The question had nothing to do with geography, given that the arena was just next door. It was a probe into the girl’s purpose —her reason for being here, of all places.

She shifted her weight, finally turning just enough to let her gaze travel over the girl from head to toe once more, a slow and thorough inspection.
“Name?”

An expectant silence stretched between them, a gap that seemed to demand to be filled. Neither of them moved. Then, a single, blunt word cracked the quiet.

“W-what?”

The corner of Maylisse’s mouth twitched, her head canting with a show of patience that was entirely manufactured. “Your. Name,” she clarified, enunciating each word as if coaxing sense from a recalcitrant child. “What. Is. Your. Name?”

In return, a soft, dismissive noise escaped the other girl, not unlike the sound the mare had made earlier. Even with the sunglasses hiding her eyes, Maylisse could feel the eye-roll as clearly as if she’d seen it.

“What. Is. Your. Name?” the girl echoed, her voice a flat, mocking imitation. “Seriously? Do I look like a puppy to you?”

That provoked a reaction perilously close to amusement from Maylisse, a flicker so subtle only the most observant would catch it. Better, she thought. There was clearly a backbone beneath that initial exterior of softness. She set her own brush down on the stall’s wooden rail, her fingers skipping over the mane comb to instead take a second, matching brush from a hook on the wall. She held it out, her arm extending fully but her feet remaining firmly planted. The decision to close the distance was now entirely in the stranger’s hands.

“Tell you what,” Maylisse said. “How about we exchange pleasantries if you prove you can follow simple instructions without fuss?”

The girl’s head cocked a fraction, a movement so small it might have just been a shift in balance. “Wow,” she said, her voice dripping with false awe. “Is this your special charm you use on everyone, or did I just fucking win the lottery today?”

“I talk to people in the manner they best respond to,” Maylisse said coolly, not retracting the brush. “And so far, this seems quite appropriate for you.”

The girl let out a short, humourless puff of air at that. It was impossible to tell if it was from amusement or sheer disbelief. She didn’t immediately reach for the brush, instead pushing her sunglasses up her nose with a finger as if she was seriously considering whether Maylisse was worth the effort. For a moment, Maylisse actually thought she might walk away, and a small, unexpected part of her would have given her points for it.

But of course, she’d clearly come here to hide from something.

Finally, the girl moved. She approached the horse the right way, circling wide around its shoulder and avoiding the risky space near its front hooves—a point in her favour. She put her water bottle down on a hay bale and then, only then, accepted the tool from Maylisse’s outstretched hand. Her first stroke was hesitant, barely making contact with the dark coat. But the next one was better, the bristles landing with the right amount of pressure and following the same smooth, rhythmic path Maylisse had been using. Adequate, Maylisse decided. She could pay attention. She could learn. Competent little cow.

A comfortable silence fell between them, much like the one Maylisse had been enjoying before she was interrupted. Strangely, though, she found herself being the one to break it this time.

“So,” Maylisse began, her voice a blend of casual interest and genuine inquiry, “did you just get to camp, or shall I assume you’ve been finding places to hide this whole time?”

Another pause opened up, filled only by the soft, scraping sound of the brush. The girl didn’t glance up from her work when she finally replied. “Maybe I’m just someone who appreciates animals,” she said, her voice devoid of any real emotion. It was an answer that skillfully avoided saying anything at all.

“Mm,” Maylisse hummed, a low, considering sound, “and maybe I like people who can tell the difference between deflection and depth. Could you try to be more interesting, love? I’ve been up since dawn, and the mare’s already proven more forthcoming.”

The other girl didn’t snap back this time. Instead, her next brushstroke slowed, and something almost weary passed through her posture. When she finally spoke, the sarcasm had softened around the edges.

“Anissa,” she said after a pause, the name quiet but definite. “My name is Anissa.”

Maylisse inclined her head slightly, enough to acknowledge but not to thank. “See? That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”

Anissa let out a vague hum that could have meant yes, no, fuck you, or whatever, and focused back on the horse. Her movements were more confident now, the brush gliding in a way that began to sync with the other ambient sounds of the stable.

After a few moments, she tried again. “Couldn’t sleep?” Her tone wasn’t warm, but it was closer to something conversational. “You mentioned you’ve been up since before dawn.”

The question itself was harmless, but it carried the cautious weight of someone seeing if a bridge could be built between them. Maylisse watched her from the corner of her eye, her own expression carefully blank, though a spark of surprise briefly lit within her before being extinguished.

“No,” she said simply. “I arrived before it.” Her voice had the cool finality of a statement meant to discourage further probing. But Anissa’s question lingered longer than Maylisse expected, not because of what it asked but because of what it implied: that there had been something worth staying up late for in the first place.

“You say that like you weren’t alone in being up late,” Maylisse noted, her tone light but with a pointed edge. “What was so important that it kept everyone from their beds?”

Anissa paused, the ghost of an awkward smile touching her lips. “There was a… party,” she admitted. “For New Year’s. Or, you know, whatever passes for one around here.”

The comb in Maylisse’s hand froze for a single, telling second. She didn’t turn around, but that sudden break in her motion was a crack in her otherwise perfect composure. A party. How utterly predictable. It was so very human to answer the call of the gods with mindless celebration. And on the night before their training was to begin, no less. What possible logic could her brother have used to allow such a frivolous distraction?

“I see,” she said after a long moment, resuming her work while her tone gave nothing away. “How positively industrious.”

Anissa’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “You didn’t hear about it?”

“No, Anissa dear, I believe I just stated that I arrived before dawn.” Maylisse’s reply was sharp, though it was also almost courteous by her standards. “I wasn’t… informed of the festivities.”

This was the truth, though the realization chafed more than she would ever concede. It wasn't a yearning for inclusion that nettled her but the stark reminder that her father had dispatched her here with no illusion of camaraderie. Her role was not to be welcomed but to be assessed, quantified, and, if the situation demanded, regarded with apprehension. It occurred to her then that River might be genuinely ignorant of this design. She could all too easily envision her esteemed half-brother, the paragon of Poseidon’s benevolence, delivering a welcome address with the unshakable confidence of a man who believed authority could be earned through affability. The ocean, she mused, would find that notion deeply amusing. She sure as hell did.

Maylisse swept a stray lock of the mare’s mane aside with a touch more vigour than was required, provoking a twitch of the animal’s ear in response.

“And what exactly does a demigod celebration entail?” she asked, her tone cool again with feigned curiosity masking genuine intrigue. “I imagine there’s an impressive amount of arrogance to go around.”

Anissa let out a soft, breathy sound that could have been a stifled laugh. “Depends on who you ask, I think. There was music. Dancing. Probably too much alcohol.”

“Ah. So chaos.”

“Pretty much,” Anissa admitted. “Though not all bad. The bonfire was nice. Things were just… loud at times with the music, then the fireworks.”

Loud. The word seemed to suspend in the chilled air between them, and Maylisse’s mouth curved into a contemplative line. Boisterous, unrestrained, and so utterly human. It stood in direct opposition to every principle of discipline she had been raised to uphold. And yet… an involuntary image began to form in her mind: the snow covering the earth, the blaze of a bonfire cutting a swath through the winter’s bite, the sound of revelry rising like a provocation to the heavens. It was fundamentally naïve, without a doubt, but there was a certain bravery in that image, a quality she found herself unable to completely disregard.

“You never told me your name, by the way,” Anissa stated then without lifting her gaze. Her delivery was almost casual, the sort that could be mistaken for a fleeting thought if not for the slight deceleration of her hand that betrayed a focused intent.

“You never asked,” Maylisse countered, keeping her voice neutral. It emerged a fraction too controlled despite her best efforts, however, so she adjusted her tone, inflecting it with a touch of lightness. “You may, if it’s that important to you.”

“I just figured it was fair,” Anissa murmured. “Seeing as I’m working for you now.”

That earned a real reaction, the faintest ghost of a smirk. Maylisse turned her head just enough for Anissa to catch the glint of amusement in her eyes. “Fair enough,” she allowed. “Maylisse.”

Anissa repeated it under her breath as if fitting it to a shelf. “Maylisse....”

The phonemes landed differently in the other girl’s mouth. Softer, more… ordinary. Maylisse found she intensely disliked the alteration. Regardless, she offered more information.

“Maylisse Beaumont,” she stated, her voice crisp and clear. “Daughter of Poseidon. And yes, I am the half-sister of your so-called ‘leader.’”

That finally got a big reaction. One you could actually see.

Anissa’s brush stopped dead, hovering in the air for a moment that was just a little too long to be meaningless. The set of her shoulders tightened, and the very air in the stable seemed to grow colder. When she started brushing again, her motions were careful and guarded, the easy rhythm from before completely gone. She didn’t say anything at first, and Maylisse, while pretending to be fully focused on the horse, watched her closely in the shiny surface of a brass lamp fixed to the wall.

“Half-sister,” she echoed quietly. “You two don’t… seem much alike.”

“Is that an observation or an insult?” Maylisse asked without turning.

“It’s neither,” Anissa replied, and Maylisse was mildly surprised by how steady her voice remained, given her earlier reaction. “It’s just… difficult to imagine you and River coming from the same god, that’s all.”

The comment pulled a short, bitter laugh from Maylisse. “We didn’t have playdates, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she said flatly. “Poseidon doesn’t do parenting. He identifies, he provides resources, and if you fail to meet his expectations, he cuts his losses and moves on.”

This, too, gave Anissa pause. The cadence of her brushing slowed, and she inclined her head slightly toward the mare’s neck as if seeking refuge in the animal’s solid presence. When she spoke again, the question was cautious but laced with something like understanding, perhaps. “So… he sent you here, too?”

The question was simple, but it brushed too close to the truth. For a moment, Maylisse considered denying it and offering some aloof remark about choice or discipline. But there was something in Anissa’s voice, an unguarded curiosity tinged with the same exhaustion Maylisse had noticed in her posture earlier, that made deceit feel far too beneath her.

“Summoned, actually,” she corrected.

“That sounds…intense.”

“That would depend entirely on whether you’re strong enough to handle it,” Maylisse returned, a thread of dark pride in her words. Her father’s commands were never requests; they were tests disguised as natural disasters. If Anissa thought that sounded harsh, it was only because she had never experienced the full weight of a god’s attention—and with any luck, she never would.

Maylisse took a measured step back from the mare, her gaze travelling over the animal’s form to assess the results of their labour. Her fingers drifted absently over the curry comb, its rigid bristles a stark contrast to the fluidity of her thoughts as she considered whether to push the conversation or let it rest.

Anissa was the one who broke the stalemate.

“He never spoke of a sister. At least, not another one with divine blood.”

“Is that so?” Maylisse replied mildly, tone deliberately unreadable. She knew what the girl was really trying to say: that she was a stranger even to her own brother. Or perhaps….

“I imagine he had his reasons,” Anissa added, the statement voiced more to the air between them than to Maylisse directly. It was this shift, this introspective murmur, that captured Maylisse’s focus anew. There was no discernible aggression in the girl’s posture, no righteous indignation or protective stance. Instead, a more complex emotion seemed to reside there. A personal injury, maybe, or a dawning perplexity. She carried it with a certain grace, but not so completely that it escaped notice. Not to someone who had been taught to make note of such things.

“I have no doubt he does,” Maylisse answered after a calculated pause, her eyes narrowing a fraction. “The same way our father always does. Omission, after all, is such an elegant weapon.”

A faint crease materialized between Anissa’s eyebrows as she turned this over. When she finally raised her head to meet Maylisse’s look, it held no challenge. Instead, it was an expression of wary assessment, the sort a person employs when determining which truths are safe to expose.

“He never spoke of me because my existence was never intended for common knowledge,” Maylisse stated, her tone deceptively light as if discussing a minor detail rather than laying bare her designated role in their familial structure.

“That’s…” Anissa began, then stopped. “That’s not what he’s like.”

Not accusatory. Not outraged. Merely… corrective. Defending not the god, Maylisse noted, but the son.

Interesting.

“Isn’t it?” she replied with feigned nonchalance, bending to inspect the mare’s fetlock for any traces of dust. “He is what he’s been shaped to be. We all are. Some of us are meant to be banners, and some of us are meant to be kept in the wings until needed.” A dismissive tilt of her chin followed. “And to whom does he mention anything that actually matters, regardless?”

“He isn’t obligated to tell me everything,” Anissa countered, her voice gaining a firmer texture. “He doesn’t… even know who I am.”

“Mm. And yet you sound very much like someone who thinks she does know him or should be privy to such information as familial lines.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No,” Maylisse agreed, finally turning just enough to catch the girl’s profile beneath the tint of those ridiculous glasses. “It isn’t. But it is what you betrayed.”

The mare twitched an ear at the mounting strain, calming only when Maylisse’s palm made contact with the solid warmth of her neck. Seeing no further advantage in restraint, Maylisse decided to crystallize her position.

“Here is a story that does not require belief. I was sent to test my brother’s leadership abilities. To find the rot, if there is any, and cut it out.” She let her gloved fingers trail from withers to shoulder, and the horse leaned into it, unaware, or perhaps unconcerned, that its caretaker spoke of bloodlines and butchery in the same breath.

Anissa didn’t answer immediately, but she wasn’t scared. That much was obvious.

Finally, she asked, “Why does it sound like you’re sure he’s going to mess up?”

“I like to think of it as being ready for anything.” Maylisse moved around the horse, coming closer to where Anissa stood. Her boots made no noise on the straw. “I’m not worried about him failing. I’m worried about what might be wrong with this place already. A sickness in the ranks. A problem at the very center.” Her eyes dropped to the brush in Anissa’s hands. “You’d be shocked how often something that looks like loyalty is actually a flaw waiting to cause trouble.”

For the first time, Anissa’s calm expression wavered. Her mouth opened as if she had a quick reply, but she stopped herself. Maylisse saw that flash of feeling and knew exactly what it was: the need to stick up for someone, even when you don’t have all the facts.

“I think you’d be shocked,” Anissa said, her voice low, “how many people see someone who truly believes in something and call it a problem.”

Maylisse’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you think River is? Someone with conviction or someone corrupt?”

Anissa’s reply was gentle but firm. “That’s not for me to decide.”

It was a smart answer as it didn’t give anything away while not being a lie at the same time. A real politician’s move, so to speak. Maylisse watched her for another second before her face went blank again. “Let’s hope you can keep that up when you’re face-to-face with him.”

Anissa let out a slow breath, sounding exhausted. “You talk like everyone here is just part of some experiment.”

Maylisse tilted her head, thinking about the gentle way she’d said it. “Everyone is part of a test,” she replied. “Some people make the cut. Others show exactly why they needed to be tested in the first place.” She put the comb back where it belonged with a firm click, a sound that seemed to cut the air between them. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t feel bad for merely paying attention.”

The quiet that settled over them was tense but not angry. It was the kind of silence that comes after all the important things have been said. Specks of dust floated in the slants of cold morning light coming through the wooden walls, landing on the straw like little gold flecks. The mare, feeling the mood change, let out a loud breath and stomped one foot before settling down again.

Maylisse walked to her coat hanging on the stall door. She brushed off a few pieces of straw and swung it over her shoulders. She had said what she came to say, and the stable’s peace felt like an ending to the conversation. Still, she could feel Anissa watching her the whole time, even from behind those silly dark glasses.

“Paying attention,” Anissa repeated after a moment, the word rolling off her tongue with a tone that landed somewhere between skepticism and reluctant acknowledgment. “That’s one way to phrase it.”

Maylisse turned her head just enough to look at her without stopping. “What word would you use instead, then?”

“Cold. It’s a cold way to see things,” Anissa said plainly. There was no anger in her voice, just a simple statement.

Maylisse’s lips curved, but the expression carried no warmth. “Cold keeps the rot from spreading, love,” she replied, adjusting the cuff of her glove. “It’s the heat that makes things fester.”

Anissa didn’t answer right away. Her hand stayed in the mare’s mane, her fingers slowly combing through the rough hairs as she thought. Then, with one last stroke of the brush, she put it down and wiped her hands on her leggings. “Maybe,” she said quietly. “But heat is also what helps things grow.”

The line between them held, neither woman giving nor retreating.

Maylisse fastened the top button of her coat, looking like someone sealing off any weak spots. The feeling between them had chilled, but it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. This, at least, was a form of truth she could appreciate.

Anissa hung her own brush back on its hook and picked up her water bottle. She gave the mare one last, automatic pat between the ears, a gesture that seemed to comfort her more than the horse, before turning to leave.

For a moment, Maylisse thought she might not say something further, not even some small gesture of closure, as Anissa simply passed her. Yet, as she drew level with Maylisse, she paused just long enough for a ghost of breath to fog the air between them.

“You keep things from festering,” Anissa said quietly. “But sometimes rot isn’t the problem. Sometimes it’s the roots. We all just… find our own ways to cope, don't we?”

Without waiting for a reply, she moved past, unlatched the stable door, and pushed it open. A flood of weak light and chilly air rushed in. The hinges let out a low groan, and the mare lifted her head at the sound. Then, the noise of Anissa’s footsteps grew quieter as she walked away, disappearing into the morning.

Maylisse stood motionless, her hand resting on the stall door. After a moment, she gave the mare’s shoulder a final touch and turned to leave. By the time she stepped outside, Anissa was already a dark shape in the distance, heading into the training arena. Maylisse followed a few minutes later because, like it or not, that was where she had to be. The outside air stung her skin, but she took one deep breath, letting the cold push out the last of the stable’s warmth from her lungs.

---

_{Location: Stables-->Arena
Interactions: Anissa
Mentions: River}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#5a3e85...|...outfit}

Consciousness returned to Anissa not as a gentle dawn but as a deep, resonant throb that rang behind her eyes with the monotonous rhythm of a funeral bell.

For several seconds, she lay disoriented, her mind struggling to map her surroundings. A door framed a small balcony, beyond which a sheet of brilliant white snow pressed insistently against the glass. Slatted blinds cut the morning sun into parallel lines that fell across the wooden floor, and a bedside lamp listed sharply to one side, a silent witness to some forgotten urgency or accident during the night, perhaps? Then, the aromas reached her: the rich, acrid promise of coffee weaving through the lighter, floral scent of her own shampoo trapped in the strands of hair strewn across her face. She blew them away with a soft puff of air, and the world’s edges grew just a little more defined.

As she turned her head, a carefully arranged tableau on the nightstand swam into view. A glass of water, its surface trembling with the minute quake of her own hand as she reached for it. A bottle of aspirin, its cheap plastic cap covering a promise of relief to the ache in her head. And a napkin folded into a neat rectangle and propped like a miniature white flag with a message scrawled in dark ink. The improbability of this curated collection barely registered, though, as a more primal thirst commanded her body to focus instead on the glass in her hand. Anissa almost drained it completely in several desperate and graceless gulps, the cool liquid a blessing to her parched throat. Only then, her vision clearing, did her gaze drop to the handwritten note to parse the text written there.

I’m sorry I had to leave.
First day bullshit.
I can’t hide from being the leader forever.
... I wanted to stay.

There’s fresh coffee in the pot. Take two aspirin and drink lots of water… please?

Happy New Years, Beauty Queen

Ocean boy

The nickname struck first—Beauty Queen.It was so incongruent with the barren wasteland of her mouth and the leaden inertia in her limbs that an involuntary smile touched her lips. But then, the rest of the message began to assemble itself in her mind, each line a tumbler clicking into place within a lock. And behind it, a floodgate opened, releasing a cascade of sensory fragments that tumbled through Anissa’s consciousness in a chaotic, silent film:

The secure lift of an arm beneath her knees, another bracing her back, the world rocking gently with a stranger’s gait. The frantic, helpless grip of her own fingers, tangled in the soft fabric of a shirtfront. The distinct, plastic crack of a water bottle opening, followed by the low murmur of a voice that asked for nothing. The shocking coolness of a porcelain sink beneath her palms; the medicinal sting of mint erasing the memory of salt and bourbon. And finally, the muffled sigh of the mattress as a warm, solid presence settled beside her on this very bed, holding the night at bay.

The dull tolling in Anissa’s skull swelled into a deafening clangour as the full, humiliating weight of the memories crashed down and over her. A scorching wave of shame constricted her throat, and the water she had just swallowed erupted in a sudden, choked sputter. Her esophagus burned with the recoil, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, blinking until the stinging in her eyes subsided and her vision cleared before looking back at the napkin as if it might somehow reassemble its words into something less incriminating.

Yet, her eyes were drawn back to that first line specifically, which she read again, more slowly this time.

I’m sorry I had to leave.

Sorry. The word was a paradox, washing over Anissa's abraded nerves like a salve that simultaneously stung. It was an apology that seemed to acknowledge his departure without negating it, a particular nuance that sent an unwarranted pang straight through her core. In her experience, people rarely apologized for doing what was logical or expected. They simply vanished, offering justifications long after the fact. They didn’t tuck water beside your bed and write on a napkin like they were leaving instructions for the care of something fragile.

But then there was also that final, telling line in his little verse.

... I wanted to stay.

A flush crept up Anissa’s neck before she could suppress it, because want was a deceptively simple word with a scandalously wide spectrum of meaning. There was the most basic interpretation: he’d wanted to stay because he was inherently kind. You don’t abandon a friend who has just been violently ill on New Year’s Eve, even if their illness was of their own doing. That kind of want was born of duty, a gentle, collar-tugging pull toward the right thing to do. It was safe. It was unambiguous. It was the version Anissa could most easily accept.

A little to the left of that, however, lay the territory of curiosity. Perhaps he’d wanted to stay because she had proven to be an unexpected variable. Because the girl in thigh-high boots with a sharp tongue hadn’t shied away from his awkward honesty, and she’d chosen the scenic route instead of the direct path. This was want as a question mark, a pencil hovering over a blank margin. What else is she capable of? Who is she, really?

And then, inevitably, there was the most hazardous category, where I wanted to stay could be taken at face value, as blunt and disarming as the boy she was beginning to recognize. It could mean his mouth knew her mouth in a way she was unable to recall, and that his hands remembered the lines of her waist and wanted to check whether they’d mapped them correctly because she’d been too drunk to point the way. That even with the bourbon in her blood and the breathless way she remembered pulling him closer, there had been a thread of hunger he had chosen not to pull. Want with brakes. Want that stopped itself. Or… at least, she desperately hoped it had. Either way, this was the interpretation Anissa didn't quite know how to process, leaving her with a confusing cocktail of respect and resentment.

And underpinning all these layered meanings, a voice crackled to life from a speaker somewhere inside the room, severing her thoughts.

"Good morning, campers. This is your new leader, River, speaking. It is currently 7:30 a.m. on January 1st. Your first training will begin in one hour at 8:30 a.m. in the arena. Please arrive promptly and dress accordingly."

Right…that was the last one. He had a role stamped on him like a crest. Leader. And leadership didn’t go around wanting to stay in the beds of girls it’d met that very evening. Leaders dismissed themselves. Leaders left notes. Leaders showed up in arenas at seven-thirty sharp to say crisp, unaffected things into the morning air. The line, therefore, meant one more thing, the dullest and harshest of all: he had wanted to stay and had left anyway. Desire measured against discipline and found wanting—no, found governed. And that, most of all, was the interpretation Anissa found herself detesting with a surprising and fervent intensity.

Her own history seemed to coil itself around that simple sentence like a persistent vine. In her experience, whenever someone had uttered the words "I want" in her vicinity, the object of their desire was typically information. What do you see? What do you know? Or, more often, it was a plea for space or a swift exit toward the nearest door. In fact, the word "want" had so frequently been a prelude to departure that it now carried a permanent chill, a draft of impending absence.

Yet, this paper confession did not rustle with any hidden escape plans. Rather, it lay placid and bare with its corners softened by water rings and an aspirin bottle.

Her hand moved with a mind of its own, picking up the napkin, setting it down, and then snatching it back again. Anissa’s mind tried, like always, to complete pictures it didn’t have, like the angle of his shoulders in her doorway, undecided, or the way his mouth might have looked when he wrote Beauty Queen, whether it had frowned in frustration or curved upwards at the thought of his nickname for her. It could mean nothing. It could mean everything. Both were their own type of trap, regardless.

Finally, she let the napkin fall back to the nightstand. This time, Anissa’s focus shifted to the aspirin. She shook two chalky tablets into her palm, tossed them back, and swallowed them with the last of the water. After setting her glass down, she slid the napkin under it as a makeshift coaster, smoothing it flat with the side of her thumb. Two aspirin. Water. Coffee, she recited to herself, treating the list like a sequence of stepping-stones across the turbulent waters of her morning so far.

The smell drew her before she moved. It was the kind of scent that inhabited a room, that staked a flag and declared a small sovereignty over headaches and any regrets a person could have. Anissa stood slowly, a careful unfurling of her body, and braced a hand against the doorframe for support before navigating the short hall to the staircase. With each descending step, the aroma intensified, transforming from a distant promise into an immediate, tangible presence.

The pot sat squat and earnest on the warming plate, its glass sides mottled with tiny breath-marks where steam had condensed and run back down in thin, meandering rivers. The machine emitted a low, contented hum, the sound of a task faithfully completed. Someone—he—had even disposed of the used filter and wiped the stray grounds into a neat, dark crescent by the sink. This small evidence of considerate labour triggered a peculiar tightness in her throat. Anissa quickly turned away, reaching into the cabinet for a mug.

She set the chosen mug on the counter with a soft clink. Then she poured, the initial splash hissing against the ceramic and blooming into a thin, oily sheen on the surface. A plume of steam rose in a lazy coil, misting the air before her and dampening the fine hairs at her temples. For a long moment, she simply cradled the mug beneath her nose, inhaling the bitter, fortifying scent as if it were a kind of medicine.

The first sip was a tentative press of her lips to the rim. Anissa’s stomach, still rebellious, issued a faint protest before reluctantly settling. Simultaneously, the relentless pounding in her skull softened its assault, the note shifting from a deafening clangour to a muffled thrum. Emboldened, she took a second, deeper swallow. A wave of warmth radiated outward from her core, a stubborn inner lantern being coaxed back to life and pushing back against the cold remnants of the night.

By the time she reached the final, bitter swallow at the bottom of her mug, Anissa was forced to admit a slight improvement in her condition. The world had not righted itself, but it had at least stopped its violent lurching. She rinsed the ceramic clean and set it to dry, a small, orderly ritual that felt like a minor triumph over the chaos of the morning.

Now came the most daunting task of all: to scrub away the physical and emotional residue of the night and reconstruct herself one piece at a time. Fun. So much fun.

Anissa made her way back to the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom. The light flickered on to reveal two minor testaments to last night's disarray— a half-empty water bottle near the sink and a hardened fleck of toothpaste clinging to the porcelain sink, a casualty of her rushed efforts. Well. It could have been significantly worse, she supposed.

With a self-deprecating shake of her head, she approached the shower. A twist of the knob and the plumbing answered with a shuddering clang before unleashing a steady stream. The first contact was a scalding shock, a punishment for her sins, but she wrestled the temperature down to a more tolerable, if still severe, heat. Stepping under the spray, she let the stinging needles of water beat against the tight cord of muscle in her neck, the burden of tension in her shoulders, and the deep, throbbing ache nesting at the base of her skull. And for those few precious minutes, the simple physics of heat and pressure seemed to be a cure for everything that had occurred, known and unknown to her.

The tiles grew slick underfoot, and steam condensed on every surface, transforming the small room into a hazy, isolated capsule. Yet, woven through the comforting heat was a sudden, inexplicable filament of cold that slid between her ribs like the flat of a blade. It felt as if a deeper current, one utterly detached from the shower's spray, was pulling at her from the inside. A frown creased her brow as she angled her body, confirming the water was, without a doubt, searing hot. Still, the chill returned in quick, breath-stealing flashes, the way the world goes silent and numb the moment an ocean wave crashes over your head. She braced a palm against the wet tile and focused on her breathing until the sensation receded, leaving only the drumming heat in its wake.

Okay. A little weird. But again, probably nothing to be concerned about given her slightly hazy state of mind.

She forewent shampoo as stripping her hair of its natural oils twice in twelve hours seemed like a form of self-sabotage. Instead, Anissa gathered the dark strands back from her face with one hand, letting the water cascade over her collarbones and shoulder blades, working at the stubborn knots of stress along her spine. She scrubbed her skin with a bar of soap until it tingled with cleanliness and the last bits of nausea had finally retreated. When she twisted the faucet off, the ensuing silence was a palpable presence, ringing in her ears almost as loudly as the water had.

The mirror was a blank moon when she stepped out, her reflection arriving slowly before she wiped a sleeve-wide oval into the fog. She dried herself with brisk, efficient passes before twisting her hair up into a secure turban, a small ritual that always helped a sense of order click into place. Eyeliner felt like a bridge too far today, her intuition telling her that ‘pretty’ was not the required uniform for whatever trials the arena held. Still, Anissa leaned into the cleared portion of the mirror and winced. The truth of many sleepless nights was stamped beneath her eyes in smudged, dusky crescents, the skin there slightly puffy from a lack of rest.

But as her mother always said, if you can’t fix the face, darling, fix the frame.
The woman had been talking about contour, but Anissa had long since repurposed it for general composure.

She located the satchel she’d brought to camp, knowing that beside her makeup bag, she would find her salvation: a pair of sunglasses folded beside a spare hair tie. The world softened into a muted gray the instant she slid them onto her face, and she tested her reflection without them, then with, the victory of the shaded lenses winning by a landslide.

But first, to get dressed.

As always, Anissa approached getting dressed with the efficiency of a soldier. First, the cross-back sports bra —the one that didn’t ride up when she had to climb or crawl. Next, the compression leggings, which she wrestled up her legs while sitting on the closed toilet lid, exhaling on the final tug as they snapped into a satisfying embrace. She padded back into the bedroom and pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. There it was, waiting like an old friend: her go-to lazy day sloth-print crewneck, its white fleece gone soft with washing, featuring a cartoon face mid-doze above the slogan NOT FAST NOT FURIOUS. A snort of laughter escaped her despite her best efforts, and she pulled the sweater over her head, the fleece brushing her bare arms like a sigh of relief.

Her gloves were next. Anissa bypassed the dressy pair she’d arrived in, her fingers instead closing around the insulated mittens she’d thankfully packed. They were a clever design: fingerless for dexterity, with magnetic, fold-over panels that sealed them into warm, protective pouches. She flexed her hands, the fabric forming a welcome barrier between her skin, her curse, and the world. And with that, the final vestige of the dream had now been dismantled.

Next, she retrieved her trainers from under the bed, giving them a firm shake to dislodge a stray sock. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she laced them with tight pulls, the task requiring her to flip the magnetic cap back on her left mitten to expose her fingers to the cool air for just a moment as she tied the final knot before sealing it shut again with a definitive click.

Her hair, still damp, had begun to loosen the towel wrapped around it. Anissa unravelled the fabric, ran her fingers through the worst of the snarls, and secured it into a simple, low ponytail with the spare hair tie. The tail swung against the back of her sweater as she stood, and she slid the sunglasses back into place, the sloth on her chest staring out at the world with a boredom that perfectly mirrored her desired demeanour.

Before descending, she made a final circuit. She retrieved the water bottle from the bathroom, then continued to the kitchen. She uncapped it, let the tap run until the water turned ice-cold, and filled the bottle to the brim. The aspirin had successfully muted the pounding in her head to a manageable thrum, and the coffee had filled the spaces between with a determined warmth. Nevertheless, Anissa placed the full bottle by the door alongside her useless phone and a tube of lip balm before concluding her journey back at the nightstand upstairs.

The napkin remained where she had left it, a white corner peeking out from beneath the glass like a placeholder in a story she wasn't ready to finish. She didn't pick it up this time, only allowing her eyes to skim that most dangerous line once more—I wanted to stay—before the tint of her shades veiled her reaction, and she gave a resolved shake of her head. It would have to wait. She would find him after the training session and confront the blank spaces in her memory. There was no other choice.

On the way out, Anissa caught herself in the mirror one last time: sloth deadpanning across her chest, shades hiding the story in her eyes, ponytail neat down her back, and mouth neutral. The girl staring back looked like she’d made a decision. She would deal with this situation because she’d handled much worse. She would hold herself together, because that’s what she did.

She was capable. She was collected. She was—

 
 
 

_{a fucking coward}

---

_{Location: Anissa's Cabin-->Stables
Interactions: N/A
Mentions: River}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

---

_{Location: Outside the Seluna Temple → Walking back towards town
Interacts with: Céline (@Beard Dad), Ramona (@enmuni)
Mentions: N/A}

---

Elara didn’t answer Céline immediately. Instead, her attention was held by the ghost of their trail through the snow and the distant smudge of smoke marking Dawnhaven’s centre. The path was uneven, yet she found her eyes following its stubborn course—a meandering line that refused to be entirely erased by the wind.

It called to mind another path, one she had walked with Aliseth toward the temple they had just left. He had stood slightly off the main track, allowing her to choose her own footing. He had spoken of choice as a northern star to navigate by when everything else was in motion. And she, with her ingrained honesty, had confessed she had never felt such a freedom. Their exchange had been a study in contrasts: his faith in agency, her resignation to fate.

His words, that she was “ready to blossom,” still echoed in her mind. They had felt like a line from a fable, far too gentle and hopeful for a woman shaped by duty and loss. Yet, when she had glanced back and seen their dual set of footprints beginning to fade, a part of her had desperately wanted to believe him. That she could still grow, could reach beyond the confines of obligation and the weight of grief, both old and fresh.

Now, staring at the road that led inexorably back to town, she wondered if he had foreseen this, too; the way every path eventually circled back to the things one could never truly leave behind.

“‘Enjoy?’” Elara said at last, testing the word on her tongue as if it were in a foreign language. “I’m not sure that’s the term I would use.” She bit back the more cynical thoughts that rose to the surface, knowing their origin was too personal to voice aloud. Instead, she chose her words with care.

“Dawnhaven is… young. Restless. Everything feels new and half-finished, and yet the people keep building every day, no matter the cold, no matter how many times something breaks or crumbles. There’s a sort of…grace in that.”

She glanced toward Ramona then, realizing how quiet she’d been all this time. In fact, the other woman’s expression was difficult to read, her composure intact but her posture taut. And if they hadn’t spoken before, it wouldn’t have bothered her. But Ramona and her…they were friends now, weren’t they?

Acting on an impulse, Elara reached out. Her fingers brushed against Ramona’s hand before settling over it, the touch tentative, almost a question. It was less an offer of comfort and more a nudge to share her own perspective with Céline. She held the contact just long enough for a fleeting warmth to pass between them before withdrawing, her fingers curling gently back into her own palm.

“It’s not an easy place to love compared to home,” Elara continued, her breath pluming in the cold air like a wisp of ghostly incense. “But it’s impossible not to respect its tenacious spirit.”

---

---

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#d4af37...|...outfit}

The first hint of morning was not a sound but a change in the quality of the darkness. A gilded line pierced the cabin’s shadows, laying itself across the floor and setting the guitar’s finish alight with a soft gleam. Elias drifted upward from sleep gradually, his consciousness returning to the feel of the instrument’s neck still cradled in his loose grip, his fingers twitching with the ghost of a chord.

He blinked slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust. In the stove, the fire had faded to a bed of coals that pulsed with a rhythmic light. A persistent ache had taken root in the muscles of his back, a direct consequence of his awkward posture through the night, yet the weariness that clung to him felt cleaner now, like the honest exhaustion that follows a spent gale rather than the coiled pressure that foretells one. For a long while, he didn’t move, simply listening to the low whisper of the wind beyond the walls. As always, his head was clear, devoid of the fuzzy residue that often followed a turbulent party night, and in its absence, there was no immediate surge of regret. There was only the silence and his own presence within it.

Eventually, he pushed himself up and crossed to the window. The landscape beyond was rendered in shades of silver and grey, while the lake in the distance was framed by a glittering border with a blanket of mist hovering over it like a spirit unwilling to depart. He laid his palm flat against the cold pane, and a circle of condensation briefly flowered under his touch, receding almost instantly to leave behind a faint imprint.

It was then that the cabin’s speaker, a part of his welcome package he’d scarcely noted the previous night, crackled to life. A voice, clear, direct, and jarringly alert, filled the room.

"Good morning, campers. This is your new leader, River, speaking. It is currently 7:30 a.m. on January 1st. Your first training will begin in 1 hour, at 8:30 a.m., in the arena. Please arrive promptly and dress accordingly."

The voice vanished, leaving behind an electronic hum that quickly faded into silence. Elias released a slow breath. Structure. A schedule. It was straightforward, and for that, he was grateful. A simple directive to build a day around was exactly what he needed.

He returned the guitar to its stand with a reverent touch, then ascended the stairs to the sleeping area. After laying his duffel and jacket on the bed, he continued into the bathroom. The shower handles groaned in protest as he twisted them, but within moments, steam was billowing, clouding the glass and filling the small room with a damp heat. He stepped under the spray and let the scalding water needle his skin, feeling it slowly dissolve the rigid knots along his shoulders. A staticky sensation prickled just beneath the surface of his forearms, an innate reaction to the sudden temperature shift. But he breathed deeply, drawing the energy back inward, containing it. The lesson was an old one, learned in a small adobe house with faulty wiring: panic begets sparks. Control begets calm.

The water hammered a steady percussion against the base of his skull, the place where all his tension seemed to congregate, and he stood there until he felt the tight weave of his thoughts begin to slacken. Afterward, he turned the water off and stepped out, clearing a swath across the fogged bathroom mirror with the heel of his hand. After, he dressed with a focused purpose: a dark, slate-colored compression shirt, black training pants that ended just above his ankles, and the well-worn running shoes he’d packed on a whim back in Albuquerque. His fingers found the familiar shape of the bronze thunderbolt pendant at his throat, and he tucked it securely beneath his collar.

His gaze then fell upon the jacket Tapeesa had left for him. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the fabric, before finally lifting it and pulling it on. The act felt like a quiet declaration, a refusal to fully accept the banishment her gesture had implied. As he settled the jacket on his shoulders, however, his knuckles brushed against the side pocket, feeling the stiff, forgotten shape within.

Elias frowned, unzipping the compartment. Buried inside was a sealed plastic bag, its contents visibly deformed, and the shape within collapsed into an unrecognizable mass. He retrieved it, holding the bag up to the light. The sandwich was still technically there, though the bread had been compressed into a dense, damp slab, its edges darkened from prolonged confinement. A faint, yeasty odour escaped when he pressed the plastic, and for a long moment, all he could think to do was stare, the memory evading him. Then it returned with perfect, almost painful clarity: the low rumble of his stomach, the soft certainty in her expression, her hand slipping the bag into his pocket. “Just in case.”

At the time, he’d dismissed it as a generic kindness, the sort of maternal instinct she might extend to anyone looking slightly lost. He’d even felt a flicker of irritation, interpreting it as condescension. A snack for a stray. But in the stark light of this new day, he saw it differently. Perhaps it hadn’t been automatic at all. Perhaps it had been a specific, deliberate act of noticing him.

There was a poignant, almost tragic simplicity to the object now—a small, tangible proof of a goodwill that felt like it belonged to another lifetime. It was utterly ruined, a sad little monument to a moment of connection that had not survived the night. And yet, its very existence here, in his hand, felt significant. It had endured their conflict, a silent witness to a kindness offered before the fallout.

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him. He had been ready to discard the jacket and everything associated with it, and yet here was this stubborn, physical reminder of a gentler interaction.

Elias turned the bag over in his hand once more, then let out a soft, humourless laugh. “You’d probably kill me if I actually ate this,” he murmured to the empty room. The bag gave a rustle when he lowered it, its weight insubstantial but somehow heavy all the same.

He carried it downstairs and knelt before the hearth. Easing the stove’s grate open, he revealed the embers within, still glowing with a deep, passionate heat. The obvious, clean solution was to consign it to the fire and to let it blacken and vanish into ash. A full stop.

But he didn’t.

It wasn't a matter of sentimental attachment exactly; he had never been one for holding onto things. It was, instead, a form of respect. Acknowledgment that the gesture itself still had value, even if everything that followed had gone wrong. That small act had at least outlasted their brief peace, and there was a strange dignity in its endurance.

He rose, carrying the bag with him to the window. The glass was cool beneath his fingers as he set it down on the sill beside the outline of his earlier handprint. Morning light caught the plastic at just the right angle, scattering it in a fractured glimmer, and for one absurd moment, the ruined sandwich looked almost precious. A jewel made of memory.

He turned from the window. The cabin now felt less like a place of banishment and more like a waypoint. Pulling the door open, he was met by a rush of cold that stung his lungs. The sun, though pale, was gaining strength, setting the frost on the path ablaze with a billion tiny points of light. He tucked his hands into his pockets and began to walk.

The arena was not far. As he entered, the air shifted, becoming warm and thick as it had been the night of the party. A handful of other campers were already there, either scattered across the rows of benches that rose in a wide crescent around a central field where an obstacle course was arranged, or talking amongst each other to the side somewhere. Elias felt no intimidation at the sight of any of it, even the course, only a detached curiosity. He merely climbed the stands until he found an isolated spot midway up.

He sat, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head as a makeshift pillow. He let his eyes fall shut, not to sleep, but to rest in the liminal space before the day truly began.

---

_{Location: Elias's Cabin-->Arena
Interactions: N/A
Mentions: River, Tapeesa, everyone else already in the arena}

Reign of the Usurper

H O U S E . A L ' S E R E N

^{— . lords of the sunderlands. —}

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H O L D . the sunderlands

S I G I L . sun half-swallowed by sand

C O L O R S . black & gold

W O R D S . "from drought, gold"

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L O R D . K A E L E N . & . L A D Y . S A M I R A L O R D . F C . oded fehr . L A D Y . F C . salma hayek H E X C O D E . #C97A2B . H E X C O D E . #A8A77A House Al'Seren’s power was forged not on the battlefield, as one might expect, but through a profound and resilient tenacity. Their ancestors hail from the sun-blasted expanses of the Sunderlands, a region where perpetual aridity has shaped a culture defined by the capacity to endure. From their seat of power, the Oasis Citadel of Azrahir, they learned to transmute struggle into opportunity and leverage that opportunity into far-reaching authority. Their guiding belief is that prosperity, both tangible and divine, is a sacred trust granted solely to those who have been tempered by hardship. They understand that anything of genuine worth requires an investment of relentless effort and sacrifice. The rise of Lord Kaelen Al’Seren is a story of a slow, grinding dominance born from scarcity. When the skies offered no relief and entire realms grew desperate for sustenance, it was the Al'Seren trade networks that became the lifeblood of the continent, moving through the barren landscape like precious arteries of commerce. Kaelen grasped a fundamental truth: that true control did not reside in seizing power but in controlling what others desperately need. While his contemporaries amassed soldiers, he accumulated reserves of water, capital, and political debt, strategically dispensing stability to secure allegiance while methodically undermining his competition. His wife, Lady Samira, brought a different kind of strength. Born to the ancient spiritual traditions of the deep desert, she is a healer and sage from the nomadic tribes who held the secrets of the hidden water sources. If Kaelen’s gift was command, Samira’s was connection. In partnership, they wove a powerful doctrine that elevated mere survival into a form of sovereignty. To this day, those who resent the unending dry spells still show deference when the Al'Seren standard is raised, for it was Kaelen who demonstrated to the desert that every force, whether mortal or divine, must provide compensation for what it consumes.

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L A D Y . Z A H A R A A G E . 26 . G E N D E R . female . S E X U A L I T Y . heterosexual H E X C O D E . #D8A7B1 . F C . adria arjona • . diplomatic . • . dutiful . • . idealistic . • . poised . • . compassionate . • From her first breath, drawn beneath the ominous crimson of a desert dawn, Zahara was seen as a destined child. Her mother hailed her as a divine gift while her father recognized in her the qualities of a successor, honouring her as his spiritual inheritor long before any official title could be conferred. Her upbringing was a masterclass in diplomacy, where she was taught to balance fierce ambition with a poised authority. She became the essential link connecting the pragmatic world of merchants with the contemplative realm of mystics, and the blunt demands of soldiers with the nuanced perspectives of scholars. Her youth was defined by a profound sense of obligation, culminating in a commission to manage her house's interests in the distant River Colonies of Ashraya before she had even reached her twentieth year. She returned with the hard-won esteem of veteran traders, yet also with muted criticisms that her tendency toward accommodation rendered her unsuited for ultimate command. Within her family, she is still regarded as the living bond between their deeply held beliefs and their temporal might with her unwavering loyalty, acute intelligence, but potentially naive conviction that accord can ultimately triumph over base necessity. Nonetheless, even her most vocal detractors cannot deny the ingrained composure she possesses, a deep-rooted fortitude inherited from the very heart of the desert itself.

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L A D Y . S A P H I R A A G E . 26 . G E N D E R . female . S E X U A L I T Y . bisexual H E X C O D E . #A34261 . F C . bruna marquezine • . cunning . • . unconventional . • . defiant . • . audacious . • . needy . • If Zahara’s arrival was celebrated with prophecy and reverence, Saphira’s entrance into the world was met with a palpable and uncertain quiet. No divine favour was declared at her birth, only the cautious understanding that some destinies are slow to unveil their true nature. From childhood, she understood that her position would not be granted to her, so she made to seize it, mastering the art of commanding attention simply through the refusal to be ignored. Her instructors described her as both gifted and intractable, possessing a razor-sharp intellect capable of dismantling a lord's argument in a few precise phrases yet utterly unwilling to conform to the court's formalities. Where her sister earned acclaim for harmonious statecraft within the citadel's walls, Saphira’s endeavours sent ripples through the bustling marketplaces and common thoroughfares. Dispatched to the east to negotiate with the formidable caravan lords of the Wyrmway, she achieved a resounding financial victory, yet her success was also shadowed by a cloud of controversy. From this, her father perceived in her a raw and potent capability tempered in adversity; her mother, however, saw an unpredictable variable, a force that defied containment. Therefore, among the powerful, she is a subject of simultaneous allure and caution, known as the daughter who greets peril with a knowing smile and who places greater trust in the language of sharp words and shrewd actions than in the whispers of devotion. But behind Saphira’s formidable exterior lies a more vulnerable reality: her drive stems not from a thirst for domination but from an unspoken need for validation. She strives to finally win the notice of the same legacy that seemed to overlook her from the very beginning.

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L O R D .R A E L A N A G E . 24 . G E N D E R . male . S E X U A L I T Y . heterosexual H E X C O D E . #2F5E58 . F C . pedro pascal • . humble . • . competent . • . introspective . • . perceptive . • . patient . • To the wider world, he is known as the Sirocco—a force of nature capable of delivering both salvation and devastation. But to the inhabitants of the Bronzed Expanse, he is the Sunbound Son, a man whose devotion to the people outshines the privilege of his noble birth. They see in him a kindred spirit, a living testament to their shared belief that true sovereignty over the sands is won through perseverance required to survive them rather than through inheritance. Educated in the arts of war and governance, Raelan’s path to prominence started on the southern frontier. There, he was given command of a remote garrison tasked with securing the most treacherous section of the Wyrmway trade route. He refused to lead from a distance, instead labouring alongside his soldiers under the relentless heat and sharing meagre supplies with travelling merchants. His presence brought a long-absent sense of order to a region the capital had forgotten, and, in the eyes of the locals, this cemented his status as the land’s legitimate protector. His growing popularity among the desert folk, however, bred apprehension back home. So, his father, under the guise of seeking his advice, summoned him back to the capital of Ashmar. Now, he navigates its halls with the contained intensity of a storm trapped in a bottle, outwardly composed and civil yet acutely conscious that his value to his family is currently defined by his willingness to remain placid and out of sight. Between his sisters, he walks the line of faith and fire with Zahara’s conviction softening his skepticism and Saphira’s ambition stoking his fear of what he might become. Yet through them both, and through every whispered slight, the desert remembers. And should the Ninefold ever break, the Sirocco will rise again.

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^{N P C s . O F . N O T E}

S A F I R . D U M E I N Once a mercantile powerbroker along the Wyrmway, Safir Dumein amassed his wealth through a famously ruthless principle: he profited from a resource by selling it to both its protectors and its plunderers. His cunning understanding of human necessity established him as an architect of influence, a skill that eventually secured him the position of House Consul to the Al’Seren. In this role, he acts as Zahara’s primary tutor and guide in the intricate arts of statecraft and commerce. To her, he represents a crucial link to the world’s harsh realities. He is also the voice that often cautions her that compassion is a commodity only the secure can afford, and that principles are bound to falter in the face of hunger. While his public function is to serve as her official escort and voice within the royal court, his ultimate allegiance remains with Lord Kaelen. His deepest assignment is to gently steer the eldest daughter’s aspirations, ensuring that her vision for the future never diverges from the carefully laid plans of her father.

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M I R E N. S A H L Hailing from the bustling port city of Zareen, Miren Sahl ascended from humble origins as the daughter of a courtesan to become the authorized voice and interpreter of the Novarian Faith. Her public role is that of a neutral scholar and linguist, a figure who maintains the Faith's impartial stance by navigating the delicate political currents between the great Houses without taking sides. Behind this respectable facade, however, she operates as Saphira’s most trusted ally and discreet operative, collecting secrets and fragments of conversation that others would leave unheard. Her commitment to her patron is absolute, bordering on a fierce protectiveness that transcends simple loyalty. While some might question the intensity of her service, it is known that her fidelity cannot be purchased with gold or titles but only with genuine confidence.

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C A L I S. R E N N Calis Renn was destined to lead a great house of Karthos, but that future was erased in the fires of its downfall. His life was spared through a calculated decision by Lord Kaelen, who saw potential in the ruins of his enemy's line. This act forged a bond of obligation that has chained him to House Al’Seren for decades. The passing years have transformed the displaced noble into a dedicated instrument of his new house, his sense of allegiance tempered into something unbreakable by the harsh trials of the desert. Now holding the rank of Captain of Arms, he acts as Raelan’s combat instructor and personal guardian. He is the one who imparted the lesson that true strength lies not in the swing of a sword but in understanding the consequences it unleashes. To many, he is a living relic of a forgotten conflict. To Raelan, however, he is the sole person who will offer honest opposition without hesitation. A small rumour persists that he still keeps the emblem of his vanquished family concealed within his armour as a constant, private reminder of his origins. This hidden token symbolizes the inevitable choice he may one day face: between the lord who granted him a second life and the son he has helped shape into a man.

The Worn

---

Present Day

---

The Crimson Halo was an incongruous choice for a woman like Evelyn, though its very incongruity may have been the point. Sometimes, overwhelming noise was simpler to endure than the vulnerabilities of the quiet; it was easier than thinking. Still, she’d chosen to take up a secluded table in a corner of the bar, a position that afforded her a sightline to one of the televisions mounted near the ceiling. A news segment had just concluded, and its message lingered in her mind like a stubborn stain, even after the bartender switched the feed to a raucous sports match.

All prisoners accounted for.

The phrase cycled in her thoughts, its assured tone bordering on the absurd. It was fascinating how a lie, delivered with enough authority over a backdrop of static, could sound so pristine. The anchor was gone, replaced by the roaring approval of a virtual stadium, but the declaration had already etched itself into her consciousness. All prisoners accounted for. That was the narrative the world desperately clung to: the idea that the institution remained intact, that a fragile order had been preserved even as their old world slowly crumbled before them.

Evelyn sat with her hands folded around a full glass of tonic water. The ice had long since dissolved into the languid fizz, a gradual dissolution she observed with detached focus. She had chosen water out of ingrained habit. Alcohol induced a minute tremor in her fingers, a lapse in control she could not permit in her occupation. Her previous occupation. Furthermore, she had witnessed what that desperate search for oblivion did to individuals who once wore uniforms with pride: how they used intoxication as a crude, psychological tourniquet. So, Evelyn did not drink. She did not seek numbness. She remained awake, alert, and relentlessly present.

She maintained a neutral expression, her gaze fixed on the reflection in the polished table rather than on the patrons around her. In the warped glass of her drink, she watched their faces animate with the unburdened confidence of people who had likely never witnessed angels up close. They had never heard the thunderous impact of wings against concrete nor felt the searing heat of a light that scarred rather than sanctified. For them, heaven’s host could still be a romantic abstraction, a thrilling anecdote to be cheered between rounds.

A passing figure jostled her table, and the liquid in her glass shuddered, its surface trembling with concentric rings that slowly faded to stillness. In that same moment, the ambient noise of the club seemed to hollow out. Not vanishing entirely, but becoming dense and muffled as if the beat of the music had synced with the sudden hammering of her heart. It occurred occasionally now, these minor lapses in her authority over the ability. The atmosphere would grow heavy, the light would dim, and she would feel the latent pressure of her own power vibrating deep within her marrow.

The initial period following the incident had been the most severe. This faculty, this power, would activate autonomously, seizing the space around her with the erratic cadence of a failing heart. It was a visceral, instinctive reaction as her body and subconscious struggled to process the trauma of that day. In those early days, she feared even the most casual contact, terrified that a single lapse might extinguish the vital rhythm of another living being.

But now… her control was significantly more refined.

Eve exhaled slowly now, grounding herself the way she’d learned to: a single breath drawn low into her lungs, held for three counts before release. Her focus remained on the glass before her, watching the remaining ice fragments drift in languid, orbital patterns. She counted backward from ten, synchronizing her breathing with the subdued thrum of bass resonating through the floorboards. It was a minor ritual, born from sheer necessity.

As her heart rate steadied, the spatial distortion receded. The faint, shimmering haze that had blurred the air around her solidified back into normality. Sound returned, tentative at first, then flooding back in a sudden, overwhelming cascade. A patron near the bar shouted an order. A woman’s sharp laugh pierced the din. The club was once again a vibrant entity, completely unaware of the minute rupture that had just been sutured shut in the space of a few heartbeats.

Eve reached for her glass, the cool condensation slick against her fingertips, and lifted it to her lips to take a measured sip.

---

6 months ago

---

When consciousness returned, it was to the cold, hard press of the infirmary floor against her cheek. Acrid smoke snaked from the ruins of light fixtures, and the reassuring beep of the cardiac monitor had been replaced by a single continuous tone. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, a metallic sting mingling with the dust and the scent of scorched wiring. Her patient—a guard, his face still soft with youth—was clinging to life as she pushed herself upright. His chest hitched in shallow, irregular spasms, a dark crimson stain rapidly expanding beneath him where her careful sutures had torn open. The vibrant red was a brutal shock against the sterile white of the tiles, now littered with debris and glittering shards of glass.

Instinct commandeered her body before coherent thought could form. The surgeon’s imperative to clamp, to compress, to stabilize, was a reflex etched deeper than memory. “Stay with me,” she commanded, her voice possessing the same authority she had used in operating rooms and field tents across a dozen war zones. But this was not a controlled environment. Her instruments were scattered, buried under rubble and the contents of overturned trays. The air was a foul cocktail of smoke, spilled antiseptic, and the pervasive, iron-rich odour of fresh blood.

Evelyn was not supposed to be here. She was never meant to lay hands on another living soul again. The tribunal’s sentence had been unequivocal: life imprisonment with solitary confinement recommended. Her placement in this infirmary was a grim irony, a concession to the reputation that preceded her fall. Dr. Evelyn Kaine: decorated combat surgeon, senator’s daughter, and the state’s most notorious traitor. When the chief medical officer had succumbed to the relentless pressure of his post, the warden had made a pragmatic decision. Keep her occupied. Let her mend the injured guards and the inmates deemed too volatile to transfer. It was not an act of clemency. It was a calculation of utility.

Every day since, she had worn the bright orange jumpsuit beneath her white coat, a constant, visible reminder that she was a convict first and a physician second. A prisoner performing a twisted form of penance with a scalpel. The duality likely made the administration sleep easier; she was both a resource and a contained threat.

Now, however, the structures of that control had vanished. The corridor beyond the broken doorway was a maelstrom of shouted orders, sporadic weapon fire, and the heavy clang of boots on metal grating. Another detonation rumbled deep within the facility, shaking a fresh rain of dust and plaster from the ceiling. Evelyn leaned her weight into her hands, the gloves now saturated, the pressure becoming uneven. Beneath her palms, the young man’s heartbeat was a frantic but faltering flutter.

Then came the sound.

It started as a distant resonance, like a gale forced through a constricted duct, and swelled until it dominated the space. Dozens of them. The unmistakable concussion of air being divided by immense, powerful forms. It was not the soft rustle of bird feathers but a deep, rolling thunder that vibrated in the chest and set the teeth on edge.

Evelyn went rigid, her hand still pressed to the guard's sternum. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling, where dust and smoke swirled in the emergency lighting. A vast shadow eclipsed the dim glow, and the remaining fluorescent bulbs flickered erratically before dying completely.

A weak, wet cough came from the young man, his lips forming silent words. Her mind, operating on a detached, analytical level, cataloged the grim prognosis: probable pulmonary puncture, critical hemorrhaging, cerebral hypoxia. Each clinical observation pointed to the same inevitable conclusion. She could maintain the pressure, could cling to the ritual of procedure, but the final result was already determined.

And yet, she persisted. Because this action was her fundamental nature. It was what she had always done, even when the world had punished her for it.

From outside, the screams of men were cut short by a deafening shriek of tearing steel. The illumination that now bled through the cracks around the door was not the orange glow of fire. It was a white, searingly pure, and terrifyingly beautiful radiance.

When it touched the floor, the tiles began to crack.

Evelyn felt the last tremor of the guard’s pulse still beneath her hand. The very atmosphere seemed to grow still with him. Then a voice manifested—low, immeasurably old, and resonating not through the air but directly within the marrow of her bones and the fabric of her consciousness.

“Heed my words, mortal…you cannot heal what Heaven has condemned.”

A profound cold swept through the room. The feeling fled from her hands. The world seemed to lose its focus, dimming at the edges.

And for the first time, the silence that followed didn’t come from outside. It came from within her.

The first thing to return was the noise. The Field Null dissolved around her, its grip failing like a spent muscle, and the world crashed back in with a sensory avalanche of sound, heat, and movement. Klaxons wailed, the stomp of boots on steel grating echoed, and beneath it all, the relentless thunder of wings continued its percussive beat. It was bedlam compounded. Evelyn pushed herself to her feet, her breathing ragged, her gaze locked on the young guard she had been unable to protect. His unblinking eyes stared at the ruined ceiling, and she almost reached to close them before remembering her gloves were still stained with his blood.

A second, more violent tremor shook the complex. The far wall of the infirmary disintegrated in a concussive blast, hurling concrete fragments and jagged shrapnel across the room. A sharp piece caught her arm, and another grazed her cheek. She threw herself behind an overturned medical gurney, her hand flying to the stinging heat on her neck. Through the swirling dust and the erratic strobe of failing lights, she witnessed their descent. Angels. Their vast wings blotted out the view, moving with a stormfront's inevitability, and the weapons they carried shone with that same otherworldly radiance that had first scorched the sky years before.

A survivalist impulse commanded her to run. She ripped away the tattered remains of her white coat, the bright orange of her prison jumpsuit glaring beneath it like a warning. A lance of incandescent energy slammed into the spot she had just vacated, exploding the floor tiles into a cloud of razor-sharp fragments. She stumbled out into the main corridor, bracing herself against the wall for support. The passageway was a charnel house. The bodies of guards and inmates were intermingled, some still twitching, the majority still and silent.

Driven by a purpose she didn't fully understand, Evelyn moved toward the source of the concentrated gunfire: the upper levels. Somewhere above, the celestial forces were advancing with methodical brutality, systematically dismantling the last pockets of human resistance. Then the central cell block opened before her, a vision of infernal transformation. Steel gangways were twisted and sagging, groaning under the weight of collapsed debris. Fires bloomed unchecked on the lower tiers, the building’s sprinkler systems emitting a pathetic, sputtering hiss against the flames. And there, at the heart of the devastation, two other figures in orange jumpsuits were making a stand against the divine assault. But before she could process their presence, a new threat descended.

An angel plunged from the upper levels, its spear aimed with lethal intent, its armour blazing with unearthly fire. Time seemed to fracture, stretching the moment into an eternity. Instinct, sharper than reason, took command. Her hand shot out, fingers extended, and for the second time that day, she imposed her will upon reality. The very atmosphere congealed into a visible barrier, a sudden, transparent solidity. The beating of the angel's wings slowed to a crawl, its feathers arrested mid-air. The being itself stiffened, its luminous eyes widening in shock, the holy fire around it guttering as if starved of air.

Evelyn stepped forward, closing the distance. She pressed her bloodied palm directly against the center of the angel’s breastplate, her voice a razor-edged command forced through clenched teeth:

“Fall quiet.”

The suspended moment imploded. The angel fell, its body striking the ground with the deafening finality of stone hitting marble. A web of fractures raced across its ornate armour, and the brilliant light that had burned within was snuffed out into nothing.

The Worn

Just to keep you updated, I've started working on that first post and should have it up by the end of this week for the latest :)

Camp Athens - Closed

It began with an absence.
The eerie, consuming kind.
There was no warning. There was no voice. There was no cold breath in her ear.
All it was, all it would be, was her world vanishing beneath her feet.

A blink, and reality reconfigured. Her eyes opened onto a boundless plain of perfectly still water, its surface a tarnished mirror to a sky bleached of all hue. In every direction, the horizon had been erased, leaving no distinction between the heavens and the abyss. There was only the pale, infinite reflection and the low, frantic rhythm of her own heart, a sound that seemed to travel not through air but through the very substance of this place.

Every breath was a struggle, a heavy, stolen thing that burned in her chest as if the atmosphere itself resisted her existence.

Then, a disturbance marred the perfect reflection below.
At first, she assumed it was her own form wavering, that strange, dream-logic instability where the body becomes a fleeting suggestion. But the figure taking shape in the depths was not her own.

It was him.

He lay suspended just beneath the glassy divide, adrift in a calm, azure-tinged void as though dreaming at the bottom of creation. Strands of his hair drifted like dark smoke in a gentle current. His form was completely motionless yet not devoid of life; rather, a terrifying serenity seemed to hold him in its grasp. His expression was untroubled, his features relaxed into a peace so profound it felt like a prelude to oblivion. He was, she realized with a jolt of dread, dangerously at ease.

The sight tore at a fundamental part of her soul.
Her hand flew to the water’s surface, palm flattening against it, expecting to feel a liquid yield. Instead, it met the cold resistance of stone, a flawless barrier sealing her above while he remained trapped below in the deep.

Through the impossible, crystalline medium, she could see him with painful clarity: the individual lashes dusting his cheeks, the soft, untroubled curve of his lips. And it was this, his total placidity, that unleashed a pure, undiluted terror within her.

Driven by a surge of panic, she hammered her fist against the solid surface. The impact sent a jarring vibration shivering up her arm.

The barrier did not fracture. It did not even tremble.

A scream was ripped from her throat, a raw sound of desperation. But as it left her lips, the strange physics of this place seized it, warping and stretching the cry into a distorted echo that was…
 
.̸̡̜͍̯̞͆.̵̪̟̻̯̰̩͍́̄̾́̃̅͠.̶̛̗͖̞̖̝̭̤͚͋̔̋̓̚b̸̧̥̩̺̺͘͜o̸̧̗̭͇̻͆͋̽ţ̵͖̤̭͉̣͉̩̞͛̃̄̾̚h̵̨͖͚̰̪͋̈́̔̉͊͆̐͐̔̌ ̴̡̡̩̺͇̞̲̟̤̒͆͊̿̎͘͜h̴̨̭̹͚̙͛͛̿̀̊̽͘͝é̸͈̣̪̦̄͠r̷͔̣̒̆͌̂͘̕̕ ̸̪̔̄͒̐͐̄̊̓͝ớ̵͈̙̦͒͌̊̕͘̚͘͝w̸̛̜̗̐̈́͌̃̓͑̿͗ͅn̴̺̱͚̱̏̇̉͜͜,̶̩̘͍̜̣̺̞͍͙̝͒́̓̉͋͂̓͠͠ ̸̩͎̑̈́͋̐̒͆͊͊͘

ă̷͖͙̖̪͔̱̘͍͐̉n̷̡͈͇̦̒͆d̷̰͕͕͈̠̦̉̀ ̴̨̡̣͚̣̘̻̗͒̀͛̇̊͒s̷̡̳̟̓̿o̶̳̰̬̤̟͂͑̍̅̎̓̂͆̓͘͜m̷̡̡̜͚̠͍̩̠̦͌̑͐ͅe̵̱̠̙͠t̷̨̲̦̪̺͖̮̼̮͕̍̒̚ḩ̶̲̤͕͙͈͕̪͕̔͐̽̑͂̂̈́̂ī̶̢̢̡̬͖͉̺̋̈̈͒͗̉͌̈͝n̸̢̰̦̑g̵̤̼͖͎͆̄̈́̓̽́͝͝͠ ̴̞̗̠̜̘͂̾͋̚̚͠e̷̡͔͖̼͔̹̖̺̓͌ͅl̴̞͓̦͓̥̟̣͍̀̈́ͅs̸̨̩̭̱̫͔̝͚̜̓̎͛̂͋̿̑̇̉͊ȇ̷̢̯̗͈̐̔̃̔͒̚ ̴̭̖̦̳̝͗͒͛ȩ̸̬͉̯̻̥͉͑̓͑̍̓̕͠n̶̺̼̥̪̙̪͌ẗ̸̡̖̪̳̭̝͍̩̗́͐̈́̔̓ì̸̱͚̲̰̳̒ͅŕ̴̟̭̼̖̤̞̂̂̑̽̇ͅe̶̗͉̗̾͛͌̀̓l̸͔̣̜͚̞̒̊͒͛́̚y̵̧̺͎͚͖͚̎̔̏̔̀̉̃͠͝.̸̢̛̠͔̘̹̪̇̅̑́̆̃͑

Her cry faded into the void, swallowed by the immense stillness until the quiet itself became a deafening roar in her ears.

Then, a single heartbeat.
It was not her own. It was a colossal, subterranean thud that vibrated through the soles of her feet, sending concentric rings pulsing across the vast, mirror-like surface. In response, the featureless sky began to bruise, a deep, inky blackness bleeding across the firmament until it swallowed the reflection below, erasing her own image from the water. The world was being unmade. The plane beneath her feet began to thrum with a slow, rhythmic cadence, a living drumbeat that resonated in her bones. It was a call. It was an invitation. It was a demand from the deep that pulled at her very core.

She never decided to leap. There was no conscious choice, only a sudden, overwhelming compulsion. The memory of breaking the surface was lost to the shock of the cold, a pain so clear and so immediate it felt like a shower of crystalline needles piercing her skin.

Her descent was a struggle against an unseen weight, each movement of her arms and legs labouring as if the water had thickened to syrup. A gravitational pull from the abyss below fought her for every inch while, in the immense blue void, River’s form served as her sole landmark. She fixed her eyes on him, though the space between them seemed to warp, stretching into an impossible distance one moment and collapsing the next.

When her fingertips finally brushed against his arm, the jolt of relief it caused was instantly extinguished by a new dread. His eyes remained shut, his expression one of undisturbed slumber. Yet, his lips were moving, forming a silent, incomprehensible word. The only sound was a stream of bubbles that escaped them, one or two detonating with a soft, startling pop against her skin.

Then, he exhaled a final, surrendering release. A last few tiny, silver bubbles fled from his lips and rose, swirling past her cheeks like a scattered constellation fleeing into the oppressive darkness above.

Desperation seized her. She grabbed his wrist, her fingers tightening, and kicked hard against the water, trying to haul him toward the vanished surface. But the current around him solidified, becoming a viscous, resisting force that clung to him, pulling him back into the depths. The more she fought, the more her muscles shrieked in protest. A burning ache bloomed in her chest, her lungs screaming for a breath she had not taken since entering this nightmare.

Just as her strength began to fail, the very nature of the water transformed.

It was no longer a medium she moved through, but one that moved through her. The knife-sharp cold melted into a warmth both tender and profane. It felt like a fever from the inside out, a stolen heat that wormed its way beneath her skin, threading through her veins and claiming her from the inside. The sea was no longer an element; it was a sentient, breathing entity, and she could feel its vast, ancient attention fixed upon her. A wordless whisper travelled through the current, vibrating in her marrow.

And then there was light.

A soft, silver-blue luminescence kindled in the darkness, gathered over River’s heart. For a wild moment, she thought it was him; a sign of life, his heartbeat made visible, a guiding star in the deep. The light pulsed once, a gentle rhythm that offered a fleeting hope.

But with the next, slower pulse, understanding dawned, cold and horrific. The light was not emanating from him. It was being drawn out, a synoeciosis of creation and undoing, of love that took as it gave. Each faint beat pulled the luminescence from his chest, the silver-blue dimming as it left him and deepening into violet before vanishing altogether into the hungry dark. And as the light was drained, the darkness around her grew absolute, the edges of her vision dissolving as if the very essence of the light, and of him, was being consumed

 

_{by her until}

...

The light went out. The water stilled.
And in the end, there was only the absence.

^{#a9c9eb...|...outfit}

The scrape of the brush against the mare’s flank was the only sound in the stable — shhh, pause, shhh — like waves returning to shore. The horse’s hide gleamed under the soft light filtering through the rafters, her breath visible in the chill of early morning. Maylisse worked in silence, the sort of silence that wasn’t empty but honed in such a way that was well enough to think in and well enough to keep the world at bay. The mare shifted slightly beneath her touch, her muscles rippling beneath the glossy coat as the young woman worked. The motion of the brush appeared to soothe both her and the animal, a shared moment of companionship with her fingers tracing the curve of the animal’s shoulder, feeling for any knots or tight spots in her flesh.

She had arrived at Camp Athens just before dawn, when the party’s bonfire had long died down and the snow outside still glittered with faint traces of footsteps leading nowhere. She had required no guide, finding her way instead by the magical pamphlet in her coat pocket that had given her a cabin of her own. Yet, as she’d crossed the boundary of the place, the very air had seemed to shift around her as if the camp had been anticipating her arrival and chose to mark it in the same way the sea announces a coming squall: a sudden, palpable change in pressure. She supposed it was fitting. If the god of the oceans could make his presence known without warning, why shouldn't his children?

By the time the rest of the camp began to stir, Maylisse had already located the stables, the only such structure indicated on her map. It was a modest building by any measure, but the mingled scents of cedar and sea salt made it tolerable, even familiar. There was something in the presence of the horses that resonated with a part of her soul. Not with the memory of London since she had long since abandoned the pretense that the city was her home, but with something deeper and more primal in her bloodline, a heritage that answered only to instinct and absolute command. These animals, she felt, were born to both obey and to run untamed; they were beautiful because they understood their place in the natural order and, unlike mortals, never felt the need to argue against it.

The mare standing patiently beneath her brush—a dappled grey creature with a striking streak of silver running down her muzzle—let out a soft snort as Maylisse’s gloved hand stilled mid-stroke. “Easy now,” she murmured, the crisp, clipped vowels of a London accent still discernible though softened by time and disuse. “You’re perfectly fine here with me.”

The horse blinked, its dark eyes intelligent and calm, its nostrils flaring once more before it settled again. Animals possessed an innate understanding of power in its subtlest forms. They neither flattered nor second-guessed; they simply knew. It was for this uncomplicated honesty that Maylisse preferred their company. Her fingers resumed their work, the bristles soon catching on a small, stubborn burr tangled deep within the mare's mane. She clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“Now, who brought that one in, hmm?” she asked the creature, her tone one of gentle chiding. The mare responded with another puff of warm air, which Maylisse interpreted as a resigned, ‘Trust me, sis, you don’t want to know.’ She worked the last of the pesky knot free with a careful tug, the plant finally releasing its grip. The mare’s ear twitched forward, then back, a minute signal that felt like a shared victory.

Her coat was draped with care over the stall door, the dark wool still damp in patches where the morning frost had melted into beads of water. Sleep had been a futile pursuit after the long ferry crossing, leaving her with hours to fill in the predawn quiet. She had chosen the sea route deliberately; it felt appropriate to let the currents deliver her to this place, to arrive under the aegis of the one force that had never deceived her. Now, of course, a flight would have been simpler, swifter, and far more in keeping with a childhood spent in penthouses and the backseats of luxury cars. Yet it would have been a betrayal of her true nature. The sky belonged to Zeus. The deep, however, was her father’s domain, and it was truthful in its brutality. It asked for endurance, for patience, for reverence. It was a constant lesson that true strength was not found in speed or spectacle, but in the vast, unseen, and relentless pressure of the abyss.

Throughout the journey, a single, circular thought had plagued her: He truly believes he can lead them. River. Her half-brother. Her father’s newest venture into... what, precisely? Redemption? Governance? A divine test to see if a god's son could mimic humanity well enough to command it? Poseidon had offered no explanation, but then, he never did. He didn't have to. The message was clear in the appointment itself: River was to be everything Maylisse was not, which was amicable, moderate, and the kind of figure mortals and demigods alike could comfortably follow. It was a carefully staged production, designed by their father to cast the rest of his progeny as the villains in River’s heroic narrative.

Or…at least that’s what she believed.

He was the leader of a camp he likely never wanted, just as none of them had asked for the tempestuous force that coursed through their very blood. That was the cruel punchline of their existence: to be bestowed a blessing that always felt like a curse. Mortals romanticized it as a “legacy” or a “calling,” but Maylisse understood the truth. Their power was a chain as much as a birthright, a leash held by a distant father who had never demonstrated compassion, only an expectation of absolute control.

She had witnessed firsthand what passed for Poseidon’s devotion in those foolish enough to confuse it with paternal warmth. He did not raise his children; he tempered them with the relentless hammer of his will and the grinding tide of his demands until they either conformed or shattered. And perhaps River had simply proven more pliable than the rest. Perhaps that was the quality their father valued most: a commander who would follow orders, who would reflect the ocean’s grandeur without ever daring to question its storms. A sovereign sculpted from sea foam and submission. How rank.

She pictured him now, this brother she barely knew, attempting to rally a gathering of divine orphans and fractured souls as if benevolence alone could bind them. He would address them, she imagined, with placidness to pacify them, direct them, and win their devotion. The notion was almost amusing, though Maylisse found the brush slowing in her hand once more at the thought.

The mare stirred, issuing a soft huff as it detected the sudden tension in Maylisse’s touch. Her father would name that a flaw, allowing sentiment, this simmering resentment for a stranger who shared her blood, to unsettle her so visibly. She set the brush aside and pressed her bare palm against the animal’s neck, feeling the steady, vital drumbeat beneath the solid warmth of its body. Alive. Present. Offering a fidelity people were incapable of. She coveted that, as well. Creatures like this did not concern themselves with lineage or celestial politics; they simply responded to sheer authority. The mare accepted what she was without judgment, while Maylisse had wasted years performing as something she was not. The reality was far more fundamental: she was a force, untamed and relentless, that could never be fully subdued.

The mare’s head lifted abruptly, then, ears swivelling toward the entrance a moment before the heavy door groaned on its hinges. The sound was a rough complaint of wood and metal, insignificant in the grand scheme, but in the hushed sanctuary of the stable, it was an intrusion of seismic proportion until—

“Oh…I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be in here.”

---

_{Location: Stables
Interactions: Anissa
Mentions: River}

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