Sleepy Tani

Descendants

^{#cb6b06 ....|..... #d13b00 ....|..... ghost rider ....|..... outfit .....|..... garage ............ #00674f ....|..... sentinel ....|..... outfit .....|..... kitchen > garage}

The kitchen looked like it had been the battleground for a minor domestic war.

Flour dusted the countertops like fresh snowfall, streaked where her hands had dragged through it in frustration. A bowl, too large for the task, sat half full of something that aspired to be dough, though Zaria was almost certain dough wasn’t supposed to look like… that. The rolling pin lay abandoned on its side, lightly smeared with pink jam she wasn’t sure was supposed to be on it. A whisk clung to a desperate clot of butter like it was holding on for dear life.

Zaria stood in the center of the chaos, shoulders drawn tight, brows furrowed at the holographic recipe floating serenely in front of her. The instructions shone in soft blue light, precise and clear, utterly indifferent to the existential crisis happening beneath them.

“I swear it looked easier in the video,” she muttered.

“Miss Von Doom,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said in his ever-patient, ever-composed tone, “The recipe specifies cold butter. You appear to have… softened yours to the point of liquefaction.”

Zaria let out a small, strangled noise. “I panicked! It wouldn’t mix, so I… heated it up.” She lifted the bowl, then put it down again before the ooze could slosh out. “I was trying to be efficient.”

“Efficiency,” the AI replied gently, as gently as artificial intelligence could be, she supposed. “is not typically achieved through improvisational melting.”

Zaria scrubbed her hands over her face, leaving streaks of flour along her cheeks. “I’ve fought bounty hunters, J.A.R.V.I.S. Lots of them. Why is baking harder?”

“Because,” J.A.R.V.I.S. mused, “Bounty hunters do not require precise measurements.”

She huffed, amused despite herself, then looked around the kitchen again, really looked. If Logan were here, he’d be leaning in the doorway with that long-suffering look of his, arms crossed, raspy voice ready with some teasing remark. If her brother were here, he’d have made fun of her until she threw a utensil at him, and then he would have taken over for her. But James… James would’ve shown up at eleven-thirty, hands in his pockets, expecting lunch and company and maybe—maybe, trust.

And she hadn’t been there.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t even know how to explain why that mattered so much, but it did. It mattered in a way that scared her a little. “Okay,” she said, exhaling sharply, “We’re starting over. How do I fix this? Can I fix this? Is it fixable or should I throw myself off the balcony and hope I splatter poetically?”

“I would strongly advise against self-defenestration,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied. “And yes, we can salvage this. First, please place that bowl, carefully, into the sink. Then retrieve fresh butter from the refrigeration unit.” She moved as directed, dumping the bowl into the sink with a wet, sugary plorp that made her wince.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” she said as she crossed to the fridge, “Do you think James will still be upset?”

There was a beat—infinitesimal, but present.

“I believe,” the AI answered, “That Mr. Blaze was disappointed. Not angry. You have done him no irreparable harm.”

Her throat tightened. “I don’t know how to… do this,” she admitted softly. “Friends. Promises. Not messing things up.”

“You will learn,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said, and something about the simplicity of the AI’s statement calmed her frayed nerves ever so slightly. “Now, cube the butter. Small pieces.”

Zaria held the block of butter, fingers pressing into the greasy surface with a grimace, hesitating over the knife. “…Define small?”

“Half-inch,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said.

Zaria made her first slice. It was decidedly not half an inch. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing on it nervously as she hesitated.

There was a pause.

“…Close enough,” the AI said diplomatically.

She snorted, an inelegant, unguarded sound, and for a moment, some of the tension in her spine eased. Zaria pushed the butter into the flour as instructed, working slowly, carefully, determinedly. Her fingers were clumsy, her movements awkward, but she was trying. Really trying.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

“Yes, Miss Von Doom?”

“Do the instructions say how to make them taste like somebody’s childhood?” She looked down at her hands, at the mess she was turning into something better. “Because I think that part matters most.”

A softer note entered the AI’s tone. It was astounding to realize this was not an actual person, but something that had been coded to respond in such a way. She still didn’t fully understand how he worked, but he was the most helpful thing in this tower thus far. “Only intention can do that, I’m afraid.”

Zaria swallowed hard and kept working. For James.

That was when Alfred entered the kitchen like a man stepping into a crime scene. He stopped dead in the doorway. Absolutely frozen. For a long, quiet moment, the only movement was his left eye giving a single, pained twitch, so small any other human would have missed it, but Zaria caught it with the precision of someone trained to notice danger.

And Alfred Pennyworth, war veteran, medic, ex-intelligence operative, survivor of unspeakable Gotham nonsense… looked horrified. Horrified in a dignified British way, which somehow made it worse. His gaze swept slowly from the flour storm coating the countertops, to the jam-streaked rolling pin, to the sacrificial whisk glued to butter, to the holographic recipe, and finally, to Zaria, elbow-deep in a bowl of flour and butter that was clumping like drywall plaster.

“…Miss Von Doom,” Alfred said carefully, his voice so polite it bordered on surgical. “Might I inquire as to why it appears as though you’ve attempted to bake inside a tornado?”

Zaria blinked at him, cheeks burning. “I—um—I’m making pop-tarts.”

There was a full three seconds of silence. Alfred stared at her like she had told him she was attempting open-heart surgery on the countertop. J.A.R.V.I.S., ever helpful, chimed in with impeccable timing. “Miss Von Doom is attempting to prepare homemade strawberry pastries as an apology for disappointing Mr. Blaze.”

Alfred drew in a breath so sharp it could cut glass. “Ah,” he said, and something in his posture softened. Just a touch. “A noble endeavor. And one I suspect Mister Logan would approve of.”

Zaria’s throat tightened. She wasn’t even sure how he knew about Logan, but a part of her wasn’t surprised. It felt like Coulson and Alfred knew everything. “If he were here he’d tell me I’m doing it wrong.”

“Yes,” Alfred agreed dryly, stepping into the room with the air of a man approaching a wounded wild animal. “But he would be correct. You are doing it very wrong.”

Zaria groaned and pressed her hands to her face, smearing new streaks of flour across her skin. “Why is that not comforting?”

Alfred clapped his hands once, brisk and authoritative. “Right. Stand aside, Miss Von Doom. I’ve handled worse than this.” He glanced down at a glob of something that may have once aspired to be dough. His jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Much worse.” It sounded a little like a lie, actually. Not that she was going to complain.

He moved with startling efficiency—rolling up the sleeves of his immaculate shirt with military exactness before surveying the damage. Within minutes, he had dumped the doomed bowl from the sink into the trash, rinsed and replaced the tools with frighteningly swift precision, and wiped down three square feet of counter with the silent, resigned sorrow of a man who knew he would be cleaning up after young superheroes far too often. Then he gave Zaria a firm, encouraging nod. “Very well. Let’s salvage your culinary… aspirations.”

“I’d call them attempts,” she muttered.

“Attempts require momentum,” Alfred countered. “What you’ve been doing is flailing with purpose.”

Zaria stared. “Is that… is that better?”

“A marginal improvement.”

J.A.R.V.I.S. chimed in again. “Mr. Pennyworth has taken over the role of supervising chef. I shall remain secondary support.”

“Very good,” Alfred said. “Now, Miss Von Doom, hands washed. Properly. And then we shall address your dough.” She washed her hands like she was preparing for surgery, under Alfred’s scrutinizing gaze, before returning to the workstation. Alfred placed a fresh bowl in front of her, already containing the proper proportions of flour and salt.

“Cold butter,” he said, handing her a perfectly chilled stick from the refrigerator. “Diced. Into half-inch cubes.” Zaria hesitated. “I am aware,” Alfred said, “That J.A.R.V.I.S. attempted this step with you previously.”

Zaria winced, trying not to pout because Alfred really did know everything. “It didn’t go well.”

“I deduced that when I discovered a butter puddle.” She picked up the knife. Paused. Alfred positioned her hands gently but firmly. “Here. Thumb curled inward. Press, don’t hack. And breathe. Cooking is not warfare.”

“It feels like warfare.”

“Then consider me your commanding officer in this campaign.” She snorted, again, and something in her chest eased, just like before. Under Alfred’s instruction, her cuts were cleaner, closer to the right size. He nodded approvingly. “Well done. Into the flour now.” Zaria dumped the butter in. “Now, incorporate with your fingertips. Not your palms. Warm palms melt the butter prematurely.”

“Like this?” she asked, fumbling.

“Precisely. Gentle. Think of coaxing, not crushing.”

Zaria blinked, and after a few moments she added. “This is… nicer than I expected.”

“It is,” Alfred said mildly, “Baking is meant to be a relaxing endeavor, as it is difficult to produce anything edible when one is panicking.”

J.A.R.V.I.S. added, “Her panic level was at 82%, earlier.”

Zaria groaned softly. “Why would you tell him that?”

“Because,” Alfred said, “It explains the dough on the ceiling, and the butter liquefaction incident.”

She ducked her face, flushing darker. “I’m never living that down.”

“No,” Alfred agreed. “You are not.” But when she peeked at him, he was smiling. A small, warm tilt of the mouth that felt like approval. Real approval. “Now,” he said, straightening, “Shall we continue? We have pastries to complete, a kitchen to restore, and a friend to make amends with.”

Zaria’s chest tightened again—this time not with panic, but something fragile and hopeful. “Yeah,” She said quietly. Zaria wondered, distantly, if this is what life could have been like if her dad was… anyone else.

* * *

James had been restless since training. He wanted to get out of the tower and go on a ride… He wanted to leave, feeling more out of place with every passing hour. He had packed his bag with what little bit of clothes he had that Zaria meticulously unpacked earlier that morning. With one less outfit after his whole training fiasco, there was an excess of room that felt… off, like he was leaving something behind. He made his way down to the garage without running into anyone—thank god—but now there was the whole hurdle of actually getting on his bike and leaving. No matter how much he tried, hooking his saddlebag up to his motorcycle, getting seated and even putting on his helmet… He couldn’t bring himself to start the engine.

He remained in that limbo for over half an hour, ass going numb on the seat and sweaty palms pressed to his thighs. All the while the spirit kept calling him a Pussy every time he reached for the keys in the ignition. After being chastised nearly a dozen different ways, James ripped off his helmet and threw it across the garage.

Well that was dramatic, the voice nagged at the back of his head while the sound of his helmet rolling across the ground echoed loudly throughout the vast concrete room.

"For the love of God, shut up!" James ran his hands back through his hair before peeling off his leather jacket and throwing it on the ground.

James couldn’t go on a fucking ride because he promised he wouldn’t leave the tower alone. He couldn’t leave because that same promise made his feet drag like they were strapped to cement blocks. And he couldn’t bring himself to trudge back up to his room because… of his pride? He was lonely?... Maybe he was just a pussy like the spirit said. Unable to make a single fucking decision, James resigned himself to one of the rolling mechanic’s stools and started tuning up his motorcycle as a way to keep his hands and mind busy.

By the time the elevator had started its descent to the garage, James had rid himself of his shirt to avoid getting one of his last decent pieces of clothing covered in grease. His shaggy hair was pulled back in a short and sloppy ponytail that only held half of his hair out of his face. Smudges covered him like polka dots from his head to his waist, while his hands were entirely black almost all the way up to his elbows. Metallica played throughout the garage with a little help from J.A.R.V.I.S., blocking out all other noises… including the spirit’s judgement.

The elevator chimed softly as it reached the garage, the doors gliding open with a smooth whisper that somehow made Zaria’s pulse jump into her throat. The tower’s garage was cavernous, sunlight slanting in through high windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams. Rows of sleek vehicles sat in immaculate lines, polished to mirror shine. A lingering smell of gasoline and motor oil clung comfortably to the air, grounding, warm in a way that reminded her faintly of Logan.

And there, exactly where J.A.R.V.I.S. said he’d be, James sat beside his motorcycle. He hadn’t heard her yet. Which somehow made everything worse.

Zaria swallowed, adjusting her grip on the plate before she dropped it. Six pop-tarts sat on it, three perfectly golden, neatly frosted, even drizzled, with Alfred’s help, like something out of a bakery case. The other three were… earnest attempts. Lopsided. Frosting sliding off one side. One looked like it had gotten into a fistfight and lost, strawberry filling was oozing out of its edges like some kind of murder scene. Her face still had flour streaks on it, she knew because Alfred tried to wipe one away and she dodged out of pure fight-or-flight instinct. Her hair had a dusting of white like she’d been caught in a light blizzard. Her shirt, once black—now had the patterning of someone who’d hugged a bag of flour at high velocity.

She felt ridiculous. Terrified. Stupidly hopeful. The elevator doors tried to close behind her, nudging at her back like a passive-aggressive reminder she couldn’t stand here forever, so she stepped forward.

Her fingers tightened around the plate, holding it in front of herself like it was a shield. Six pop-tarts. Three proud. Three… less so. All hers. All stupid. All she could think to bring. The music hit her. Loud. Grimy. Fast. It barked through the garage as if warning her to turn around while she still could, it was the sort of music Logan liked though, and that gave her just a little bit of confidence to step forward instead of turn away.

There he was though, James, shirtless, grease-stained, doing… something to his bike that she didn’t really understand. It looked complicated, and messy.

She swallowed. Hard. Fear and anxiety swirled inside of her like a tornado. Her feet moved anyway. “Uh—hi,” she tried to say over the music, but it barely came out. She had to move closer before she was even in his peripheral vision, before he could hear her. Her heart was pounding so hard she swore he could hear it through Metallica.

“James,” she blurted, a little too loud, the moment she was close enough that he couldn’t pretend not to notice her.

James was hunched over tightening a bolt with a socket wrench when he caught movement out of the corner of his eyes. He paused just a second, sparing Aria a sideways glance. The pit of emotions that had been churning in his stomach since he left training tightened and contorted. If he was actually planning on leaving it was too late now. He knew once she noticed his packed bag there would be no way to avoid the conversation. Either he’d make her guilt grow or he’d be a jackass… Maybe both. He let out a soft sigh that was lost somewhere beneath the guitar solo from Master of Puppets. He finished tightening that single bolt before discarding the wrench into the toolbox at his feet and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, adding another grease mark to his already peppered skin.

"Hey J.A.R.V.I.S., stop the music," he called over the loud electric guitar. Then like spontaneously going deaf, the garage was silent as the grave. The only sound filling James’s ears was the residual ringing from the absence of the noise. Greasy hands pushed off his knees as he stood. The movement shifted the stool and sent it rolling behind him until it stopped, caught on the sleeve of his leather jacket and his saddlebag. He looked down at Aria with dark circles under his eyes, patiently waiting for her to speak. His face was a mosaic of exhaustion, frustration, sadness, and about twenty other emotions all rolled into one.

And then, because there was no turning back, because her guilt was crawling up her throat, she just started talking. “I… missed lunch. And I’m really, really sorry. I know you said you were okay, but—” She cut herself off, inhaling sharply. She couldn’t stop now, there was still so much Zaria felt like she needed to say, but all the words were getting caught in the back of her throat, choking her. “I thought—I thought maybe—well, you said they reminded you of your sister. And I wanted to make something that mattered. I’ve never baked anything before, and I didn’t know what I was doing but I tried, really tried, because I didn’t mean to hurt you and I know I did, and—”

Her eyes burned, her throat was closing up, and she couldn’t look at him, so she thrust the plate out and held it in the space between the two of them. “I just wanted to fix it. These… these are for you.”

James studied her face, brows furrowing as the words fell from her like a nervous vomit, one after the other. He didn’t notice the tray clutched in her hands until Aria mentioned his sister, then his gaze fell to the strawberry pastries, half of them looking like they were purchased from a gourmet bakery while the others looked like a child that tried. The sight made his chest tighten with an aching homesickness that always laid dormant inside him. He knew which ones were hers the moment he saw them and for a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he liked those more.

Seeing the tears forming in her eyes made the tension fall from his shoulders and his brows curve upward with subtle concern. Before he could find the words or form a sentence, the tray was shoved into the space between them and the cold metal pressed against his chest. James’s gaze fell to the offering a second time and instinctively went to take it until he saw the blackness of his hands out of the corner of his eye. "I… Give me a second." He held up an index finger and took a step away. Then he stopped and turned back to face her. "Please don’t cry… I’ll just cover you in grease."

James cautiously turned from her, making sure Aria wasn’t going to burst into tears the second he stepped away. He half stumbled half stepped over the toolbox and made his way over to the sink. It took him several minutes of scrubbing his arms with the abrasive soap to get most of the dirt, grime and grease off of his hands. But no matter how hard he tried, it still remained embedded under his nails and in the creases of his skin. He grabbed an excessive amount of paper towels and dried his hands, then used what was left to try and wipe the remaining grease from his chest and face to no avail.

After tossing the dirty, bunched up towels into the trash he slowly approached Aria like she was an injured animal he didn’t want to scare off. James hesitantly reached out and grabbed one of the uglier misshapen poptarts. He turned it over in his hand, studying it before looking over at her. "You know you can buy these at a gas station for like… five bucks, right?" He brought the pastry to his mouth and took a bite without hesitation. The trust that he had in them not being contaminated one way or another was surprising considering the state of her eggs that morning, but she made the effort to bake poptarts from scratch… He could stomach a bite or two.

He looked a bit surprised at how normal they tasted. Sure they looked like a five year old made them, but they were just as good, if not better than actual poptarts. The corner of James’s mouth curled upward into a weary smile as he took another bite and grabbed his stool to sit back down with a sigh. "Thanks," he spoke quietly and a bit awkwardly, not knowing what else to say, but knew he needed to say something.

Thanks? That’s it? the spirit goaded him beneath the ringing in James’s ears.

"If you don’t shut up I’ll take a bath in holy water," James replied through his growing headache. He took another bite of the wonky poptart hoping to drown out that damn voice and calm some of his twisting and conflicting emotions.

Zaria didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it shuddered out of her—quiet, barely audible even in the sudden silence of the garage, but enough to make her shoulders finally drop from around her ears. The sight of him actually eating the pop-tart, her pop-tart, the ugliest of the batch, the one she’d nearly thrown in the trash twice, sent a tiny, fizzy rush of relief through her, like her ribs had loosened their grip on her lungs.

But the relief didn’t stop her hands from trembling.

She rubbed her thumb against the edge of the plate, smearing a faint streak of flour onto the metal in the process. Her gaze flicked from his face to the pastry in his hand, then back again, searching for any sign, any, that he wasn’t secretly forcing himself to chew. When she finally found her voice, it was soft. Fragile. Barely there. “Does it… um—” Her fingers tightened on the plate. “Does it taste okay?” The question stumbled out of her, nervous and uneven.

She tried to smile but it wobbled, her bottom lip catching between her teeth. She couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting, shifting her weight, brushing flour from her sleeve, pushing her hair behind her ear even though it immediately fell forward again. Anything to keep from wringing her hands like a child waiting for a grade and dropping the plate, adjusting how she was holding it constantly. Her eyes darted to the pop-tarts Alfred had made, the perfectly frosted ones, the ones that looked like they belonged in a commercial. Those would’ve been safe. Predictable. Normal.

But he hadn’t taken one of those. He’d picked hers.

And that made everything much, much worse.

“I mean—you don’t have to say it’s good just because I’m… uh. Crying-adjacent.” Her laugh was thin and shaky. “I know they look like they were assembled during a small personal crisis. Which they were. But Alfred said they were technically edible, and—yeah.” She realized she was rambling again and snapped her mouth shut, inhaling sharply. A beat passed. Then, quieter—small enough he could have missed it if he wasn’t listening.

“I really wanted them to be good.” Her gaze lifted to him again, open, uncertain, hoping in a way that made her chest hurt.

"You didn’t try them?" James asked her with a mouthful of food, pausing in the middle of chewing, brows tugging together a bit confused. He swallowed, looking between the half eaten poptart in his hand then up at Aria from beneath the tousled hairs that fell in his face. "So… It’s poisoned?" The corner of his mouth curved upwards into a weak lopsided smile before he intentionally took another bite while a laugh rumbled in his chest.

He then leaned to the side, reaching out with his free hand to grab a nearby stool and slowly rolled it towards her legs in a silent offering. James didn’t really know how to do this whole friend thing. It had been years since he had a person who remained in his life for more than 24 hours, and according to the clock it had been… 29 hours. So she was already breaking that record. There was still a part of him that was a bit sore and guarded from getting burned the single time he opened up to someone in over a decade. She apologized and he knew she meant it, but there was still some kind of internal roadblock he couldn’t get around. So rather than trying to fill the silence with a slew of words that he’d fumble to put together and likely wouldn’t make a sentence, he ate in a tentative silence.

After finishing the last bite, James cleared his throat wishing he had something to drink but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and shit on Aria’s attempt at making amends. His hands rubbed his thighs anxiously before looking over at her. "They’re good… Slow acting poison though. Might want to up the dosage next time," he teased softly. His quiet tone didn’t quite reach his usual casual calmness, but it was getting there… Slowly. James wasn’t often in the territory of having to forgive someone. He knew it would take time, but that’s it. Everything felt like uncharted territory, and awkward… Really fucking awkward.

Zaria blinked at the stool like it was some rare, delicate thing, an invitation she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept. For a moment she just stood there, frozen in that breathless in-between, plate clutched like a lifeline. Then, with a small, almost instinctive nod, she eased herself down onto it. The faux leather of it was cool beneath her legs, grounding in a way she didn’t expect. Her knees drew together, her hands hovered awkwardly over the plate, and she let out a soft, watery laugh at his joke, thin but real, threaded through with a kind of exhausted relief.

“No. I—” she sniffed, scrubbing her sleeve across the corner of her eye before any tears could fully commit. The laugh hiccuped again, gentler this time. “They weren’t… meant for me.” She stared down at the pop-tarts, her crooked pastry soldiers lined up beside Alfred’s pristine creations, and her fingers tapped nervously against the rim of the plate. “I made them for you.”

The words slipped out soft but firm, unadorned. Somehow that naked honesty felt more terrifying than any apology she’d stammered earlier. “I didn’t try them because…” Her throat bobbed. “I’ve never had a pop-tart before.” She lifted her gaze, just for a heartbeat, like she was checking to see if he’d laugh, even though she knew he already knew this much, but this time she wasn’t sure she could join him. “So I wouldn’t even know if they tasted right. Or wrong. Or like…” Her hand fluttered vaguely, searching for a word she didn’t have. “Pop-tarts.”

A breath trembled loose from her chest. “I just wanted to try to do something nice.” The silence in the garage was too loud, deafening almost, but her voice dropped to something quieter, something raw enough it felt like she was peeling open a seam she’d never touched before. “Something that was… actually mine. Actually genuine.”

"Well," James mused into the silence of the garage as his cleaned hands ran along his grease stained jeans, slowly and unintentionally getting dirty again. "If those are mine—" he pointed at the plate where three perfect and two massacred poptarts waited to be eaten and enjoyed, "—I can choose how they are eaten… So you should have one and I’ll buy you shitty gas station poptarts the next time we leave the tower."

"Can I have one?" the spirit asked, with his deep demonic voice falling from James’s lips.

"You don’t have a mouth."

"Semantics."

Zaria stared at the plate for a long, suspended heartbeat, like the pop-tarts themselves had suddenly become sacred objects, fragile and glowing beneath the garage lights. The offer settled over her slowly, gently, like snowfall on stone. Her fingers twitched against her knee, hesitant, unsure, caught between fear and something that almost resembled warmth. Then, with a soft exhale, she reached out. Deliberate. Careful. She chose one of the ugly ones, one of hers, its uneven frosting cracked at the corner, the dough slightly lopsided as if it, too, had been nervous during its creation. Her hand shook as she lifted it, cradling it like something precious she wasn’t entirely sure she deserved.

The banter between James and Judge tugged a smile to her lips, small, edged with lingering nerves, but real. There was a strange comfort in the way James argued with his demon like it was a bickering roommate rather than a creature born from torment. Judge’s low, rumbling demand, James’s flat refusal, something about the absurdity of it loosened a knot in her ribs she didn’t know she’d been clenching. She even let out a faint laugh, barely more than a breath, but threaded with a shy, startled amusement. “I’ll eat one,” she murmured, lifting the misshapen pastry a little higher as proof. Her gaze flicked to him, bright with nervous sincerity. “But the rest… the rest are still yours.” Her voice warmed, softening around the edges.

“I made them for you. I meant that.” She looked down at the pop-tart in her hand, studying its crooked lines, the places where the frosting had pooled or split, the faint indent of her thumb from when she’d set it on the tray earlier. For some reason, holding it now made her chest tighten, not painfully, but with something achingly tender. Something strangely hopeful. She inhaled, steadying herself, and added—barely above a whisper, but clear enough to reach him. “Thank you… for sharing.”

James’s brows pulled together in disbelief rather than a normal ‘you’re welcome’ like most people would have offered. "If you thought you could bring down a platter of poptarts and get away without eating at least one of them, you’re crazy." He let out a small, incredulous puff of air that slipped from beneath pursed lips. "But I’ll be sure to take the rest up to my apartment for breakfast or something… If that would make you happy." His last words came out slow, tentative and far more soft than his usual dry sarcasm. He didn’t look in her eyes, his gaze remaining focused on the grease stains along his jeans and the black oil that clung to the creases of his fingers and remained beneath his nails.

Zaria felt her smile bloom before she could stop it, small and warm and entirely unguarded. The elevator’s low hum, the quiet settling of the garage around them, everything seemed to soften as she watched him study the stains on his jeans instead of her face. She shifted the half-eaten pop-tart in her hands, crumbs dusting her fingertips, and let the words rise gently, like steam off something freshly baked.

“It would,” she admitted, voice a murmur shaped by sincerity rather than shyness. “It would make me really happy.” Then, almost tripping over her own earnestness, she added quickly, “But only if you’re happy too. That’s what matters most.” Her cheeks warmed, not with embarrassment but with the fragile, glowing hope that he understood—this wasn’t gratitude out of politeness, or some attempt to repay kindness with obligation. It was simply the truth, offered to him the way she offered everything important: gently, carefully, with both hands.

James’s brows rose slightly at her final comment. He couldn’t recall a time in his life where someone claimed to care more about his own happiness more than… well, than their own. He held out his hands like he was trying to calm a frightened animal, but a lighthearted, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Calm down there, tiger. I’ll compromise that it matters that we’re both happy, but there’s no way in hell my happiness matters most." He dropped his hands gently to his knees for a beat before pointing an index finger toward her. "Also if you wake me up early tomorrow then some of those poptarts are yours." His eyes squinted slightly as he wagged his finger in a gentle, mostly playful warning.

Zaria’s grin unfurled slow and bright, like sunlight catching on something fragile and making it glow. She lifted her chin in a small, almost defiant nod, soft, but certain. “Then we’ll call it even,” she murmured, amusement threading through her voice like silver ribbon. “Your happiness, mine… equal stakes. No arguments.” The playfulness in her eyes softened into something warmer, gentler, as if the words themselves had anchored her to the moment. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and let her smile settle into something quieter. “And I can… definitely see myself enjoying one of the pop-tarts in the morning.” Her gaze dipped to the plate and then back to him, the corners of her mouth lifting just a touch more. “If you don’t mind sharing.”

"Good," he replied with a sure nod and a slight ease of his posture. While other people, normal people, would have seen Zaria’s comment as some sort of innuendo at the implication that she’d see him in the morning. But James only took it as confirmation that the blonde hellion that had deemed herself his headache, burden, and friend intended to wake him up bright and early like she had that morning. And while the idea of being woken up prematurely already made him grumpy, the thought of someone being impatient enough for his company that they have to wake him up to see him sooner was… comforting. "I wouldn’t have offered if I minded."

Silence stretched for a beat, thick, humming, taut. Then, almost without warning, the words began to slip faster, unfiltered, like some dam inside her had cracked. “I’ve never had a friend before.” The sentence landed between them like a confession. Not dramatic. Not self-pitying. Just… true. She set the plate down carefully on the nearby workbench as if her hands needed to be freed to say the next part. Or maybe because they were shaking too hard to carry the weight of it.

“My father, he…” Her jaw tightened, as though the name itself made the bitter taste of iron bloom across her tongue. “He kept us, my brother and I, inside the castle. Always. Latveria was outside, but we weren’t part of it. We were… possessions. Projects.” Her voice grew quieter still, but sharper, edged like broken glass.

“Every lesson was about control. Power. Silence. He said kindness was a liability. Compassion was weakness. That caring for anyone made you… breakable.” For a moment, her eyes unfocused, gaze distant, like she was seeing marble corridors and cold stone walls instead of grease-streaked concrete and metal. “He tried to beat it out of us.” The words weren’t metaphor. Not entirely. A brittle laugh escaped her, not humorous, just a splinter of sound. “It never quite worked on me.” Then she seemed to realize what she’d said, what she’d revealed, and her spine straightened abruptly, breath hitching as though she’d just stepped somewhere she shouldn’t.

Her hand shot up to tuck flour-dusted hair behind her ear again, automatic, shaky, panicked. “Sorry,” she whispered, voice shrinking, retreating. “That was… too much. I didn’t mean to—” Zaria swallowed hard, gaze dropping to her knees, shoulders curling inward like she could fold herself back into something smaller. Safer.

“I just… forgot.”

A beat.

Quieter.

“How little I’m supposed to say.”

James remained quiet and patient, hands clasped together in his lap as he listened to whatever she wanted to say and let her words run their course. He twiddled his thumbs for a few seconds, trying to parse together a coherent thought before he spoke. "I don’t really have friends either… None that last more than 48 hours anyway." He looked across the tool littered space between them, then held her gaze. "But even if I did, I wouldn’t share information you’ve told me in confidence. That’s no one’s business."

He reached up and brushed back the loose strands of hair that fell in his face and attempted to tuck them behind his ear, but they slipped free not a moment later. "Your dad sounds like a dick," James commented with a half-hearted laugh. "I think you and that Tobias guy could start a support group. ‘Shitty super villain dads anonymous.’" His posture relaxed some, shoulders slouching forward slightly and knees spread casually. "Gotta make sure you have ‘villains’ in the title, or Lieutenant Buttplug might show up." He grimaced at the thought of Captain America Jr. weaseling his way into—well, anything—with that uncomfortable lecherous gaze. That man looked like a poster child for a predator.

Zaria had just taken another bite of the pop-tart, when James said the words Lieutenant Buttplug. The laugh hit her like a punch to the diaphragm. She choked on strawberry filling, coughed once, then doubled over with a strangled, hiccuping sound that was completely ungraceful and entirely uncontrollable. Her shoulders shook as she struggled to swallow and breathe at the same time, one hand pressed to her sternum, the other clutching the mangled pastry. A smear of jam streaked her thumb. Tears prickled the corners of her eyes, but this time, blessedly, from laughter.

“L–Lieutenant—” she wheezed, then dissolved into another breathless laugh. “I can’t—James—” It took her a full thirty seconds to get herself under control again, to sit upright, to swipe at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. She inhaled slowly, shakily, her grin too wide and too bright for someone who had nearly cried in this same garage not ten minutes ago. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, gentler, still laced with leftover laughter, but carrying something deeper beneath it. “Thank you.”

She didn’t clarify what she was thanking him for. She didn’t need to. It was the laugh. The kindness. The way he hadn’t recoiled from her honesty. The way he hadn’t mocked her father—well, not in the wrong way. All of it. Her smile softened further, turning rueful, almost tired but warmer than before. “And… yeah. My dad sucks.” She said it with a wry, lopsided twist of her mouth, the kind of confession she wasn’t sure she was supposed to make out loud. But it felt good, strangely good.

James’s own smile grew. It was small and steady like the sun rising over the horizon in the morning, a blooming warmth. No matter how he felt or how the slight sting from being forgotten that morning still lingered at the back of his mind somewhere beside the spirit, making someone laugh… Truly laugh always eased the tiniest bit of tension that was ever present, tightly knit between his shoulders. It never removed it completely. James couldn’t recall what it felt like to ever really be… at ease, but for a fleeting few moments as Aria cried and struggled to form words, it lightened the load.

He groaned, a mix of annoyance at shitty father figures and discomfort as he tried to stretch some of the soreness from his arms. "Mine does too." James let out a laugh that was almost more of a wheeze, awkward, a little forced, but laced with good intentions and sympathies. "Don’t get me wrong, yours wins by fucking miles—" He made a gesture with his hand, sweeping it to the side as if to say Doom won by a landslide. "He gets that giant ass Nascar trophy that’s like the size of a small country. My dad gets one of those cute little participation ribbons." He chuckled and held up his thumb and index finger so close together that they were practically pinched as he mentioned the tiny medal his own dad got in the grand scheme of ‘shitty dad awards.’

Zaria let out a small, wry laugh, the sound threading between the echoes of silence in the garage and the faint hum of the garage lights. Her eyes glinted with mischief despite the lingering nerves, and she leaned slightly forward, resting an elbow on her knee as if sharing a conspiratorial secret. “Maybe,” she said, voice playful, soft but edged with a teasing warmth, “We really should start a… ‘Bad Dads’ club. We could make matching T-shirts, like those cheesy family reunion ones, but way cooler. You know—‘World’s Shittiest Father—Est. Doom’ and ‘Tiny Ribbon Edition—Also My Dad.’” She let her smile bloom wider, hoping it was enough to tug a laugh from him—hoping that in some small, ridiculous way, they could share a moment of levity, of connection, even in the shadow of their fathers.

James laughed softly as his posture softened, shoulders slouching forward into a more comfortable and tired looking hunch. He clicked his tongue, made finger guns, and flexed his thumbs like pulling the trigger. "Upgrade it to a hoodie or jacket and I’m sold." He shrugged his shoulders at his own shitty joke. "You could get a two for one special with Judge." He pointed toward his head but more specifically his unwilling passenger that rattled around his skull.

"Why am I included?" The voice rumbled to life through James’s mouth.

"Isn’t your dad like satan? That’s pretty fucked up."

"Spirit not demon," Judge corrected, annoyance palpable in his gruff voice. "Try again."

"God isn’t much better," James corrected himself with a wry chuckle.

Zaria’s grin unfurled before she could stop it—small at first, shy at the edges, but undeniably real. She ducked her head just slightly, as though the gesture might hide the warmth blooming across her cheeks. “A hoodie would be better anyway,” she admitted, voice soft but laced with playful agreement. “More room for dramatic slogans. And I like being cozy.” The words slipped out lightly, almost breezy, but beneath them was the quiet sweetness of someone amazed she could joke like this with him, even after she’d fucked up.

Her smile softened as Judge rumbled to life through James, the familiar, uncanny cadence echoing against the quiet of the garage. She watched the two of them banter with a tender sort of fascination, Judge’s gravel-edged indignation, James’s dry, effortless sarcasm, woven together like two mismatched threads that somehow made perfect sense. There was something strangely comforting in it, something grounding. Like listening to siblings squabble over the radio station during a long drive.

She let out a quiet breath, her gaze flickering between the man and the spirit who shared him. “I… mean,” she said softly, almost hesitant, her nose wrinkling in thought as she traced the worn seam of her sleeve with her thumb, “God… definitely isn’t much better.” The admission came with a faint, uncertain shrug—half agreement, half a quiet confession of her own complicated relationship with divinity, morality, and the people who wielded it as a weapon.

"I’d rather put my faith in a God like Magni than the big guy upstairs," James commented while pointing upwards in the general direction of God, the heavens or whatever other bullshit. "At least the Asgardian is, ya know… tangible."

Zaria’s lips curled into a small, amused grin, something soft around the edges, like a smile that had learned how to bloom carefully. She angled her head just slightly, watching him gesture skyward as if the ceiling itself might house a divine audience. “Yeah,” she murmured, voice threaded with a quiet warmth, “Tangible is… definitely easier to work with.” Her fingers toyed with each other, restless but thoughtful, as her gaze drifted toward the concrete floor and then back up to him, a gentle flicker of mischief behind her eyes.

“I mean, no offense to anyone with a pantheon on speed dial, but the whole ‘I am a god’ thing makes me feel weird. Like I’m trapped in a bad movie and waiting for the villain monologue.” A soft huff of laughter escaped her, brief but real, easing something tight in her chest. “Just… people deciding they’re divine? I don’t know. It’s a lot.” She shrugged lightly, but her gaze remained steady on him, and the spirit nestled somewhere behind his eyes, as if that honesty was an offering she trusted them to hold.

"Yeah you’d think with my whole… predicament." James motioned toward himself with a soft sigh, before resting his forearms back against his knees. "It’d make sense for me to believe in God, a god… And maybe he’s up there. I don’t know. But if he is, then he’s royally fucked my shit." He shrugged his shoulders with a casual indifference. "I’m not worshipping any god. I put my faith in myself and the people I keep in my life… And we’re not gods," he added with a weak laugh.

Zaria let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something brittle loosening in her ribs. She lifted a hand as if to gesture at the air, at nothing and everything, the ruins of belief and the things people tried to build in its place. “Well… my dad thinking he’s a man-made god is more than enough to put me off worshipping anything with a throne or a halo,” she murmured, humor thin but true. Her smile wavered, not from embarrassment but from the echo of old wounds, then steadied, small and real, like a candle that refused to go out. “So… I get it. Faith in people feels a lot safer. A lot more honest.”

A beat passed. Her gaze drifted toward the concrete floor between them, then back up to him, uncertainty shadowing the edges of her expression. She fidgeted with a corner of her pop-tart, picking absentmindedly at a crumble of crust. “And Luke…” Her throat tightened around the name. She swallowed. “He… makes me uncomfortable.” The words felt small, but they trembled with truth.

Her gaze flicked to James again, catching the faint grimace he’d made at the name. Something eased inside her, as if a spring that had been wound too tight finally loosened a fraction. “So… thank you. For earlier.” There was no babbling this time. No rambling. Just a quiet sincerity that rested heavy between them, fragile, but real.

"Yeah, well…" James started with a sharp inhale as he ran his palms along his thighs, stopping when his hands came to rest on his knees. "I never really liked people who couldn’t take a fucking hint… I’m about as subtle as a sledge hammer," he added with a half-hearted laugh as his gaze fell to his calloused fingers rapping against his kneecaps.

"He sounded like those rapists we smited a couple months ago," Judge chimed in without any sassy or sardonic remarks, just sharing an observation similar to how one would comment on the weather. "Smelled like them too."

James’s fingers curved into the palms of his hands, turning his knuckles white as half of the muscles in his body visibly tensed even if he didn’t move an inch. His expression was tight and pensive with furrowed brows and clenched teeth that made the muscle along his jaw prominent beneath his cheekbone. "Just… don’t be alone with him." He held up his hand to stop her before she made any assumptions. "It doesn’t have to be with me. I just don’t trust narcissistic pricks with an ego. They’re the type of people to do fucked up shit and blame the victim." His hand fell but before it landed on his leg, he stuck his index finger up into the air to interject himself. "I will fucking kill him if he tries anything—" with anyone in the tower? Sure. But Aria more specifically, he just wasn’t going to say it. "I’d like to see his stupid Captain America ass try and stop me."

After a moment or two passed of awkward silence, James ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head. "But uh… yeah. You’re welcome. He obviously doesn’t find me attractive, so I have that going for me," he added with a wry laugh that bordered on self deprecating. But for once, he didn’t mind being left out of that particular situation. The last thing he wanted was Luke trying to get in his pants.

Zaria felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth settle in her chest, a little ember of relief that refused to burn out no matter how tightly she held her emotions in check. Listening to James, seeing the way his hands tightened and flexed, the subtle tension in his jaw as he spoke of people who made him uncomfortable, it was… comforting. Not in the usual sense of safety, because she’d never known much of that outside her brother or Logan, but in the delicate, grounding sense of someone finally giving a damn. She wasn’t used to this. Not truly. Not someone who didn’t have some ulterior motive, who didn’t see her as a pawn, a means to an end. But here he was, telling her, without exaggeration, without performance, that he cared. And she realized, with an odd mix of awe and hesitation, that it mattered. That she mattered.

Her lips curved into a small, soft smile, the kind that tugged at the corners in a way that made her feel exposed and alive all at once. Her gaze lingered on him, warm, a little sappy, and for a fraction of a moment she let herself just look, absorbing the subtle shifts of his expression, the easy way his voice softened despite the bitterness threading through it. She swallowed, hesitated, and then spoke, letting her words come out slow and measured, as though each one was carefully chosen from a treasury of vulnerability she didn’t often access.

“Luke’s… dumb,” she said, almost teasing, though the underlying seriousness made her tone firm enough to carry weight. She flicked a glance toward him, warm and honest, and added softly, “I get it. I’ll… be careful around him. Don’t worry.” Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the stool she was sitting on, as if it grounded her in the moment, kept her from spiraling into the too-familiar space of distrust and fear.

She let her smile soften further, and the uncharacteristic sappiness of it made her chest ache in a way that was almost sweet, almost painful. “I… I’m really not used to anyone caring, not like this. Not for me. But… It's nice. I hope I get used to it eventually,” she admitted, her voice lowering to a near whisper, sincere and unpolished, raw with that strange mixture of relief and hope. It was a confession that felt dangerous to let slip, but she felt the need to let it out anyway, the need to stake a small claim to something that wasn’t constant disappointment or fear.

She tilted her head just slightly, brushing the flour smudges from her cheek without thinking. “I—thank you,” she murmured, letting the words hang in the air, fragile and earnest. Not just for the warnings, or the protection, or the small thread of trust he offered, but for the simple fact that he cared. And that… was something she wasn’t ready to let go of, not ever. “For what it’s worth, I… care about you too.”

The seriousness of the conversation and the weight behind Aria’s authenticity rested heavy in the air between them. James couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes. His gaze remained intent on the steel toed tip of his boots and the smudge of coagulated oil that stuck to it. He cleared his throat and tapped his heel as he tried to piece together words into a clear thought. "In a place like this—World like this—" His hand motioned in a general circle at everything that surrounded them as he tried to downplay what Aria said, or redirect conversation… Or deflect… something. "It’s good to have someone watching your back. Not that I think the people here wouldn’t but… They’re pretty wrapped up in their own shit. I’m just… here." He shrugged his shoulders as he peeked up at her from beneath his brow and the loose hair that fell in his face. "Resident atom bomb. I… Don’t really have any personal stakes in all of this…"

Liar… the spirit chided him within the privacy of his mind.

James sucked in an awkward breath, gaze falling back to that one goopy chunk of oil. "Well, I didn’t..." he corrected himself, barely louder than a mumble under his breath.

He scratched the back of his head, then in the typical way he tried to avoid seriousness—or more specifically being vulnerable—he stood up… But he didn’t leave or walk away. Instead he focused on busying his hands and mind, by gathering up the tools strewn around his bike. He managed to get half of them put away before he remembered that he wasn’t finished and there were a handful of bolts that still needed to be put back on. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath before crouching down in the place Aria found him earlier.

He grabbed one of the bolts and spun it onto the threaded piece of screw until he wasn’t able to tighten it by hand any further. James grabbed the ratchet, slipped it around the bolt, then froze… She cared about him too. The thought bounced around his head like a pinball. It left a weird twisting and warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that wasn’t from the poptarts, something he couldn’t describe. He just knew if he didn’t say something, he’d regret it… He sighed softly and rested his forearms against his bent knees. "You don’t have to worry about me. With the asshole riding shotgun, it’s nearly impossible to kill me."

Smooth.

"For fuck’s sake," James grumbled under his breath as he tossed the ratchet aside with a loud clatter that echoed throughout the empty garage. Grease covered fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, streaking his eyes with smudges of black. "Thank you…" He turned his head slightly to look back over his shoulder at her, but his gaze didn’t lift from where it was fixed upon the ratchet that laid at his feet. "... for caring," he added barely above a whisper as if saying it too loud would make it too real, or wash it away entirely.

Zaria listened to him with her heart in her throat. His voice, his discomfort, the clatter of the discarded ratchet—all of it pressed against her ribs until she wasn’t sure if the ache there was hers or borrowed from someone else. She shifted where she sat, drawing her knees up just slightly, and let her gaze trace idle lines along the concrete floor. When she finally spoke, her voice came out soft, fragile in a way that wasn’t weakness so much as honesty laid bare.

“I’m… not entirely sure I have much stake in any of this either,” she admitted, her gaze drifting toward the dim halo of light cast by the overhead lamps. “Not personally, not the way the rest of them do. I’m not the kid of an Avenger, or a soldier, or a God. I’m just… me.” She exhaled slowly, her breath trembling at the edges. “But Logan would have helped. He would’ve grumbled and complained the whole time, and said everyone was an idiot, but he would’ve stayed. He always stayed.” Her voice dipped, softened further, a faint crack on the last word that she swallowed before it could fully break open.

She went quiet for a moment, her hands folding in her lap, fingers tightening as if bracing herself against something only she could see. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just heavy, thoughtful. When she finally looked up again, her eyes carried a fragile clarity, a truth she hadn’t spoken aloud until now. “And… I’m almost certain my dad has something to do with all of this.” The bitterness there wasn’t sharp; it was weary, resigned, like she’d grown up expecting catastrophe as naturally as sunrise. “It just… feels like him. The scale of it. The chaos. The arrogance to think only he can fix, or ruin, everything. Why wouldn’t he be involved?”

Her fingers unclenched slowly, palms opening in a helpless, small gesture. “So it feels like the least I can do is help. Even if it’s only in small ways. Even if all I can do is be another pair of hands, or another voice saying ‘I’m here.’” Her gaze softened, drifting to James’s back—the tense set of his shoulders, the way he still hovered between vulnerability and retreat. She hesitated, then let the words fall with a gentle honesty that felt as delicate as unfolding wings. “And… I’m glad you stayed too.” It was quiet, but not uncertain. Soft, but not weak. A truth offered like an open door, warm and steady, waiting for him should he want to step through. She let out a small breath, and then shifted the conversation sharply. “So… what’re you doing to your bike?”

James leaned over and slowly picked up the discarded ratchet. He idly spun the socket with his thumb and index finger, filling the silence with a quiet click, click, click. "I almost did… leave." His confession fell like lead in a still pool of water, rippling the surface and weighing heavily in the space between them. He didn’t look back at Aria. He didn’t motion toward the packed bag that rested on the ground beside his bike. "Then I wanted to go on a ride… Let Judge out of his cage." The metal wheels of his stool squeaked as he scooted forward, the sound sharp like a blade ricochetting of the concrete walls of the garage. "And I remembered a promise I made not to leave the tower alone…" He slid the socket back onto the bolt and started tightening it, to busy his hands, or mind, or maybe just give him something to focus on that wasn’t her.

After a minute that dragged on for an hour, only filled with the repetitive cranking of the ratchet, James finished the first bolt.. "I just… Started taking it apart and putting it back together." He leaned over, reaching down on the ground between his feet to pick up the next bolt. Grease stained fingers slipped it onto the tread and started to tighten it like the first. "I’m not used to being in one place for this long," he added while rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, covering the pale skin beneath his dark hair with a black smear to match the rest of his body.

For a heartbeat, Zaria froze. Not outwardly, not in any way that would have drawn his attention, but somewhere deep, quiet, and instinctual, like an animal pausing mid-step in tall grass. The words almost did leave struck with a soft, hollow thud behind her ribs, the kind that stole the air without making a sound. A thousand responses flared and burned out all at once, fear, relief, something dangerously close to loss, and she was profoundly grateful that his back was still to her, that his attention was locked on bolts and steel and oil instead of her face. It gave her time.

Time to swallow it down. Time to smooth the tremor out of her breath and hide how the idea of him leaving had made something in her chest go cold, and how the knowledge that he’d stayed, for a promise he’d made to her, made it ache in a way she didn’t yet have language for.

She watched the slow, methodical movement of his hands, the way he needed motion to anchor himself, to keep from drifting. It was familiar. Comfortingly so. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, gentle, almost casual, as though his confession hadn’t just reached into her and turned a key. “Yeah…” she said softly, tilting her head as her gaze lingered on the bike, the pieces laid bare and slowly made whole again. “Staying in one place for too long feels strange to me now, too.”

She drew one knee up, resting her arm loosely over it, grounding herself in the posture. “Logan and I… we moved a lot,” she continued, quieter, more thoughtful than sad. “Never stayed anywhere long enough to get comfortable. Long enough to breathe, maybe. But not long enough to settle.” Her mouth curved into something almost wry, almost fond. “There were always people looking for me. Bounty hunters. Collectors. People who thought turning me in, or owning me, would earn them something.”

Her fingers curled briefly against her sleeve, then relaxed. “So we kept moving. Different cities, different borders, different names sometimes. Long enough for me to learn how to pack fast and sleep lightly and not leave pieces of myself behind.” She exhaled, slow and even. “It’s… weird, being here. Knowing I could stay. Knowing I don’t have to be ready to run at a moment’s notice.”

Her eyes lifted to his back again, warm and impossibly gentle. “But I think,” she added, almost thoughtfully, “Taking things apart and putting them back together makes sense. When you don’t know how to stay still… you fix something instead.” It wasn’t a question. It was understanding, offered quietly—like she’d been standing right beside him the whole time, even when he’d thought of leaving.

James listened to her words, quiet and pensive in his understanding. He was thankful that she didn’t ask, more thankful that she didn’t cry at the mention of him nearly leaving… Because he didn’t, he stayed. He lingered in that garage, taking apart and putting back together his bike a million times over in hopes that someone would come talk him out of it… That she would. A faint, weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he finished tightening the final bolt and set the wrench aside in the tool box. "There wasn’t really anything to fix, but I definitely might have broken it," he joked with a soft laugh. His motorcycle was fine, he knew it was, but he made the joke all the same as a way to breathe some levity into their conversation. "Might need to take it out for a spin tomorrow to make sure everything is in working order." His comment was innocent, laced with a subtle hint that they should go on a ride tomorrow… After all, he did make a promise.

He took a couple minutes to clean up the remainder of the tools, placing them neatly in the box and putting it back in its home on the workbench. Without a word, James slowly trudged across the garage, the sound of his heavy footfall echoing off the walls as he retrieved his discarded helmet. As he returned to Zaria, he wiped the grease from his hands against his jeans. "That poptart reminded me how hungry I am," he commented as he stopped in front of her. He slowly held out his hand toward her, a gentle offering to help her to her feet or carry the tray… either. "Did you still want to learn how to make cheeseburgers and mac and cheese?" There was a brief moment where his gaze fell to his palm, noticing the dark streaks that still stained his skin and the grease caked beneath his nails. His fingers reflexively curled inward until his knuckles turned white, partially embarrassed at the gesture but more so at the tainted offering. But he pushed past his own awkwardness with a sigh and slowly opened back up his hand, although he’d understand if she didn’t take it.

Zaria watched him move, watched the grease-smudged hands, the slow, tired gait, the quiet devotion with which he packed each tool away as if order might be enough to keep the world from slipping through his fingers. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip, a nervous habit long-formed and never quite broken, as her thoughts spun themselves into knots she couldn’t loosen.

There was a version of her, an older, more terrified one, who would have run. Who would have taken the image of that half-packed bag like a warning flare and made for the exit before anyone could leave her first. She knew how that story went, get attached, get abandoned, get handed another wound to carry. Logan disappeared, and she learned what it meant for grief to echo. If James left, she knew, deep down in the marrow of her bones, it would feel like someone had taken a chisel to the small, fragile thing in her chest that had only just begun to resemble hope.

She was here to find her Logan. That was her mission, her anchor, her purpose. But every hour, every conversation that unraveled between her and James like thread pulled from a seam, made something inside her shift, like a puzzle piece she hadn’t known was missing had finally clicked into place. And she was so scared of what that meant. Scared that she wasn’t supposed to want that. Scared that she did. When he turned and offered his hand, awkward, stained, uncertain, she hesitated only a breath. Then she placed her palm against his, her fingers curling gently around the warmth of him, the grease smearing against her skin like ink. She didn’t care. The contact grounded her. Rooted her. Reminded her that, for now, he was still here.

“I’d like that,” she murmured, her smile soft, almost shy, glowing faint around the edges like something that couldn’t quite hide how much it meant. She didn’t care that he’d probably meant to take the tray, letting herself be pulled to her feet instead. “Learning, I mean. After you shower.” A beat. Something lighter. A breath of a laugh. “You look like you got into a fight with an oil can.”

"Says the girl covered in flour," James commented with raised brows as he lifted his free hand, using the back of his finger to wipe a white smudge from her cheek with a gentle—and slightly awkward—smile. His gaze then fell to where her hand still lingered in his, not pulling away when she got to her feet but resting in the comfort of his touch. A warmth bloomed across his cheeks, but he didn’t pull away. He tugged against it slightly to reach down and scoop up his bag, yet his hand remained available, fingers lightly encompassing hers without a word.

The truth of it was… James had been so starved for human connection and physical touch, that even something as innocent as Aria’s hand lingering in his meant more than he was capable of putting into words. A touch was rare. Friendship, rarer still. He had entered that garage with every intention of leaving, a non-minor part of it due to that very girl… and still he stayed, folding under a tearful apology and poptarts.

They crossed the garage together, her hand retreating only when she needed to steady the tray. The elevator doors slid open with a gentle chime, and she stepped inside, pressing the button for his floor. Stainless steel reflected both of them, her smaller frame, his slouched shoulders, the careful space between them that felt charged with something unnamed. As the elevator began to rise, she didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Her eyes stayed fixed on the dim outline of their reflections in the doors, her hands tightening infinitesimally around the tray.

“I’m glad you stayed.” It came out quiet—so gentle it barely seemed like sound. But it was real. A truth she hadn’t known how to say until it pressed itself out of her like air from lungs too full.

James’s head turned toward her, his gaze falling to the flour dusted hair at the crown of her head. A lopsided smile tugged at one side of his mouth while he adjusted his hold on his bag. "Yeah… me too."

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Camp Athens - Closed

^{#EBCEED ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Zelia walked beside Rae with a lightness she didn’t quite feel, the leftover adrenaline in her limbs making her steps come out too quick, like she might float away if she didn’t keep her body tethered by sheer intention. The arena hummed around them, River’s voice echoing, the brass of other voices rising up as campers mingled, the sound of others running through the course, but all of it felt muffled, submerged beneath the quiet gravity of Rae’s exhaustion. She guided her gently, careful not to crowd, her hand resting at the small of Rae’s back with a featherlight touch rather than a brace. When Rae sank onto the bench, Zelia folded herself down beside her, close enough to share a boundary of warmth, but not so close as to trap her in the press of contact.

She noticed almost immediately— the faint tremor that hadn’t quite disappeared; the gooseflesh rising along her forearms despite the heat lingering in the air like a held breath. Without a word, Zelia shrugged out of her own hoodie. It was soft, sky-blue with sleeves worn thin at the elbows, smelling faintly of rosemary and ozone, as if the pockets held the ghost of summer storms. She draped it lightly across Rae’s lap, tucking the hem beneath her knees so it wouldn’t slip. The gesture was careful, unannounced, the way you might feed a skittish bird from your palm and pretend not to notice when it pecks closer. Zelia didn’t say anything, just offered the jacket like it was the most ordinary thing in the world to give warmth where warmth was needed.

As the next names were called and the assessment churned on, Zelia watched Rae more than she watched the course. Not openly, never like a stare, but in sideways glances that slid off like sunlight on water. She saw the way Rae leaned forward when Wes’s name cut sharp through the noise, the way her whole body reacted before her mind caught up, like a compass needle snapping north. Zelia followed Rae’s gaze, eyes softening as she took in the lone figure on the course— his missing arm, his stubborn gait, the grit that he wore like a second heartbeat. But the worry Zelia felt wasn’t entirely for Wes. It lodged beneath her ribs for Rae, who watched him with a tension so fierce it seemed to steal the air right out of her own lungs.

Zelia stayed quiet as Wes fell face-first, a streak of red darkening the dirt. Rae’s inhale was sharp enough to hear. Instinct coiled tight in Zelia’s calves, an urge to stand, to sprint, to intervene in a story she had no rightful place in. But Rae didn’t move, and so Zelia stayed. Instead, she pressed her knee gently against Rae’s, a soft knock like a question she wouldn’t force her friend to answer; I’m here if you need to lean. She didn’t say a single word, merely rooted herself there, a steady presence while Rae’s world narrowed to the arena floor.

When Wes crossed the finish line, shaking and bloodied but unbroken, Zelia exhaled slowly, quietly, her relief braided with something gentler, like respect. Rae seemed to fold inward after that, the intensity draining from her in waves, replaced by the hollow fatigue of someone who had run more than a physical course. Zelia’s fingers twitched with the impulse to reach out, but she let the moment settle instead, like dust after a stirring, giving Rae space to breathe inside the ruins and rebuild something of her own shape.

She watched Trinity next, of course, everyone did. The other girl tore through the course with surgical precision, her limbs cutting the air like strokes of a blade designed to triumph. Zelia’s gaze followed the run, but only because turning away would have made her an anomaly. In truth, her attention never strayed far from the quiet weight at her side. Rae didn’t shrink beside the display of skill, she just seemed to grow smaller in her stillness, the way candlelight appears to dim not from weakness, but from the glare of noon. Zelia felt the shift and leaned, ever so slightly, shoulder brushing shoulder. She wanted to tell her there is room for a softer kind of fire, but she was new to this whole…friend thing. Would it be an overstep?

By the time River dismissed the final group, the air felt looser, like the tension had exhaled with the crowd. Relief rippled outward. Zelia rose, turning toward Rae with a gentle tilt of her head, curls slipping over her shoulder like spun copper catching sunlight.

Zelia blinked as Nelly appeared beside them, an arrival so sudden it felt like a new weather pattern rolling over their little bench. For a heartbeat she simply looked, surprise softening the usual brightness in her features. It wasn’t discomfort, exactly. More the disoriented wonder of someone watching a squirrel perch on their hand instead of a branch. Her gaze flitted from Nelly’s headphones to the neon slices of color streaking across her workout suit, greens and purples and electric yellows that swirled like a storm trapped in fabric, and she had to bite down gently on the inside of her cheek to quell the instinctive cringe tugging at her expression.

Because it wasn’t bad, exactly. Just… startling. Loud in the way lightning sometimes was, bright enough to feel behind the eyes. It reminded her, vaguely and inexplicably, of the Home Shopping Network broadcasts her grandmother used to fall asleep to, those presenters in shimmering tracksuits that caught the camera lights like constellations trapped in polyester, offering “exclusive sets” of outfits that promised to “flatter every angle.” Outdated. Too eager. Unapologetically itself. Even thinking it made her chest warm with nostalgia and embarrassment in equal measure.

Still, Zelia’s smile flickered back to life, small but earnest. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on her knees as if orienting herself.

“Hi,” she said at last, the word soft as a drop into still water. “I’m Zelia. And you’re fine. We’re very interruptible, I think.” She paused, then added with a breath that shaped itself into a shy laugh, “The course was…unique. Everything feels… louder here. The lightning, the people. Even when it’s quiet.” Her eyes darted up toward the dome of warm air holding the training grounds apart from the cold outside, then back to Nelly. “Even the warmth they managed to conjure here is louder, it’s fascinating.”

She glanced at Rae as she spoke, as though confirming the logic by proximity, before turning back to Nelly with a steadier smile. “Thank you for asking, by the way,” she continued, sincerity threading gently through her voice. Her gaze flickered once more to Nelly’s bright sneakers, lightning-lime and amethyst like they’d been dipped in summer twilight, and in the corner of her mind she pictured her grandmother’s voice echoing the host’s in glee, And folks, it comes in six vibrant colorways! The memory nearly tugged her mouth into a grin, but she held it gently at bay, choosing softness instead.

“I like your colors,” Zelia said finally, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush as if sharing a secret. “You look like a meteorologist’s dream. Like weather they can’t predict yet.” And somehow, that felt like a compliment.

Zelia’s smile hadn’t fully faded from speaking with Nelly when the results began to echo through the arena. Her posture sharpened like a tuning fork struck against stone; she felt the shift in the air the way some people felt a weather change in their bones. The announcement landed in her chest like pebbles dropped into deep water— ripples spreading outward, subtle but undeniable. Second run. Those words snagged at the edges of her nerves, not because she feared the course itself but because she knew what it meant for the girl sitting beside her, shoulders bowed like someone bracing for impact. Her score didn’t matter now, the fact that she’d passed was background noise in her ears.

Her gaze found Rae instinctively, the world narrowing to the subtle slump of her posture, the quiet strain in her eyes. Dread pooled low and heavy in Zelia’s stomach, thick as winter molasses. Without thinking, she reached for the hoodie folded on Rae’s lap. Then, gently, she folded it between her hands, fingers lingering on the fabric like it might tell her what to do. When Rae pushed to her feet, determination and exhaustion warring in every line of her body, Zelia felt something in herself answer like a chord struck in resonance.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she rose. The hoodie slipped from her fingers and spilled back onto the bench like a dropped thought. Her legs moved on instinct, carrying her after Rae with quick, quiet steps as if she were afraid to break the moment with sound. She reached out— and her hand found Rae’s wrist.

The contact snapped like a heartbeat. Not painful. Not startling. Just alive. Warmth chased up her palm, a fizzing bloom like static caught beneath the skin, as though the electricity that lived in her wanted to greet the world through someone else. A tingling spark skittered up her forearm; it made her breath catch, made her chest feel too full, like she’d swallowed sunlight and it was trying to shine its way out. Rae’s pulse thrummed beneath her fingertips, a soft rhythm under fragile armor, and Zelia’s own heartbeat answered, aligning like planets trying for the same orbit.

Above them, as if the sky were listening, a seam in the cloud cover split open. A single strike of sunlight spilled through, slow and golden and deliberate, catching in Rae’s hair. The strands ignited like copper wire kissed by flame, every shade from ember-red to old honey. It painted Rae in something holy, a small blaze standing against a storm. Zelia’s breath stilled. For a moment she simply looked, suspended in the fragile ache of awe. She squeezed then, gentle, grounding, an anchor instead of a plea. Her voice, when it came, was soft but steady, woven through with a brightness she couldn’t quite hide.

“Hey,” she murmured, the word carrying warmth like steam from a cup held close in winter. “You don’t have to race to the finish this time. Just…” Her thumb brushed instinctively against Rae’s pulse, a promise more than a gesture. She was trying to be reassuring, kind, but doubts rose up in the back of her mind with the vengeance of a rolling tide. Was this...what friend's did? Was she being too much? She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “Just finish it. Take every minute you need. No one gets to decide what your pace means.” Her smile came easy then, bright as that sunlight overhead, not blinding, but warm enough to thaw.

“I’ll be right here,” she said, as if the words were a lantern to hand over. “Cheering for every step. Even the small ones. Especially those, that’s what friends do.” And she let go only when she felt Rae had taken the message, when she felt, beneath her fingers, the smallest shift from trembling resolve to something steadier.

^{interactions ....|.... rae, nelly ............... mentions ....|.... wesley, trinity, nelly's outfit (honorable mention) ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Reign of the Usurper

^{#5b90b5 ....|..... outfit ....|..... the weave > the black citadel}

The ship’s narrow corridor was washed in the amber hush of lanternlight, the soft sway of the Bramble Weave beneath them lending the air a quiet, restless rhythm. Evening pressed against the small windows like a held breath. The city beyond was a smear of fading gold, the sounds of Thornvale muted to a distant hum. Elrik stood beside Selja, both of them poised like chess pieces set in place and waiting for the next move. Their outfits had been carefully created to establish the family in an honorable light, for a garment that looked forged rather than sewn, formal wear that feels as much like armor as attire.

His tunic was a deep, storm-dark charcoal, with a high collar that closed up the throat in a disciplined line. Rows of small, blood–red buttons ran straight down the center, the only color allowed to break the monochrome, subtle, but deliberate, like the controlled bleed of a blade’s edge. Across his shoulders, sculpted pauldrons rest like twin slabs of metal, etched with intricate designs that catch the light. They weren’t practical for battle, lighter, more ceremonial, but they still give the impression that he could step onto a field at any moment and command it. A thin chain links them across his chest, the links like wrought iron, decorative yet symbolic— control, restraint, lineage, all tethered to him.

A wide leather belt grips his waist, dark as old earth and stamped with a fierce animal’s head at the center— the snarling maw of a bear, its metalwork tinted like tarnished bronze, symbolizing the family he hails from. It is the kind of emblem that speaks before he ever does, daring anyone to mistake him for anything less than what he is bred to be. Straps fall from the belt at his hip, one ending in a loop where a weapon could hang; even without it, the implication is clear. He is never unarmed.

The sleeves of his tunic fit close, shaped to muscle and movement, with subtle threads of red embroidery trailing the edges, like veins of fire beneath cooled stone. The hem falls long, brushing his boots, the split cut to allow mobility. The entire ensemble balances elegance with severity, regal enough for a royal hall, grounded enough for a mountain lord.

Selja’s dress draped like a vow made in silk and velvet, an off-the-shoulder gown where cream falls like poured milk down her frame, gathered at the wrists and spilling in soft folds. Over it, a deep red velvet overdress clasps her like a heartbeat, richly embroidered with gold florals that climb her bodice and scatter like constellations across dusk. The fabric pooled around her feet in a train that hushed the floor, a quiet crown of color and lineage. A delicate circlet rests in her hair, blooms of metal catching the warm candlelight. She looked both young and older than her years, wrapped in the weight of finery, standing like someone learning how to bear the shape of royalty. She kept tugging at the waist, fingers catching the seams, as though trying to pull herself out of her own skin.

She frowned, chewing at her lower lip. Her hair, usually braided for practicality, was loose in fiery waves down her back, threaded with thin strands of metal that caught the light like frost catching morning sun. She looked older like this, more like a woman and less like the younger sister he tried so desperately to shelter. And yet, her expression betrayed her age; she looked as though the dress were a cage and the corridor bars she could not slip through. For a long moment, Elrik said nothing. Silence had always been his first language. He let the sway of the ship fill the space between them, let the quiet settle before he risked disturbing it. He watched her hands… tug, release, tug, release— like a heartbeat gone erratic.

Finally, he exhaled, voice low enough that only she would hear it. “…Are you well?” The question hung there, simple but heavy, like a sword balanced on its point.

Selja startled, just faintly, as though she had forgotten he was beside her. Her fingers froze mid-tug. She glanced up, eyes wide and dark as winter lakes, then looked away again. She swallowed. “The fabric is stiff,” she murmured, though they both knew she wasn’t talking about the gown. “And… I do not know if I will speak correctly. Or if I am meant to speak at all.”

Elrik’s gaze drifted to the far end of the hall, toward the closed door behind which their parents and Emil prepared themselves. Their father’s voice rose faintly through the wood, sharp, precise, instructing something with the clipped edge of a blade. Emil’s softer tones trailed behind, apologetic, stumbling to appease. Their mother’s quieter murmur threaded through, trying to soften the air like a balm over cracked stone. The roles they each played in the family’s theater were well-rehearsed.

Elrik felt something coil in his chest, a familiar tightening. He had worn that feeling so long it fit him like a second sternum. He turned back to Selja and shifted just slightly closer, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that she might feel it. A silent positioning, the way a shield angles to intercept a blow. “You are not a mere guest here,” he said. “You are a Járnbjørn. You will not be swallowed by a room of courtiers.”

She huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but thinner. “But I am not Soleil,” she whispered before she could stop herself, the name escaping like a crack in the floorboards. “Or Emil. I cannot charm. I cannot soothe. I just… endure.”

Elrik’s jaw tensed. Soleil’s absence brushed the moment like the caress of a cold breeze. Emil’s softness hovered like smoke. The thought of their father’s demands stepped in like a shadow stretching across the floorboards. “Enduring is not a failing,” he replied, tone harder now but not unkind. “In Ironcrag, that is half of survival.” Selja looked at him again then— really looked. As though searching his face for something to anchor herself to. Her fingers stilled. The fabric of her dress finally stopped trembling in her grasp. Above them, footsteps echoed on the deck. Voices approached. Their time alone was nearly up. Elrik straightened, rolling back his shoulders, the slow inhale before the mask slid into place. Selja did the same, though her breath shuddered faintly.

He let his hand move, just barely, so the brush of his knuckles touched hers. Not enough to be seen. Just enough to be felt. “If they look at you,” he said quietly, “Then let them. If they judge you, let them choke on it. If they try to decide who you are—” His eyes hardened, iron cooling in the forge. “—I’ll remind them.”

Selja’s fingers curled, a small anchor hooking onto his presence. Her chin lifted by a hair’s breadth “…Alright,” she breathed.

The corridor door groaned open, spilling lamplight and expectation and the voices of their family into the hushed space. Emil emerged first, still adjusting his collar with nervous hands, his hopeful smile fluttering like a candle braving a draft. Their mother followed, eyes soft but rimmed with exhaustion, her beauty frayed at the edges like silk that had been handled too roughly. And their father came last— a silhouette carved from winter and iron, the shape of authority sharpened into a man. His entrance felt like the temperature dropping; the air seemed to brace around him. His gaze swept the room, an appraisal more than a greeting, and when it passed over Elrik it paused— but only long enough for the barest nod, acknowledgement rationed like coin to the only child still deemed worth investing in. Then his eyes fell to Selja’s posture, to Emil’s unsettled collar, and his mouth tightened, corners dragged downward as if their mere existence scuffed the polish he expected to wear into the world.

“You look a mess,” he snapped, voice clipped as a blade being sheathed poorly. “For the love of the gods, stand properly. Do you intend to shame us before we even reach the deck? We are not peasants invited out of pity.” His gaze pinned Selja first, her lowered eyes, the fingers worrying her skirts, and then flicked to Emil, lingering long enough to curdle something in the young man’s fragile attempt at composure. Emil swallowed, throat bobbing once, twice, before he forced a response from between clenched teeth.

“We’re trying,” he said, voice thin but admirably steady. “We aren’t used to traveling for quite this long, we are all weary. That is all.”

Their father stilled, focus narrowing like a predator scenting challenge. His hand rose, not slowly but not swiftly, either; the kind of motion that knew it would land if it chose to. A gesture dredged from years of practiced cruelty, fingers poised to backhand the insolence out of the air. Rage gathered beneath his skin like a storm breaking against mountain rock, silent at first, then unmistakable, a raw thing rising as though violence was the only language his body remembered how to speak.

Elrik’s step forward was quiet, smooth as water easing into a new vessel. No urgency, no fear— just inevitability, a wall interposed with the ease of habit. He angled his body between his father and his brother, chin lifting a fraction, enough to make his presence undeniable. “Father,” he said, voice a low hum, velvet stretched over iron. “It would not do to bruise any of our faces before we greet royalty. We are meant to present unity. Strength. Let us be seen as an uncracked blade, at least for tonight.” The words were not a plea; they were a leash gently looped, an appeal to vanity rather than mercy. For one volatile heartbeat, nothing moved. Then their father scoffed, the sound sharp as flint striking stone. The raised hand curled back into a fist and dropped to his side, fury banked but not extinguished.

“You would do well to remember your place,” he snarled, though the direction of the words was unclear— thrown at all of them, or none of them, perhaps only echoing back at himself. “Enough of this. We are not to be late. Move.” He turned on his heel and stomped toward the deck, boots cracking against the wooden steps like war drums, each footfall an aftershock of his temper.

Emil’s scowl sought Elrik immediately, resentment burning behind it like a coal banked under ash. He thought, as he always did, that Elrik acted only to protect their father’s beloved image, the family’s brittle reputation, never them. Let him think it; the truth was a tender thing, too tender to bear the weight of their father’s gaze. Elrik inclined his head in silent acknowledgment of the scowl and took the punishment of that misunderstanding like he had taken worse— quietly, without protest, as if his bones had learned to make room for it. Their mother lingered, her presence a soft seam of warmth between all the frayed edges. She reached out, fingertips brushing Elrik’s sleeve, a thank-you spoken in the tremor of her exhale before her voice followed. “Thank you,” she murmured, words small, fragile, but real. She slid her arm around Selja, drawing her close as though she could shield her from the world with proximity alone. Selja leaned into her, red velvet trailing behind them like spilled sunset, and together they ascended the stairs with steps too careful, as if afraid the wood might splinter under the burden of expectation.

Elrik remained a moment longer, letting the hush settle around him like dust. He could still feel the ghost of the raised hand, the weight of the rage that had not fallen. He let it press into him, absorbing into the marrow where so much else had been stored. Then, spine straight, expression sealed into neutrality, he followed. Each step felt like he was climbing into a role he did not choose, but one he knew better than his own reflection. And when he reached the top of the stairs, lamplight catching the chain across his chest, he looked every inch the blade his father demanded— unbroken, sharpened, and cold.

---

The path to the Black Citadel wound upward through the heart of Thornvale like a vein toward its beating core. The carriage rattled ahead, lacquered wheels whispering over the stone road, where torches flared in the gathering dusk. Elrik’s horse, coal-dark, mane like spilled ink, kept a steady pace behind it. The animal’s hooves struck sparks where the stone was uneven, each sound swallowed by the sheer immensity of the mountains standing sentinel on either side. His posture was straight in the saddle, hands loose on the reins, the silver pommel of his sword a cold weight at his hip. The faint luminescence of crag-ore shimmered at the mouth of the sheath— blue as glacier light, the heartbeat of Ironcrag forged into metal.

The sheath itself was a ledger of his becoming; impacted leather stamped with scenes of violence and victory. The raised image of him at sixteen, shield in hand, leading men twice his age as they pushed back the riotous villages that refused tithe; another panel of the bear, jaws like a gate to the underworld, its outline carved in stark relief beneath his boots; smaller victories too— raids quelled, beasts felled, a trail of necessary brutality that had been hammered into the shape of a young man who had never been allowed to grow soft. Each step the horse took set those scenes in motion in the corner of his eye, like ghosts flickering to life.

Ahead, the Black Citadel rose from the mountain like something exhaled rather than built, dark stone knit seamlessly with the cliff face, as though the peak itself had birthed the structure out of iron and shadow. Towering spires stabbed upward, not like aspirations but warnings. And behind them, the mountain yawned, swallowing half the citadel’s mass so that most of what existed lay hidden. What the eye could see was only the skin of the beast; the rest slumbered in caverns and corridors carved by ambition. Lanterns burned in windows, oil flames flickering like eyes that watched every approach, unwilling to blink.

It reminded him of home, Ironcrag’s fortresses hewn from the mountain’s marrow, their cores lit by forges and fury. The same heavy stone, the same weight of rock pressing down like a hand on the crown of the skull. But here the air was wet and warm, thick enough to choke on. Sweat ghosted beneath his collar, rolled between his shoulder blades like unwanted fingers. In Ironcrag, the mountains breathed frost; here, they exhaled heat. He wondered if it softened the people who lived in their shadow. Heat made metal easier to bend.

The carriage window glinted, his mother’s silhouette framed by firelight, Selja beside her, head bowed. Emil was a pale blur, posture stiff, jaw working. Their father sat forward, attention fixed on the citadel as if already calculating the angles of advantage within its walls. Elrik did not join them. He preferred the saddle, the raw edge of exposure. If he was to be paraded like a weapon, then let him enter like one.

As the gate loomed, Elrik felt the shape of his expression settle into something unreadable. He fit it like a familiar cloak; silence like a scabbard, thoughts sheathed where no one could touch them. The world funneled down to the rhythmic clatter of hooves, the rattle of the carriage, the distant crash of waterfall echoing down from some unseen height. The Black Citadel swallowed the last of the sunlight, leaving only the torchlit path ahead, leading him into a world forged by conquest and guarded by stone.

The ascent ended at the citadel’s yawning entrance, where the mountain’s shadow fell like a mantle over stone and soul alike. Before the great doors, a murder of the citadel's ravens stood sentinel— silent, still, and terrible in their poise. Above them, a few actual ravens lined the archway and perched upon the ramparts, black feathers slick as obsidian, eyes catching torchlight like drops of molten gold. Elrik had heard the tales that the king’s ravens were trained beyond measure, loyal only to the Citadel and the royal family. Here, with their namesake perched above them, watching with steady and intrusive gazes, the guardsmen seemed less mortal and more like omens made flesh, carved from night and discipline. They were statues masquerading as life, or life masquerading as statues. The only proof of breath came from the subtle rise and fall of their chests, like the low susurrus of a thousand secrets rustling through the air.

He guided his horse—Svartrhedinn, the “Black Cloaked One”—to a halt behind the carriage. The beast tossed its head, mane rippling like a banner of midnight, air huffing from its nostrils. Elrik slid from the saddle in a practiced motion, boots striking stone with a weight that settled through his frame. For a moment, a brief flicker of humanity cut through the armor of his expression. He pressed his palm to the horse’s neck, fingers disappearing into the velvet hide, feeling the tremor of muscle and heat. His touch was steady, almost gentle. Svartrhedinn leaned into the contact, a subtle shift, a huff of breath that spoke of mutual recognition, not affection, exactly, but the respect shared between two creatures born to bear burdens.

It was a rare crease in the ice of him; a moment unfurled like a petal quickly shut. His father was still in the carriage, he could afford this heartbeat of softness, unobserved by the man who punished gentleness like sin. A steward approached, robes the shade of damp stone, hands clasped before him with composed humility. Elrik’s face shuttered closed again. He relinquished the reins with no wasted word, just a curt nod, the glow of crag-ore at his hip catching faintly against the torchlight as he turned. The steward bowed low, leading Svartrhedinn away toward the stables, the horse’s hooves echoing off the stone like fading thunder.

The carriage door opened with a groan, hinges protesting. He moved to it before his father could exit, not out of deference to the man within but in service to those who deserved gentler hands. He extended his arm, and his mother took it, stepping down with a sigh that wove itself into the mountain air. The lamplight kissed her tired eyes, softening the grief that had clung to her since long before they left Ironcrag. He helped her steady herself, the gesture silent, practiced, unseen by the man who should have offered it first. Selja followed, skirts of red and cream whispering like dawn through smoke. Her fingers trembled where they met his palm, and he braced her descent with a strength that did not show. For her, he let the smallest ghost of warmth into his gaze, a wordless promise, brittle but present.

Behind them, their father stepped out, spine straight as a pike, gaze flicking over Elrik as though ensuring the blade was still sharp. Emil emerged last, face drawn, eyes slid away from Elrik’s entirely. The ravens watched all of it, unblinking. The mountain breathed heat like the exhale of something ancient and sleeping. The Black Citadel loomed, its doors open as though waiting to devour whoever dared cross its threshold.

Elrik offered his arm to his mother, Selja at her other side, and together they began to walk. The sword at his hip hummed with its own cold light, a sliver of glacier in a furnace world. He stepped forward without hesitation.

^{interactions ....|.... selja, lord einarr, emil, lady serene ............... mentions ....|.... soleil............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#A64017 ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Colton tracked River’s movement with a steady eye, jaw tight, one part impressed and one part determined not to get left in the dust. But beneath all that, a quieter worry pulsed— Sloane. He hadn’t seen her since her fall, hadn’t been able to catch her eye, hadn’t known if she was hurting or just shaken. She was tough, he’d learned that fast, but toughness didn’t cancel out pain. He’d check on her the second everyone finished their run. No way was he letting the day end without making sure his new, and only, friend was alright. There were others he felt bad for, that he wanted, instinctively, to check on; the dark haired girl who had thrown up, the redhead who’d cried, the man who had broken his nose— though when he’d taken off his shirt, Colton had been struck in a stunned sort of surprise for a moment. Were men supposed to be that handsome? He’d shaken off the thought, confused with himself. In the end, it didn’t make sense to approach anyone right now, especially not when shame and embarrassment were so heavy in the air.

So, Colt focused on readying himself, and when his name was called he stood, fingers hooking at the hem of his crewneck. The fabric clung to the warmth of his skin for a beat before he pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. Cool air kissed the broad plane of his chest, raising goosebumps across his arms. He folded the shirt neatly— muscle memory from years of Ma insisting clothes respected the body that wore them —and set it atop his bench. Already his senses sharper, muscles humming beneath the surface like coiled rope ready to be pulled taut.

He stretched once, arms overhead, spine arcing, shoulders rolling, feeling every carved line of strength built from dawn-to-dusk work, hauling hay bales, turning soil, swinging hammers, wrestling stubborn machinery into obedience. This body wasn’t crafted in a gym, it was earned under the weight of honest days and unkind seasons. Useful, not decorative. Sturdy, not sculpted.

The tires met him first, and he slipped into the rhythm instantly, feet darting between them like water moving through a river’s split stones. His steps were sure, quiet, nimble in a way that belied the heft of his frame. Knees high, chest forward, body folding and unfolding with smooth precision. The world narrowed to the percussion of rubber underfoot, the steady push of breath, the distant shouts of others running their own race.

Then the logs. He approached them with the swing of a man who trusted his body not to betray him. He pumped his arms once, twice, then vaulted the first log cleanly. The second. The third, his landing was solid, balance easy. For the fourth, he placed a hand on the bark and vaulted with graceful economy, his palm leaving a print of warmth on wood. He didn’t break pace. The fifth loomed slightly higher, but height had never troubled him. He leaned into the jump, muscles contracting, legs carrying him upward and over in a single explosive motion.

He landed soft as a man his size could manage— dirt shifting, breath steady. He dropped to his belly without hesitation at the low crawl, elbows sinking into grit. The world compressed around him, body long, limbs folding in a practiced pattern as he pulled and pushed his way forward. Sand scraped along his ribs, stuck in a damp line across his chest and abdomen. It crept into his sneakers, grinding between his toes in that particular brand of discomfort reserved for beaches and bad terrain.

He grimaced but kept moving. His body worked like a machine, shoulders pulling tight, core locked, legs driving rhythmically behind him. The rope brushed against his back with each shift forward, and the scent of earth rose thick in his lungs, grainy, metallic, honest. It reminded him of plowing fields in late summer, of digging trenches with his brothers, of a simpler kind of exhaustion. He cleared the crawl with a final push, sand clinging stubbornly to his forearms and chest. Standing felt like shedding a shell of dust and effort.

Colton hit the base of the rope without slowing, sand still clinging to his ribs, breath thick in his throat. He reached up, wiped his palms hastily against his pants, and grabbed hold. The first pull burned sweet and familiar through his biceps, the kind of strain he’d grown up on—lifting equipment twice his size, hauling feed bags across muddy fields, climbing beams in the loft just because work demanded it. His muscles coiled tight, then lengthened with each deliberate motion, body rising inch by inch in a steady, powerful rhythm. He pinched the rope between his boots, locking it, climbing higher—hands over hands, breath puffing against the cold air, sweat sliding down the line of his spine. At the top he paused only for a heartbeat, enough to savor the height and the burn, then braced and descended fast, careful not to let the rope sear angry lines across his palms. He dropped the last few feet with a solid, practiced thud that reverberated up his legs.

The rope bridge greeted him with a familiar sway, nothing he hadn’t felt moving across barn rafters in a storm, or crossing makeshift bridges over swollen creeks back home. He moved lightly, steps sure, finding each cross section with instinctive precision. The ropes creaked under his weight, but never enough to break his stride. By the time he reached the platform at the end, his breath came harder, chest rising and falling in deep, steady pulls. A grin tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth, this course was work, but it was good work. The kind that reminded him he still had a body capable of more than memory or grief.

He grabbed the rope swing, backed up a few steps, and ran forward. His feet thundered against the wood before he leapt, momentum carrying him across the water below. He hit the opposite side ungracefully, knees bending hard, shoes skidding, but he caught himself, rolling to bleed off the landing, coming up on his feet without a pause. The smile widened, breathing now a rough rhythm against the air, sweat beading on his bare skin.

The balance beams appeared next, three long, narrow planks that looked like they’d been stolen from a construction site and nailed together by someone with a loose definition of safety. He stepped onto the incline, arms instinctively lifting for balance. The first beam went well, his weight shifting smoothly, feet finding their anchor points by instinct. The second, however, betrayed him. His boot slipped a fraction on damp wood, hips tilting too sharply, breath catching in his throat. For a moment he wavered, windmilling one arm to counterbalance—

—but muscle memory caught him before gravity did. He righted himself with a grunt, heart hammering, then powered through the decline with quickened steps. The third beam felt mercifully straightforward, his body adjusting, finding that old, stubborn stability again. He hopped off the end, boots thudding into the earth. And there it was, stretching out before him, the pool. He slowed, just slightly. Just enough to feel the cold rise off the water in a smooth, glassy breath. Enough to realize he’d pulled far ahead of the others in his group, that the arena behind him was quiet, save for the distant sound of someone still wrestling a log or a rope. Enough to register that old, familiar prickle of instinctive fear—

Except it didn’t come. Not the sharp bite. Not the tightening in his chest. Not the ghost of smoke in his lungs or the memory of crackling heat. Just water. Still. Waiting. He swallowed, one hard, grounding motion, then stepped forward and dove. He entered the pool without finesse, no elegant arc, no practiced grace, just the solid, determined plunge of a man who saw the finish line glinting ahead and wanted it. The shock of cool water slammed against his skin, a bracing jolt that cleared the last of the sand and sweat from his thoughts. He kicked hard, cutting through the water with raw efficiency rather than style, each stroke a blunt statement of intent. His arms carved forward, legs driving behind him, the water parting around him without complaint.

He wasn’t fast like a natural-born swimmer. He wasn’t pretty like River’s effortless glide. But he was relentless. Colton surfaced from the pool in a rush of sound, water sluicing from his hair, breath tearing loose from his chest, heart pounding hard enough to match the roar still ringing in his ears. The chill clung to his skin in bright beads as he slapped both palms against the pool’s edge and hauled himself upward, muscles surging beneath his ribs and across his back. For a moment he hovered half out of the water, catching sight of the course still stretching ahead, but there was no thought of slowing. He planted a knee, then a foot, dragging himself fully solid ground wet slap and like squelch of drenched shoes. His crewneck was a distant memory on the bench, now he moved with only the weight of vague and sneaking exhaustion, and determination clinging to him. He pushed off into a run once more, water flying from his skin in glittering droplets that caught the sun like sparks thrown from a forge.

The log ladder towered ahead, comically large, uneven, built for someone twice his size. But the sight of it tugged loose a thread of memory, the old barn back home, its rafters long since warped by heat and weight; the shaky beams he’d had to climb as a kid to fix hanging chains or retrieve a stubborn pulley. Those jobs had never been graceful. They demanded grit, balance, and a willingness to trust wood that creaked under his feet. This ladder felt no different.

He grabbed the lowest rung and swung himself upward, muscles in his shoulders and arms surging as he hoisted his full weight in one smooth pull. The wood bit into his palms, rough and familiar. He climbed in an unsteady but relentless rhythm, knee, foot, hand, heave, never stopping long enough to lose his momentum. At the top he rolled his body over the log with a grunt, breath sharp in his throat, then started down the other side with long, skipping descents, each controlled drop sending a jolt up through his heels. He hit the ground running, lungs burning, but a grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The final challenge rose ahead like a dare, the long pool stretch that could end a run or crown it. He spared only half a heartbeat to gauge the distance, shifting his weight, feeling the spring coil in his legs. Then, with a low exhale, he launched himself forward. The world narrowed into a single arc of motion, his body cutting through the air, arms thrown forward, chest lifting with the jump. He hit the ground on the other side with a thunderous thud, knees bending deep to absorb the impact, and let out something between a laugh and a gasp as he stumbled into a run for a few more strides before skidding to a dusty stop. Heat flushed through him, exertion, pride, disbelief. He’d finished. Cleanly. Strongly. First among his group.

He was surprised to feel the water drying upon his skin, gaze reflexively bouncing toward River, nodding once in wordless respect before heading toward his bench after he realized the other man had, somehow, dried him off. That’s mighty kind of him. Each step felt looser, lighter, as if pride itself buoyed him. He’d pushed himself, trusted the body that had carried him through countless dawn chores and long, backbreaking days on the farm, and it had answered without hesitation. As he reached his bench, lifting the crewneck to tug it back on, he let out a deep breath, shoulders unspooling, a slow smile finding its way across his face before he even realized it. He’d done it. And he’d done it well.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... sloane, river ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#a4ded2 ....|..... outfit .....|..... #54998e ....|..... outfit .....|.......... arena}

Katryna shifted uneasily on the balls of her feet as River called their names. The arena, warm with that strange, almost unnatural magic that seemed to seep into every corner, pressed gently against her skin, but her temples throbbed in rhythm with the migraine that refused to let go. She pressed a hand lightly to her forehead, trying to push the spinning, woozy sensation back behind her eyes, willing her legs to feel steady beneath her. Each step felt uncertain, as if the warmth around her could not anchor her against the dizziness that tugged at her balance. And yet, she straightened, shoulders set as best they could be, and drew in a slow, deliberate breath. She would try. She had to. With that, and a small smile directed toward where Sloane sat, she stepped toward the first set of tires.

Kacper, already poised and athletic, stretched with careful ease, long legs and broad shoulders adjusting to the arena’s magic warmth. Normally, he might have dashed forward without a second thought, leaving all others behind, but Katryna’s unsteady steps tethered him in place. Every glance backward revealed the subtle wobble in her gait, the careful way she measured each move, and something old and familiar stirred in his chest—the protective instinct that had only ever belonged to his twin. It made him slow, deliberate, each stride calculated not for his own speed but to keep her within his periphery.

The tires were first, deceptively simple, yet Kat’s small feet stumbled more than once. Kacper moved with his usual grace, but each leap, each tiptoe between tires, was tempered by glances back, a silent measure of her rhythm and balance. She caught herself after a falter, breathing shallow, flushed, but he could see the strain behind her determination. His jaw flexed, irritation coiling in the corners of his mind— not at her, but at the compulsion he could not dismiss. He wanted to surge forward, to test his own limits, yet the quiet tug of his sister held him back, tightening with each wobble and stagger she endured. The logs loomed next, growing steadily in height, and Kacper vaulted them with ease. Each leap was precise, yet he paused just enough at the apex to catch Kat’s progress. Her arms shook slightly, legs trembling as she braced herself atop the first hurdle. The migraine pulsed, and the warmth of the arena seemed almost to exaggerate her nausea, but she pressed forward, step by deliberate step. Kacper’s eyes never left her, noting every falter, every determined push against fatigue and discomfort. He clenched his fists, the itch of irritation blending with that deep-seated, unshakable vigilance.

The low crawl brought grit and sand pressing against their hands, and Kacper moved fluidly, elbows scraping the ground. Kat’s cautious movements, the uneven rhythm of her breaths, the flush in her face from exertion and pain, all anchored his focus. He felt the familiar knot of unease twist in his chest, fighting the pull of frustration and the almost involuntary pride he would never admit aloud. She was stubborn, but slow— and he was the one tethered to her pace, unwilling to leave her behind even as the arena warmth pressed around them like a protective cloak.

When the ropes appeared, Kat’s arms trembled, but Kacper kept his own pace measured, climbing with precision, glancing back to gauge her grip and progress. The warmth of the arena seeped into their muscles, easing some of the tension, yet he remained watchful, ready to adjust his movements for her. Katryna’s eyes narrowed as she realized, with a sudden and infuriating clarity, that Kacper was deliberately slowing his pace, each careful, measured step a tether to her faltering rhythm. The warmth of the arena pressed against her skin, but it did little to ease the migraine hammering behind her eyes, each pulse a jagged echo of exhaustion and frustration. Her jaw tightened, teeth clenching as she leaned forward, arms trembling on the rope, and finally, with a hiss of anger sharp enough to cut the thick, humid air around them, she snapped in Polish, voice laced with heat and defiance. "Ruszać się, Kacper! Nie potrzebuję, żebyś mnie niańczył! — Move, Kacper! I don’t need you to baby me!”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and pointed, a flare of temper born from both determination and the sheer pounding in her skull. Kacper blinked, surprise flashing across his otherwise controlled expression, the corner of his mouth twitching with something unreadable, before he gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod and, without another word, let his muscles coil and spring with the fluid precision of someone who had been holding back. In an instant, he surged forward, leaving her trailing, the wake of his speed stirring the air around her.

Katryna’s hands shook as she clutched the rope, the sting of exertion mixing with the ache of migraine, and a rogue tear traced the side of her face. She swiped at it with the back of her hand, annoyed at its betrayal— she was not crying from weakness or sadness, only from the searing, relentless throbbing that felt as if her skull might fracture from the strain. Her breath came ragged, shallow, but her eyes burned with stubborn fire, she would not, could not, let herself be coddled, not even by Kacper. Then, in a cruel instant, as if the world was laughing at her determination, her fingers slipped on the rope, the raw friction burning her palms like fire across freshly torn skin. A sharp cry tore from her throat as she flailed, losing all purchase, and she landed ungracefully in a heap on the ground below. The impact jarred her shoulders, and the sharp sting of rope burn made her wince. From above, River’s voice cut through the haze of pain and heat, telling her to move on just like the redhead she’d watched earlier.

Kat bit back a curse, swallowing down the bitter surge of shame that clawed at her chest. Her face burned hotter than her migraine, her stomach twisting as if it, too, had been betrayed. With trembling arms, she hauled herself upright, each movement a torment, but the fire of stubbornness refused to be snuffed. She pushed off the ground, forcing herself to the next obstacle, every motion a humiliation and a test of endurance, her pulse thrumming violently in her temples.

Kacper surged forward with the deliberate intent of making up for lost time, legs pumping and arms slicing through the warmth that seemed to cling to the arena’s air, coaxing muscle and sinew into motion. The balance beams came after the rope swings, and that godawful rope net bridge, thin and precarious, their inclines teasing gravity and daring him to misstep. He stepped carefully, toes seeking the edges, arms swinging slightly for stability, but even so the beams betrayed him; a sway here, a wobble there, a nearly lost footing that made his pulse spike. He cursed under his breath, teeth gritting, and fought for precision with the controlled ferocity of a predator stalking through fragile terrain.

Sweat ran along his temple as he forced each foot forward, balancing the speed he craved with the delicate patience required to not topple. By some stubborn mixture of skill, luck, and sheer force of will, he made it across. The water embraced him like an old friend when he dived into the pool, cool and yielding, muscles relaxing even as his grin spread across his face— wild, sharp, and victorious.

Katryna, meanwhile, approached the bridge with the uneven steps of someone whose body and mind were waging quiet war. Her hands throbbed, raw from rope burn, battling for attention with her migraine, and each step was a negotiation between willpower and pain. Her ankle slipped between the net at one point, hands tightening to steady herself, ignoring the burn in her palms. The ropes stretched before her like suspended lines of fragile thread, demanding trust in arms that screamed in protest. She gripped the first rope, arms trembling violently, and swung herself forward, knees bent, eyes narrowing as she tried to measure the rhythm of each motion. But the ache in her palms betrayed her timing; a slip, the rope slipping from the tender friction of raw skin, and she toppled, landing in the shallow puddle of water below with a splash that made her shiver and choke. The sting of embarrassment was sharper than the water against her skin. River’s voice echoed over the course once more, urging her again to keep going, and she dragged herself out of the water to move on to the damned balance beams.

Kat swallowed the swell unease as she balanced upon each beam slowly and carefully, wanting more than anything to not fall again in front of all these people. She caught sight of Kacper in the distance, already halfway up the log-ladder, a living testament to speed and skill, oblivious to her struggles. The sight ignited both frustration and determination in her chest, and she pushed through the last of the beams, stumbling toward where the pool beckoned as a place where she could reclaim some dignity. She was, if nothing else, a decent swimmer.

Kacper’s ascent up the towering log ladder was a study in controlled force, each movement precise and measured. His hands gripped the rough wood with unrelenting strength, only faltering once as a splinter tore into the palm of his hand, eliciting a sharp hiss of frustration. He ignored the sting, flexing his fingers around the next rung and hauling himself upward with methodical efficiency. The warmth of the arena seeped into his muscles, coaxing each fiber to respond in a way that defied fatigue, even as sweat ran in rivulets down his temple and along the lines of his jaw.

When he reached the top, a flicker of balance testing him momentarily, he rolled over the upper log with fluid ease, descending step by step until he was close enough to drop the rest of the way. Then came the long jump, and Kacper propelled himself with everything he had, clearing the pool by feet, landing with a grunt, chest heaving and muscles trembling, adrenaline humming in his veins. He stood for a moment, drinking in the sight of the course behind him, before his sharp eyes found Katryna.

She emerged from the pool, shivering despite the magical warmth that wrapped the arena like a soft veil. Pale, with the faintest green tinge creeping across her cheeks, she approached the log ladder, hands still stinging from the earlier rope burns, knuckles white as she grasped the first rung. Her ascent was hesitant, jerky, each movement a negotiation between willpower and exhaustion, and Kacper could see her balance falter under the strain, wrist and palm protesting the weight of her own determination. She reached the top and paused, leaning slightly against the log as she drew a ragged breath. Her fingers swept under her nose, collecting the evidence of a small nosebleed.

With slow deliberation, she began her descent, each rung a test of strength she didn’t quite feel she had, and then, inevitably, her footing gave out on the second-to-last rung, wrist twisting painfully when she tried to stop the fall. She tumbled downward, landing on the ground with a dull thump. Ah yes, my long lost love, the ground. We meet again. Face wet, hair plastered to her skin, she pushed herself up pathetically, and began to dry heave, the warm air of the arena failing to ease the shock and exhaustion that wracked her body. Her chest heaved violently, muscles trembling from the strain, and yet even in this humiliating, punishing moment, she forced her hands to steady herself on the ground. It was only a miracle that had her dragging herself to her feet and actually clearing the long jump, or perhaps stubborn pride, because she landed in an awkward stumble, steadied by Kacper after a moment.

"Are you going to puke on me?" She glanced up, catching him as he rose an eyebrow. Indignation flooded Katryna, and she pulled away from her brother, taking care to stomp on his toes before she twisted around to go back toward Sloane...only to realize she was going in the wrong direction. Color flooded Kat's cheeks, and she turned back around, passing a laughing Kacper, making sure to stomp on his other foot as she passed, which promptly stopped his laughter. She kept her head held high, despite the shame and self-loathing swirling inside her chest. She could cry later, when no one else was watching.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... sloane ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#EBCEED ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

“Let’s go, lightning legs!”

Rae’s shout still crackled through Zelia’s thoughts like a spark caught in dry grass, bright and impossible to shake. She sank onto the bench at the front, lungs still dragging in air as though the course clung to her ribs, refusing to let go. Her legs trembled pleasantly from the effort, a warm afterburn humming beneath her skin, but her pulse had begun to slow— softening from thunder to something more like a steady drum.

She watched Rae take her place at the starting line, the world narrowing for a moment to that poised, eager silhouette. A small smile tugged at Zelia’s lips, unbidden but sure, pride blooming in her chest with steady heat. The echo of the nickname fluttered through her again, gentler this time, more like encouragement than a tease. She let it settle there, warm and familiar, as she leaned forward slightly, breath still uneven but her spirit bright and ready to cheer Rae on with every quiet heartbeat.

Zelia found her breath catching the moment the starting signal snapped through the air. It was as if the sound had struck Rae like a badly aimed lightning bolt— she jolted forward with a kind of chaotic bravery that made Zelia’s pulse leap. The tires greeted Rae like an ambush, and Zelia pressed a hand to her sternum as the girl lurched and tangled, limbs rebelling in a wild flail that somehow kept her upright. Each misstep wrung a soft gasp from Zelia, each frantic recovery tugged her forward on her seat. She whispered encouragement under her breath, little, trembling threads of hope, feeling them snag in her chest as Rae stumbled out of the section looking half-winded and wholly offended by its existence.

Then came the logs. Zelia winced in tandem with every misjudged step, every graceless scramble. Rae tripping over the first felt like watching someone stub their soul, climbing over the next with baffled determination made Zelia bite back a laugh that warmed, despite her anxiety. Sliding down the third on her stomach nearly pulled an actual whimper from her. Zelia’s fingers curled into the fabric of her pants as if she could anchor Rae through sheer shared mortification. Yet there was something stubborn and shining about the way Rae kept going, as though embarrassment was nothing more than an extra weight she carried on her hip.

The low crawl was somehow worse to watch and better at the same time. The sand tried to swallow Rae elbow-first, dragging at her like it wanted her bones for itself. Zelia could see the strain burning through her friend’s shoulders, see the grit coating her arms, see the tremor of effort in every slow push forward. “You’ve got it, keep going,” she breathed, voice soft and urgent, because Rae looked like a warrior on her elbows even if she’d deny it with her dying breath. When Rae emerged from the trench, dusted in sand and sweat, Zelia’s chest flooded with something bright, pride, relief, awe, all tangled together.

The rope climb, however, nearly undid her. Zelia’s stomach dropped as Rae wiped her hands, the tremor in her fingers visible even from where she sat. The moment Rae jumped and latched onto the rope, Zelia held her breath. The violent shaking of her arms, the slippery scrabble of her grip— every second carved a new line of worry along Zelia’s heartbeat. Rae dangling there, spinning slowly like an abandoned festival decoration, made Zelia’s throat tighten. She wanted to shout, to run forward, to do something, but River’s calm instruction reached Rae first. Zelia exhaled shakily when Rae finally released the rope, her mortified “thanks” making Zelia’s heart fold in on itself with affection.

The rope bridge was agony— pure, suspended agony. Rae’s first step made the entire structure buck like a startled animal, and Zelia’s hands flew to her mouth. “Steady, steady…” she whispered, feeling each sway like a tug on her own balance. The swing was worse— Rae colliding with the far ledge in a teeth-rattling thud that left Zelia wincing so hard her eyes watered. But Rae kept going. Gods, she kept going. Then came the beams. Zelia leaned so far forward it felt like her spirit was trying to walk the incline for her. Rae wobbled dangerously— Zelia’s breath hitched. Rae pinwheeled her arms— Zelia’s heart scrambled up her throat. Sweat glinted along Rae’s back, her steps turning into precarious negotiations with gravity itself. A misstep on the flat had Zelia flinching— the reckless sprint down the decline dragged a gasp from her as Rae skidded into the dirt in a defeated puff.

Zelia didn’t breathe for a moment— not until Rae’s head lifted again, still moving, still pushing. And then the breath came back all at once, shaky and warm, threaded with fierce, terrified, impossible pride. She felt every one of Rae’s final obstacles like they were happening inside her own bones. The nausea twisting Rae’s face made something tight coil in her chest, an ache shaped like helplessness and hope. She whispered encouragement that vanished into the wind— soft, fervent things like you’ve got this, just one more, keep breathing —because she couldn’t bear the thought of Rae feeling alone out there. When Rae hit the pool, Zelia’s breath eased for a moment. The water cradled Rae in a way the rest of the course hadn’t, smoothing the frantic edges of her movements. For a few blessed seconds, Zelia saw something close to peace settle across her, something earned, something deserved. But then Rae climbed out, and Zelia’s relief shattered like thin ice.

The log ladder stood before her like a punishment carved from the sky. Zelia could feel her own pulse climbing its rungs as Rae hauled herself upward with raw, stubborn grit. Every grunt, every slip, every desperate clutch of her hands made Zelia flinch. She half-rose from her seat more than once, a useless instinct, as though she could run in and hold Rae steady with nothing more than will. Rae’s knee hitting her own stomach made Zelia’s breath stop. The slip that followed turned her veins to ice. But Rae didn’t fall, not truly. She saved herself with sheer, burning defiance, elbow jammed into the wood, face twisted in pain, and Zelia had never seen someone look so exhausted or so brave.

When Rae flopped over the beam at the top— graceless, spent, stubborn—Zelia pressed her trembling hands together like a prayer. Then came the descent. Rae didn’t climb so much as cling her way down, shuddering, trembling, sliding in jerks that made Zelia want to wrap her in the warmest blanket she could find and never let her near a ladder again. But Rae kept going. Her feet hit the ground, and Zelia felt a rush of pride so fierce it nearly hurt.

And then, the final run. She stood when Rae sprinted for the pool. Each step looked like it cost her something, something Rae had no reason left to give. She pushed off—

And didn’t make it.

The splash was soft, almost apologetic, like the water itself felt bad for being part of the humiliation. Rae emerged sodden, hair sticking to her face, eyes too bright with a hurt pride she probably wished she could hide. Zelia’s heart clenched. Hard. The scattered applause felt like salt. The way Rae stood, shaking, small, shattered around the edges, felt like a wound. Before she even knew she was moving, Zelia jogged forward, weaving past lingering onlookers. Her legs burned a little, left over extension, but she ignored it, slowing only enough to approach gently, carefully, like Rae might break if jostled too hard.

She came to stand beside Rae, resting a hand gently on the girls shoulder. Dirt and water smeared against Zelia’s palm, but she only tightened her touch, grounding her friend with quiet certainty. “Hey,” she murmured, voice low and soft as winter dusk. A small smile curved onto her lips, tender, proud in a way that didn’t ask for eye contact or courage or anything Rae wasn’t ready to give. “Good job, winter fire.”

The nickname flickered between them like a gentle spark. Zelia’s thumb brushed lightly over Rae’s shoulder, a touch meant to soothe rather than draw attention. “You finished,” she added, tone warmer than the sun dared to be, glancing minutely toward River when Rae began to dry out the same way she had. Their new leader wasn’t too bad, really, even if he insisted on swimming lessons. “You didn’t quit. Not once. You were brave out there. Even when it was awful. And I’m proud of you, Rae.” Zelia curled an arm gently around her shoulders, tugging her toward herself ever so slightly in a move her coach used to do anytime they'd lose a race, comforting in it's calm reassurance. “C’mon, let's go sit down so you can rest up some.”

^{interactions ....|.... rae............... mentions ....|.... rae, river............... collabs ....|.... none}

^{#a4ded2 ....|..... outfit .....|..... #54998e ....|..... outfit .....|..... ..... arena}

Katryna felt the shift before she fully understood it— an almost imperceptible change in the air, like the barometric drop before a storm. Sloane’s color drained with startling speed, a bloom of pallor washing across her features as if someone had pulled a curtain over the warmth she’d worn so easily moments before. Kat’s head tipped, feline and assessing, her gaze tracing the fine tremor in Sloane’s shoulders, the way her smile sat on her face like an ill-fitted mask. Then her eyes slid to Sylas. He was handsome in the way a knife was, sleek, polished, and meant for hurting. His smile held all the right shapes but none of the substance, an actor hitting cues without heart. Something about him felt… off. Too smooth. Too deliberate. And the warmth that had glowed in Sloane’s eyes earlier, bright as late autumn sun, was conspicuously absent now, replaced by something tight, shuttered, quietly afraid. Katryna didn’t move, didn’t speak, but the soft crease between her brows deepened with slow, dawning concern.

Beside her, Kacper went very still. Not visibly— the stillness lived somewhere under the skin, in the beat between breaths. It rose in him like a tide he had no intention of drowning in, a surge of protectiveness sharp enough to scrape bone. It startled him, how quickly it bloomed, how instinctively it coiled around the sight of Sloane’s forced smile and Sylas’s too-smooth posture beside her. That kind of feeling belonged to Kat alone, it had always been that way. But here it was, unwelcome and insistent, an itch beneath his ribs that he couldn’t scratch without acknowledging what it meant— and he refused to give it shape. Him? Make friends? Ridiculous. So he told himself it was something simpler. Purer. Logical. He didn’t like Sylas’s face. That was it. The guy looked like a creep wearing someone else’s charm— an uncanny valley version of a person with real emotions. Kacper could practically smell the insincerity radiating off him like spoiled and cheap cologne.

His eyes flicked from Sylas’s extended hand to Sloane’s swift, almost desperate gesture pushing it away. Protective instinct clawed up his chest again, stubborn and unwelcome, heating his blood with an irritation he aimed squarely at her brother. Because it was easier, safer, to be annoyed than to admit the truth pressing insistently against the walls of his mind: Sloane looked scared. And he hated that more than anything. So, he put all the blame on Sylas and his ugly, pug-looking face.

Katryna startled first, not visibly, not in any way loud enough to draw attention, but in a soft, inward flinch that lived behind her eyes. Russian rolled off Sloane’s tongue like water over river stones, smooth and familiar, and for a breath it didn’t register just how wrong it sounded in this place, at this moment. Her brain scrambled to keep up with the sudden switch, unable to keep up with the unfamiliar language, she only knew Polish and French. She blinked slowly, dark lashes dipping low as Sylas’s voice dripped poison in the same language, each taunt landing with the precision of a needle. The world narrowed to the siblings’ exchange— Sloane rigid, Sylas circling with the practiced cruelty of someone who knew exactly where old wounds lay.

Kat’s stomach twisted. The cold, sharp edge of not understanding slipped between her ribs as she watched Sloane crumble inward without ever moving. A soft inhale shuddered through her as she followed Sloane’s frantic gaze over the thinning crowd, uncertain what she was looking for but knowing the other woman did not find it. Silent worry clawed up the back of her throat, settling there like winter, bitingly cold.

Kacper, on the other hand, felt his spine snap taut. Russian hit his ears like a slap— unexpected, invasive, and…. agitating, he hadn’t opted to learn any other languages like his sister, though he was fairly certain neither of them knew Russian. His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring as Sylas’s voice slithered in his ears with unfamiliar words, temper spiking sharply. Kacper’s gaze cut to his sister, then to Sloane, then finally, inevitably, to Sylas. He did not hide the way his jaw flexed. When Sylas’s assessing eyes paused on Kat, sweeping her timid posture and layered coats, something ugly and instinctive curled through Kacper’s chest, hot and immediate. It wasn’t protectiveness exactly; it was revulsion. A low, simmering disgust that rose like the stench of something left rotting under the sun. Sylas looked at people the way scavengers looked at roadkill— calculating what he could pick apart first.

And when those same eyes slid to him, narrowing with that hungry, probing curiosity, Kacper met them without blinking. His stare was flat, unyielding, carved from the same iron he saved for threats he intended to outlast. He didn’t bother masking the disdain twisting faintly across his features, lips curling in a barely-there sneer, eyes narrowing as though he were examining something foul someone had set too close to him. Sylas’s charm slid right off him like oil on glass. Kacper didn’t speak, not yet, but the message lived in the cut of his gaze, in the rigid set of his spine, in the quiet, dangerous stillness he settled into like a wolf lowering itself to the ground before a lunge.

Katryna, meanwhile, watched Sloane’s panic bloom with slow, dawning horror. Kat’s hand twitched at her side, an instinct to reach out, to anchor Sloane before she drifted somewhere unreachable. Her throat tightened around unspoken words. She saw the answer in Sloane’s silence— felt its weight like a stone in her palm. And beside her, Kacper leaned ever so slightly forward, eyes still locked on Sylas with a quiet warning coiled in every inch of him.

He hated not understanding. Then, abruptly, almost violently, he cut sideways toward Kat, voice rising loud enough to slice clean through Sylas’s monologue.

“Myślisz, że ten dupek zna język polski? — You think this asshole knows Polish?”

The suddenness of it startled a laugh out of Katryna, soft, breathy, the full sound of someone who had been holding too much tension in her lungs. Relief flickered across her face like a candle finally catching flame. She shook her head, answering in the same lilting Polish that felt warm and familiar on her tongue. “Chyba nie, są tak różni. Myślisz, że jako dziecko upuszczono go na głowę? — I doubt it. They’re so different. Do you think he was dropped on his head as a child?”

Kacper turned back to Sylas then, looking him up and down in a slow, deliberate drag of his eyes— an appraisal that wasn’t flattering so much as forensic, as though he were studying a particularly disappointing corpse. His lips twitched. Not into a smile, not quite, but into something sharp-edged and wickedly amused.

He turned back to his sister with a shrug that was almost lazy. “Może, to by wyjaśniało jego twarz. — Maybe, that would explain his face.”

Katryna’s laughter, soft, surprised, a little wild around the edges, bloomed like warmth pushing through frost. It loosened the clamp around her chest, easing the ache behind her eyes just enough for her natural mischief to unfurl. She leaned ever so slightly toward her brother, her coat whispering against the fabric of the bench, voice dipping into Polish with the kind of ease that came from a lifetime of shared conversations no one else could hear.

“Co? Co jest nie tak z jego twarzą? — What? What’s wrong with his face?”

Kacper didn’t even pause to consider tact, or mercy, or the fact that Sylas stood only a breath away. He answered with the blunt, unfiltered simplicity of a hammer meeting a nail.

“To brzydkie. — It’s ugly.”

The words cracked the air between them like dry lightning, and Katryna, already wound tight from Sylas’s presence, Sloane’s fear, and the too-bright hum of the arena, snorted so loudly she startled herself. It was unladylike, inelegant, and utterly, desperately needed. She slapped her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with a laugh she tried and failed to contain, eyes glinting as she looked at her brother like he’d just gifted her a lifeline. Her voice slipped out again, teasing and warm, a thread of gold pulling her back to herself. Her head still hurt awfully, but the distractions were nice. “Czy może jesteś stronniczy, bo go nie lubisz? — Or are you biased because you don’t like him?”

Kacper didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He met her gaze with a lopsided grin that cut sideways across his face, a flash of crooked teeth and unapologetic wickedness. “Nie, jest okropny. W niczym nie przypomina Sloane’a. — No, he’s awful. Nothing like Sloane.”

At that, something subtle changed in Katryna’s expression, softened at the edges, sharpened at the corners. Her lips curled into a slow, feline smile that carried the promise of trouble. The air between them shimmered with sibling intuition, that ancient ability to slot puzzle pieces into place without effort. She leaned in, voice a low, delighted murmur. “Oh? Więc myślisz, że jest ładna. — Oh? So you think she’s pretty.”

The effect was immediate, delicious. Color flared along the tops of Kacper’s ears, blooming through his pale skin like paint spilled over fresh snow. He recoiled a fraction, scoffing sharply as though her words were physical objects he could shove away with indignation alone. He turned his head in a snap of movement, refusing to look at her. “Co… Tego nie powiedziałem! — What… I didn’t say that!”

Katryna’s smile widened, triumphant and unbearably fond. “Jasne, jasne. Skończyłeś już z meczem sikania? — Sure, sure. Are you done with your pissing match?”

Kacper exhaled the kind of suffering sigh only an elder twin could muster, a long drag of breath, threaded with reluctant amusement despite his best efforts to smother it. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, a concession he’d never admit aloud. “Chyba. — I guess.”

Then, with the same graceful malice a wolf uses when stepping into moonlight, he turned back toward Sylas. The smile he wore was sweet enough to rot teeth, rich and dripping like honey left too long in the sun. Every syllable that followed was slow and polite, the verbal equivalent of offering someone a beautifully wrapped gift with a lit fuse inside. “I hope you break a leg out there, Sylas… you know, for good luck.” The smirk that followed was razor-thin and glittering, as inexorable as a blade drawing breath.

Kat watched Sylas stride off toward the starting line, his shoulders squared as though he could stare the whole world down and win. The afterimage of Kacper’s honey-poisoned smile still clung to the air, shimmering like heat above sun-baked stone, but it was Sylas who held her attention now. There was something in the way he moved, purposeful, steady, a little too practiced, that made her wonder what shadows curled behind his eyes when sleep finally claimed him. What did a man like that dream of? Thunder? Triumph? Teeth? The thought drifted through her like a feather caught in an updraft, light and strange, and she brushed it away just as quickly, unwilling to peer too closely into someone else’s night. Instead she drew a longer breath, letting her gaze soften as she turned toward Sloane’s retreating frame, calling a soft encouragement to her before she was out of ear range.

Katryna’s gaze never left Sloane as she moved through the course, body hunched, limbs flailing, determination written in every careful, stubborn step. Her breaths were shallow, eyes wide, and for the briefest moment when Sloane fell from the ladder, a sharp, startled gasp escaped Kat’s lips. Without thinking, she pushed to her feet, every instinct urging her forward to reach her, to steady her. Her hand hovered, frozen in midair, until Kacper’s firm grip caught her wrist and anchored her in place. “She wouldn’t want help,” he said softly, voice low, almost reverent. His pale eyes stayed locked on Sloane, following every motion as if reading her strength in real time. “She’s sturdier than you think. Watch. You’ll see it. To uparta dziewczyna. — She’s a stubborn girl.” His words were almost a whisper in Polish, a careful mixture of admiration and warning, a note of recognition that he wasn’t about to hand her strength for her.

Kat swallowed, nodding, letting herself sink back onto the bench, hands folded loosely in her lap once she’d tugged the fallen coat back into her lap, watching as Sloane struggled. When Sloane returned, drenched, exhausted, and grinning faintly through her pain, Kat rose slowly and stepped forward. She wrapped her arms around the other girl in a tentative but earnest hug, careful not to crush or startle her. Her warmth pressed against Sloane’s freshly dried coat, her voice soft but filled with an almost fragile certainty. “You did your best,” she murmured, tilting her head so their cheeks brushed, letting Sloane feel that recognition, that quiet pride.

Kacper leaned back in his seat, one boot propped against the bench in casual defiance. A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as his eyes flicked to Sloane’s blistered hands, bruised arms, and exhausted frame. “Bet you’re going to be sore later,” he said, teasing but unmalicious, tone sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion in the air yet carrying the faintest undercurrent of amusement. He allowed the words to hang, letting them be both a warning and a compliment, his way of acknowledging her stubbornness without ever needing to admit how much he respected it.

^{interactions ....|.... sloane ............... mentions ....|.... sylas, sloane ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Reign of the Usurper

^{#943131 ....|..... outfit ............... #10636f ....|..... outfit ............... on the banks of the bramble weave}

Late afternoon light slanted over the Bramble Weave in shivering gold, turning the river’s skin to threads of fire. The sun pressed down like a hand, warm enough to bead sweat at the base of Emil’s throat even in the shadow of the ship. The water glittered fiercely beneath it—no soft, winter-worn silver like the rivers back home, but a bright, molten gold that made him squint every time it caught the light. Summer lived here with its whole chest bared, heavy and humming, and Emil still hadn’t grown used to the heat after two days moored along the riverbank.

He stepped along the shore of the river, and let the breeze, what little of it there was, brush damp strands of hair from his forehead. The banks were thick with greenery, nothing like the stunted, stubborn flora of Ironcrag. Here, everything grew bold and unashamed, crowding toward the sun as if eager to be seen. It was too warm for comfort, but warmth had never frightened him. It reminded him of gentler things, like his mother, his sisters. He wandered along the edge, letting his fingers drift over the blooms at his knees. Some he recognized only through stories, others he’d never seen at all.

He knelt beside a cluster of Sunweave Blossoms, pale orange petals spiraling outward like a spinning wheel. Their scent was thick—sweet and a little sharp, like fruit left to ripen on a windowsill. They thrived along hot riverbeds, his mother once told him. Further along, he spotted Ribbonfern Lilies, long white petals streaked with thin red threads that looked painted by hand. They drooped in the heat, but when he touched one, the petal was cool as clay. Travelers used them to soothe sunburns, his sister had told him about these. A little farther still, a patch of Summer’s Breath Mint, a wild herb with bright green leaves and tiny white flowers. When he crushed a leaf between his fingers, a burst of cold sweetness bloomed in the air, unexpected and wildly welcome.

He gathered multiples of these flowers carefully, bunching them slowly, mindful not to bend the stems. Even in the oppressive heat, surrounded by all this foreign abundance, his mind tugged homeward.

Ironcrag’s ‘summer’ crops would be coming in soon.

The emberroot beds he’d helped seed in the brief week of thaw, should be ready for pulling any day now. The whitegrain terraces would need tending before the next thaw, and it was quickly approaching. Someone would have to check the cliffside stoneberry vines, coaxing their fragile fruits free before mountain winds stripped them bare. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.

Normally, he would be there, working the terraces at dawn, sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the biting chill, laughing with the farmers while the cold stung their cheeks pink. He would be the one running remedies from village to village for his sister, making sure the sick had enough, making sure the lonely weren’t left to swallow their grief in silence. He’d sit on creaking wooden steps and listen to old stories, letting his presence be the comfort people couldn’t always put into words. Now he was here, waiting to be summoned. Waiting to smile and bow and play the part his family needed him to play.

“Just for now,” he whispered to the flowers, their colors too bright for his eyes, their scents too heavy in the heat. “And then I’ll go home, back where I am needed. Just a little while longer.”

He hoped the people of Ironcrag understood why he’d vanished on them. That his absence was not neglect, but duty. That his heart, soft, stubborn thing that it was, was still rooted in those rugged mountains. The river chattered beside him, bright and warm and endlessly alive. The breeze shifted, carrying distant shouts from the docks and the thick scent of sun-warmed pine.

Soon, they would be called up to the castle. Soon, he would tuck away this piece of himself and step into a place carved by ceremony and expectation. But for now he stood by the water, gathering flowers that did not belong to him, breathing heat that clung to his ribs, trying to steady the quiet ache of missing home before the world demanded something else of him. He drifted along the riverbank in slow, thoughtful steps, a quiet figure moving through the shimmer of summer. Nothing about this land was gentle. Nothing whispered. Everything shone. Everything demanded to be seen. He wondered if it would ever feel like something other than a temporary stage he was meant to walk across and leave behind.

He paused when a sliver of shade from a bent old willow offered itself, ducking beneath the curtain of its branches with a muted sigh of gratitude. The heat eased only slightly here, but the respite felt profound all the same. A dragonfly skimmed across the river’s surface, wings catching the sunlight in fractured bursts of blue and green, like shards of stained glass turned loose on the wind. It hovered, darted, doubled back—alive with a kind of freedom that made something in his chest both loosen and ache, reminding him of Soleil. He watched it without blinking, letting its erratic dance pull him out of himself for a moment, letting the river’s warm murmur fill the silence that followed wherever he went these days.

Marriage drifted to the forefront of his thoughts, as unwelcome as a burr clinging to wool. His father had mentioned it in that clipped, definitive tone that pretended to be casual but carried the weight of command. The royals would be considering alliances. Emil was expected to be… useful. Eligible. Presentable. Yet he felt no pull toward that life, no thread of interest knotted to his heart. His devotion had already been given, quietly and entirely, to the people of Ironcrag, the farmers who carved hope from stubborn soil, the families who weathered harsh winters and harsher rulers, the children who tugged at his sleeves for stories or herbs or simply reassurance that the world was not only made of cold things. He loved them with a steadiness that felt older than he was, a loyalty that grew in him the way roots grow in earth. What room, then, was left for marriage? For strangers in gilded halls? For alliances spun from duty rather than affection?

When the royals saw him, his softness, his awkward sincerity, the way he blushed too easily and spoke too plainly, they would likely dismiss him long before he could dismiss them. He prayed they would. He prayed to any of the Gods that were listening that it would be clean and quiet, allowing him to return to the fleet waiting in the bay without ceremony, return to the mountains without delay, return to the people who were his truest calling.

But as the thought of dismissal soothed one ache, another surged up, sharper, deeper, impossibly familiar as the dragonfly flitted about. His youngest sister. Nearly a year had passed since she disappeared into the night, leaving behind only a scrap of hope and the echo of her determination. He had searched for her in everything, in the frost on morning windows, in the shape of passing clouds, in the way the mountains seemed to hold their breath on certain days—as though waiting for her return. Now, beneath this blazing summer sky, he found himself looking upward again, between the branches of the old willow, wondering if she stood beneath the same blue expanse or if she had followed her hunger for freedom far beyond the borders of anything he could imagine.

The missing of her lived in him like a hollowed-out place, a cavern carved clean through his chest; sometimes it felt like a sharp, echoing ache, and other times like an absence so complete it frightened him. It hung from his shoulders like an unworn cloak—heavy, persistent, impossible to shrug off, no matter how he tried. Yet beneath all that grief was a fierce and steady glow of pride. She had escaped. She had been brave enough to walk away from their father’s cruelty, from the unyielding expectations that smothered them both, from a future that demanded she be small. She had chosen a life that belonged only to her. He hoped she was somewhere bright. He hoped she was safe. He hoped she was free.

The wind shifted, lifting the willow’s curtain of leaves, brushing warm fingers against his face as if urging him to rise. He straightened slowly, gathering the flowers with the same gentleness he treated everything he loved, casting one last look at the dragonfly now perched on a slick stone midstream. In the distance, muffled by heat and river-sound, came the faint stirrings from the ship, footsteps, shouted names, preparations for their approach to the castle. Soon, he would be expected to step into a world that had never been shaped for him, a world where softness was met with sharp smiles and kindness mistaken for naivety. Soon, he would be measured, weighed, and, he hoped, quietly excused.

But for now Emil walked back toward the docks, the sun heavy on his shoulders, the river warm at his side, and the wide summer sky stretched above him in an endless blue sweep—vast enough, perhaps, to hold both his longing for home and the fragile hope that somewhere beneath this same sky, his sister walked unafraid into whatever future she had chosen for herself. In the distance, the sound of racing horses drew a smile to his lips.

The pounding of hooves hit the end of the trail where it manifested at the edge of the forest. Dirt stirred and patches of grass uprooted with every gallop. A whirlwind of snow white, turquoise and crimson charged through the trees like an untouchable fury. The black shadow followed, mirroring and following, but never gaining. The expanse between them grew, as it always did, muffling the disgruntled curses that could not reach her. For that powerful, yet fleeting moment, Rhea was free… weightless, one leap from taking flight and leaving the Vale behind.

She had been barred from horseback riding for months, kept far from the stables, and her horse, Lily. Her mother—the Queen—feared she would run, feared she would not fail to disgrace the family if given a chance. Rhea had to barter for this moment, agree to sever ties for this moment. She was swift on horseback… untouchable on horseback. She would only be caught if she deemed it so. Could she make it to the Fist? …Further? Tendrils of thoughts weaved across her mind, falling into place. Freedom was at her fingertips. All she had to do was reach out… and seize it.

The fluttering white mane brushed Rhea’s chin, beckoning her to break free as she leaned forward and tightened her grip on the reins. She kicked her heels back into the horse’s haunches but once, giving a commanding, "Ya!" Lily heeded, fast and obedient. She snorted, not out of frustration, but determination. Her head dipped and her gallop hastened, hooves digging deeper into the earth, pushing harder than she ever had before like she knew… this was their chance.

Rhea spared a glance back over her shoulder where Coren tried desperately to keep pace... and failed, disappearing into a blur of a shadow lost beneath the trees. A laugh, lighter than air fell from her lips and sang on the breeze as it found its way back to him. There was a part of her that felt guilt for what would become of him if she got away. But he was loyal and steadfast. Perhaps he’d follow. Perhaps he’d join her. Perhaps—

A rogue branch caught the tail of her braid, tearing the ribbon from her hair causing a crimson waterfall to slip over her shoulders and fall into her face. Lily whinnied and Rhea’s attention turned forward. A man leisurely walked along the trail in front of them, his back to her, flowers in hand, not a care in the world. Rhea’s hand instinctively tightened on the reins, pulling them backwards with a hard jerk and a shout. "Woah!" The horse reared, hooves flailing in the air dangerously close to the man’s head.

Rhea’s thighs tightened around the horse’s chest, hands clenching the bit of leather in her palms like a tether, desperate to remain seated. But she was caught off guard. She didn’t lean forward in preparation to counterbalance the pull of the earth tugging her backwards. Time slowed, hovering in that tentative parity until her boots slipped from the stirrups and her weight carried her backwards, tumbling from the horse’s back toward the ground below with a gasp.

For a suspended heartbeat, the world was nothing but sunlight and rhythm, the distant hammering of hooves against the earth, the pulse of warmth against his skin, the sudden surge of wind that lifted his hair and brought with it the scent of dust and summer and wild, reckless motion. Emil had turned at first with a simple, curious smile, expecting travelers, perhaps a messenger from the docks, but the smile faltered, froze, and bled into startled disbelief as a blur of white and turquoise exploded from the tree line.

The horse was a streak of lightning tearing through the trail, its mane a fluttering banner of pale silk, its rider a streak of color clinging to it like a desperate, exultant star. For a breath, it didn’t feel real, a heat haze conjured into life, but the scream of reins and the sharp, panicked rear of the animal shattered that illusion. The horse rose, hooves carving the air above his head, slicing so close he felt the wind of them graze his cheek. Instinct, older than thought, faster than fear, seized him. His body twisted, weight shifting, feet digging into the sun-baked dirt as he lurched sideways, arms half-raised not in defense but in some wild, impossible reflex to catch falling life.

He didn’t see her face, only motion, only the flash of limbs and hair and the tremor of her breath as air and earth worked as one to claim her. He moved toward her instead of away, a choice made without reason, without time, as if some quiet part of him had always been waiting for this exact moment. Her body collided with his chest, the impact sharp enough to knock the air from his lungs and send him pitching backward. The world tilted, sky, branches, sunlight, and then the ground rose up fast and unforgiving. His back slammed against it with a jolt that rattled his teeth, pain reverberating up his spine in a hot, blunt wave. The bundle of flowers slipped from his fingers and fell together to the ground, held only in place by the thin piece of twine he’d wound around their stems. His palms hit the road hard, rocks biting into his callouses, forcing a hiss of breath between his teeth as grit tore into skin already roughened by years of labor. Heat surged through him, heat from the earth, the sun, the rush of panic still clawing at his ribs, and for a moment he lay stunned, blinking up at the endless blue sky that suddenly seemed far too bright, far too vast.

Lily neighed and huffed in aggravation at the unknown man that interrupted her run and unseated her rider. The navy blue, Storvane caparison was askew across her back, threatening to fall to the earth. She shook her head, tousling her mane and rattling her reins about as she bounced and stamped her front hooves. The horse was uneasy, eyes darting back and forth. Restless and confused, with every move the man made she took a step back getting frighteningly close to Rhea and the stranger.

The weight across his chest was slight, trembling, human. A breath, hers, fluttered against his collarbone, uneven and startled, smelling faintly of wind and sweat and impossible speed. The horses hooves struck the earth nearby in agitated bursts, her snorts sharp and frantic as she danced clumsily backward, the jangle of tack echoing like a warning bell through the trees. Emil’s instinct pulled him up before his mind could catch up, his hand darted out, fingers splayed, anchoring her rider before she could roll into the danger of the horse’s restless steps.

Pain lanced up his arm where grit had ground into his skin, but he held steady, guiding her closer to his side, away from the wild churn of hooves. His breath came shallow and rough, chest still reeling from the impact, but beneath the ache was a strange, humming clarity, the awareness of life narrowly spared, of bodies intersecting at the fragile seam between ruin and rescue. The world was no longer quiet, nor distant, nor gently shimmering. It was immediate, thunderous, alive. And Emil, pressed into the dirt with another’s fall cushioned against his own bones, felt the moment settle around him with the weight of something he could not yet name.

Rhea had been waiting for the collision of her body upon the ground or a hoof against her side. She had seen it happen time and time again, the dangers of a frightened horse. Her recklessness had to eventually run its course and her time had come. In that fraction of a second that stretched for eternity as she fell from Lily’s back, there was a dark silent relief knowing she’d soon join Gareth and be rid of her mother’s barber tendrils once and for all. But the death never came. Where she had braced for the pain of the unforgiving earth, she was met with frantic arms fumbling with the weight and force of her body. They both toppled over like flowers in a gust of wind, where the stranger broke her fall like a plush field of grass, cushioning her from pain.

The flash of a moment passed in a whirlwind, leaving her dizzy and confused. Angered stomping of hooves treacherously close drew Rhea’s attention before anything else, not the man beneath her nor the approaching sounds of Coren’s horse. Her eyes widened and arms raised to shield her face from the inevitable. She instinctively turned away and into the unknown man seeking safety as he pulled her out of harm’s way. Everything went still like the wind before a storm. Her pulse thrummed and roared like rapids through her ears, muffling the strangled pants that fell hot from her lips across the man’s chest.

He opened his mouth, planning to ask her if she was spared the pain of the fall, but all that escaped him was an inelegant wheeze. Emil took in a few shuddering breaths, trying to remember how to breathe properly was odd, nothing he’d ever experienced quite before, but after a moment he managed. "Are you injured?" His voice was soft, strained, equal parts perplexed and concerned. He hadn’t realized this was a riders trail, not until the crash landing.

Rhea only lifted her head when she felt the man’s voice rumble in his chest beneath her where his words were unable to cut through her panic. Long crimson hair fell wild and free, blown across her face by the warm breeze and tickling along the edge of the man’s jaw. Her hazel eyes remained wide, stunned like an animal caught in a trap. As their predicament slowly dawned on her, a flush that rivaled her hair crept up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks. She quickly attempted to get up and separate herself from her savior… or victim depending on perspective. With their legs still entangled, her weight only shifted, body slipping off of his to land softly on the ground beside him.

A second set of hooves approached, followed by a loud thud of boots hitting the dirt, not waiting for the horse to stop before dismounting. "Princess!" A familiar voice called out from behind her. One minute Rhea was dazed upon the earth, then a strong arm curved around her waist, pulling her away from the stranger and lifting her to her feet. He kept her close, arm tightly woven around her, with her back pressed against his chest protectively. The knight already had his steel drown, metal glinting in the light of the sun with the tip pointed down at the man splayed upon the ground.

The Princess was hardly given time to process what transpired before she was swept up into another whirlwind. In a matter of seconds she was thrown from her horse and dragged into the arms of two different men. If word got to her mother—Oh, Gods. Rhea quickly reached out, placing her hand upon Coren’s forearm in hopes to get him to lower his weapon. "It was my fault. I nearly trampled him… He saved me from the fall." Her chest still heaved, having not had the chance to calm herself.

Whether or not her guard wished to free her, she pried herself from his grasp and hurried over to her frightened horse before she could run away. Rhea approached the mare with outstretched hands and quiet shh’s. When she got close enough, she gently stroked Lily’s man with one hand while gathering up her reins in the other. "I am sorry, sweet Lily," she whispered while coaxing the horse over to a tree and tethered her in place.

Coren hesitated where Rhea left him, looking back and forth between his charge and the startled man on the ground at the end of his blade. Against his better judgement, he sheathed his sword and took a step forward, holding out a hand to help the man up. "Apologies."

For a moment Emil could do nothing but stare, flat on his back, dust clinging to his shoulders, the world still tilting at the edges from the force of their collision. The shape leaning over him resolved slowly, as though the sun itself were carving her into focus. Long crimson hair tangled by the wind, cheeks flushed as though lit from within, wide hazel eyes still shimmering with the ghost of fear. And then, like a stone dropped into still water, the word princess struck him.

Princess.

The sound echoed through his skull with a kind of dreadful clarity, louder than the pounding of his pulse, louder than the ringing left over from the fall. Princess. God’s preserve him. Of all the riders on all the cursed trails in the heat-shimmering reaches of this hold, he had managed to nearly die beneath a royal, and then catch her like some ridiculous, winded shield. His father would flay him alive for the embarrassment alone. And the King’s Guard, well, they hardly needed a reason to finish the job.

He lay there helpless, hands splayed against the packed earth as though pinned by the sheer weight of his own fate, blinking hard to clear the sun stabbing white-hot at the corners of his vision. The guard loomed above him, sword a silver stroke against the sky, and for a heartbeat Emil could only squint up at him, half-blinded, half-expecting cold steel to introduce itself to his throat. But then the blade dipped, vanished into its sheath, and the air loosened around him. He let out a breath he didn’t remember holding, chest aching from both relief and impact. When the man offered his hand, Emil took it, though the movement sent a jolt of protest up his side. He masked the wince as best he could. Dusting himself off was futile, but he tried anyway, pushing his hair back from his face in a gesture that felt both pointless and painfully human.

“My apologies,” he managed, voice roughened by the fall and the panic still lingering like smoke in his lungs. He bowed, first to the guard, then deeper to the princess, each movement stiff with soreness but precise in form. “To both of you. I meant no harm. The fault is mine for not seeing this was a rider’s trail sooner.” He lifted his gaze just enough to meet hers, and the sight of her, alive, upright, flushed but unharmed, sent something strangely warm through the hollow ache in his ribs. It was self preservation, it was knowing that he’d helped, and that was what Emil had always been best at.

"It is not a rider’s trail," Coren clarified as his stance relaxed. His weight shifted to one leg as his hands rested lazily upon the pommel of his sword, in an attempt to calm the unease in his breaths. "The Princess is merely audacious."

Rhea tugged the reins taut around a narrow tree trunk and gave Lily another calming stroke of her mane, trying to ease her horse’s and her own nerves. She scoffed at her knight’s jest, sparing him a sidelong glance of silent judgement. "You are only displeased because I was winning." There was more to it, which was evident in the furrowing of Coren’s brow, but she dared not speak it in the presence of unknown company. So she left it at his bruised pride and nothing more.

Subtle movement from the corner of her eyes pulled her attention toward the man as he bowed to her guard and then herself. The corner of her lips tugged, tight and uncomfortable, existing in the fragile balance somewhere between a smile and a frown. But she did not stop him, she couldn’t. Men have been killed for less than failing to bow in the presence of royalty… Not even within the safety of the forest. Everything was watching… listening, as Coren stated.

“I am… grateful you were not injured,” he added softer, sincerity threading through the formality. Then, because dread still knotted low in his stomach, he straightened carefully, hands clasped behind him in the posture of a man desperately trying not to look like someone who had just nearly gotten royalty trampled.

Grateful she was not injured. No doubt to save his own neck from whatever hell her mother would unleash upon a man that frightened her horse and injured her, regardless if it was her fault to begin with. The guilt churned like the rapids that rushed with life beyond the treeline. She nearly killed this man, but he was thankful she was unharmed. He should be cursing the ground she walked on, not praising her safety. Rhea swallowed and looked back over her shoulder in time to see the man straighten as if they were standing across from one another in court rather than nearly escaping death at her hands. Her face tensed and contorted as she took a step toward him without a thought, holding out her hands as if to steady a spoked animal.

"Please…" Her voice was timid, uncertain, and easily lost in the wind. They were not in the citadel, or at court, or before other Lords. After nearly being trampled by her horse, the last thing the man needed to do was act on ceremony around her. "Are you injured?" she asked, more concerned about his own well-being rather than if he treated her with the proper respect. The weight of her misdeeds were plain across her face, evident in her subtle frown, the soft way her brows tugged together, and how her hazel eyes searched his face for signs of pain or unease. "Forgive my insolence," she practically begged as her gaze fell to the disturbed dirt that rested at her feet.

Emil blinked at her outstretched hands, delicate, trembling faintly, held as though he were some wounded creature she feared might bolt. The earnestness in her eyes struck him harder than the fall had, it sifted through the dread still clinging to his ribs and softened it into something almost warm. He let his posture loosen, shoulders unspooling from their rigid brace, and a slow, rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the throb blossoming down his spine.

“There is nothing to forgive, Your Grace,” he said gently, and for once his voice came easy, unstrangled by fear or formality. He shifted his weight, careful not to hiss when his ribs protested, and managed a lopsided, almost boyish grin. “Truly. I’ve fared far worse back home in Ironcrag. This is hardly a bruise.”

The memory surfaced, unbidden but welcome, and he let out a soft laugh, airy and bright as though he weren’t currently pretending his lungs weren’t full of broken glass. “Once, when I was helping a merchant right his overturned carriage, his horse, this monstrous, stubborn brute, decided he’d had enough chaos for one day. Nearly kicked my head clear off.” He mimed the trajectory with a crooked hand, shaking his head. “I swear I felt the wind off its hoof. My father said if I were any slower—” his smile dimmed, and he shifted uncomfortably. “He—he was pleased I lived to tell the tale. It was a lie, but it sounded better than what his father had actually said.

The smile returned though, and it was earnest, sunlit, disarming, even if it trembled faintly at the edges from pain. “Compared to that, your fall was a gentle nudge. I promise you, Princess. I am more dusted than damaged.”

He hesitated, letting the warm hush settle around them, then dipped his head, not in bowing, but in reassurance, hoping she’d take it for what it was. “You needn’t lower your gaze for my sake. I’m standing. You’re standing. And your horse didn’t send either of us to the healers. By my measure, that makes it a fortunate day.”

Regardless of the reassurances the man tried to give her, Rhea slowly circled him like a hawk, crunching dry earth and pebbles beneath her boots. Her eyes searched him for any injuries he might have been hiding, no matter his protests. "You do not know my mother," she commented softly, more a whisper to herself rather than an open thought. "I am certain word of this is making its way to her. It would ease my conscience and give my argument legs to stand upon if I knew you were unharmed."

Emil let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold, the kind that slipped from between clenched teeth when a truth could no longer be politely tucked away. His shoulders softened first, slumping, surrendering to the ache blooming deep beneath his ribs, and he pressed a hand lightly to his side as though that small gesture might coax the pain into behaving. It didn’t, but he offered her a faint, wry smile all the same.

“I suppose,” he murmured, voice quieter now, threaded with a reluctant honesty, “My side does hurt… quite a bit.” His thumb brushed the edge of the bruise he could already feel forming beneath his shirt. “But I promise you, Princess, I’ve had worse. Ironcrag isn’t gentle with its sons.” There was no bravado in the words—only a simple, worn truth, spoken like someone accustomed to carrying discomfort without complaint.

She came into view around the man’s other side, her leather gloved fingers fiddled uneasily as her gaze fell to where his hand cradled his ribs. "I apologize, but I must be certain nothing is broken." Rhea took a tentative step forward, stirring the loose dirt at their feet into a small cloud. She pinched the tip of her right middle finger, slipping the dove skin glove from her hand in a single fluid motion. The small bit of leather remained clutched in her left palm as she used that same hand to gently lift the side of his tunic revealing his toned muscles that gleamed from the sweat that clung to his skin. In other circumstances she might have flushed at the predicament, but this was beyond her honor or what was proper. Her bare hand raised to sweep her long red hair back over her shoulder and out of her way.

"My brother Dorian once instigated a fight with my other brother," Rhea began to recount her own tale in hope to distract them both as she checked the severity of his injury. "It did not end in his favor," she continued while pressing the flat of her palm against the rich blues and violets that blossomed along his side. Her touch was tender and warm, but searching as the tips of her fingers slowly traced the curve of every rib with a gentle pressure. "He had a black eye and two—no three broken ribs. He made quite the fuss and would not let anyone assist him besides me. ‘They were too rough.’ he claimed." Her brows furrowed as she shifted to stand before him, checking along his sternum to his other side methodically. "To my misfortune, I grew familiar with how a broken bone felt."

After finishing her thorough examination, Rhea released his shirt letting the fabric fall back down to cover his chest before she took a few steps away. Without a word, Coren approached her holding out the spare bit of cloth from earlier. She did not make a show of wiping off her hand nor was she bothered. The heat of summer was cruel and unforgiving leaving anyone within the valley glistening with sweat no matter how much they kept to the shade. "Nothing appears to be broken… But I am no medic," she clarified. "However I know of no remedy for sore muscles or bruising." She offered him a sympathetic, albeit guilty smile.

"Time, Princess," Coren offered as he took back the cloth and went back to his place as a silent sentinel along the treeline.

Emil stood as still as any man could stand while royalty lifted the hem of his tunic and laid a bare hand to his ribs. For all his attempts at composure, a sharp breath escaped him the moment her palm found the tender bloom of bruising—nothing loud, nothing dramatic, just the quick, involuntary catch of air between his teeth. He forced himself to ease it out slowly, as though exhaling might steady the world that had abruptly narrowed to the warmth of her touch and the scent of wildflowers still clinging faintly to her hair.

He kept his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder, out toward the flickering line where the forest met the sky, doing everything in his power to remain respectful, unmoving, and, gods willing, behaving like a man who knew how to act in the presence of a princess and not like someone suddenly aware of every inch of his own skin. He had to be uninteresting, just bland enough to be sent home. He did not need princesses touching him.

Her story helped. Her voice, quiet and intent, threaded through the heat between them like a breeze through summer curtains. Emil found himself smiling despite the tenderness of her prodding fingers, imagining two princely brothers thrashing about while their sister adjudicated the ruins. When she stepped back and released him from the spell of her closeness, he let the fabric fall naturally into place and drew a careful breath, testing the ache. Nothing snapped or splintered inside him, a mercy he silently thanked every god for.

He shifted his weight, offering her a smile that was soft at the edges, threaded with both gratitude and an earnestness he made no attempt to hide. “Your examination was kinder than any I’ve ever known,” he said quietly. “Back home, my sister is the one who patches the rest of us up. Brothers, cousins, everyone, really. She has a clever way of knowing what hurts before we admit it.” A fond warmth slipped into his voice, almost reverent. “She keeps a pouch of salve she swears by. Says it chases bruises away faster than time alone. Smells like pine and frostbite,” he added with a faint laugh. “I never asked what she puts in it. I suspect she’d lie just to keep the secret.” He winced, barely, but the smile remained, bright as a shard of light off river water. His hand hovered briefly near his ribs, then dropped again, as though refusing to make more of his discomfort than the day already had. “Thank you for your concern, princess.”

"My uncle taught me," the Princess commented quietly as she pulled back on her glove for a second time, finding the leather less cooperative as her fingers grew warm and faintly swollen from the heat. She grimaced but eventually, with some tugging and wiggling, it settled into place. "Let us then pray your sister joined you from Ironcrag along with her miraculous salve." A small smile formed across her lips but it did not reach her eyes which were still heavy with guilt and the impending weight of what her actions would unfurl. "I imagine without it you may be sore for quite some time."

Rhea finally took a moment to look at the man rather than examine him like an animal wounded by her own hand. Wide hazel eyes studied his face from beneath a wild veil of crimson hair, trying to see if his visage ignited any memory. He had a strong jaw dusted with the shadow of facial hair that had grown since morning, softened by his gentle, compassionate smile. Kind blue eyes looked down at her from beneath the shade of his brow, framed by wind blown red locks of his own. A soft sigh fell from her lips, lost in the warmth of the air around them. "Might I at least know the name of the man I nearly killed?" She took a small step back, creating a more appropriate amount of space between them as if just her proximity was a threat to his safety. "I feel as if my introduction is fruitless, but I am Rhea, for what that is worth."

He straightened slowly, carefully, drawing himself up not in formality but in courtesy, and dipped into another bow, deeper this time, despite the way his ribs protested the motion. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess Rhea,” he said, lifting his gaze to hers with a sincerity that felt almost too earnest for the sun-dappled dust between them. He paused, gathering a small breath, letting it settle in his chest before offering it into the open warmth of the air. “Emil Járnbjørn,” he said at last, the syllables soft but steady, and what he said next sounded close to rehearsed. “Second son of Lord Einarr. My family and I arrived not long ago. We are set to arrive to the Black Citadel quite soon, I believe.”

The words hung there, warm and heavy, like the heat rolling off the earth beneath their feet. He didn’t elaborate, not on why they’d come, he was certain that Rhea already knew why, but something in his eyes flickered, a brief ember of longing or weariness or both. And then, with a slight tilt of his head, he softened the truth with a gentler smile. “I did not imagine my first meeting with royalty would involve nearly being trampled,” he added lightly. “But… I’m glad to have made your acquaintance—alive, and mostly in one piece.”

A weight sunk in Rhea’s chest like a rock thrown into the Weave, knocking the wind from her lungs while causing her heart to race faster than Lily could ever hope of running. "Gods preserve me," the words fell from her mouth like a suffocated wheeze, strangled, and desperate for air like the first breath after breaking the water’s surface.

"Princess?" Coren broke his silence, concern knitting his brows as he took a step toward her with hands extended prepared to catch or coddle or whatever else was required of him.

"I nearly killed one of the Lords sent to this damned valley to try and marry me." The words slipped out like a frantic plea for it all to be not but a nightmare, an abhorrent nightmare that should rouse her from her slumber at any moment and leave her restless for what remained of the night. But the heat lingered, Lily snorted out of sight, and the weight in the pit of her stomach only grew with every labored breath. Her eyes went wide, one hand gripping her side while the other held her forehead as if trying to keep her head from spinning. "My mother is—" The air was stolen from her lungs a second time. "By the nine, my mother…" She met Coren’s gaze and while he remained stoic and poised, hovering on the precipice of jumping into action should she grow faint, his expression mirrored a fraction of her worries.

Emil’s breath was still uneven, his ribs protesting every shift, but the princess’s spiraling panic eclipsed even the ache in his side. Her words, terrified, disbelieving, hung between them like an arrow suspended mid-flight, and something in him lunged to fill the crushing silence before it swallowed her whole. “I—gods—Princess, I have no desire to marry you.” The sentence burst out of him with all the grace of a kicked beehive. Too loud. Too fast. Too honest. His eyes flew wide as if he could snatch the words back out of the air. Heat flared up his neck, panic licking at his composure just as hers broke apart before him.

“I mean—not that—not because—” He inhaled sharply, wincing at the stab in his ribs. “What I meant is I’ve no desire to marry anyone. At all.” His voice pitched tight, hurried, every word tripping over the next in desperate damage control. “My mother wants it, my father insists on it, and I—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I was honestly hoping to be quietly dismissed from consideration before anyone of importance remembered I exist.”

He let out a short, strangled laugh, thin as a fraying thread. Only then did he see how she swayed, how her breath came sharp and uneven, how fear hollowed her eyes. The humor drained from him, chased out by a deeper instinct.

“Princess,” he said softly, steadier now, the frantic edge gone. “You didn’t harm me. Not truly. And my father’s likely to kill me long before your mother even hears of this.” A tight, almost rueful smile curled at his mouth. “Truly. He’ll probably lecture me for weeks about getting in the way of royalty like some wandering fool.”

The Lord’s words fell on deaf ears. Rhea heard bits and pieces: something about him not wishing to marry her, dismissal, and a father that sounded nearly as terrible as her mother. But while the sounds rattled around in her head, the roar of her pulse rolled over everything like the furious rapids of the weave, trampling all other thoughts beneath the current to be beaten against rocks rather than given air. Her hand reached out as if an intangible subconscious tether within her drew Coren near, and he would offer his support before she had a moment to flail around for something to steady herself. Delicate trembling fingers wove tightly around his arm while his other hand waited in the air mere inches from her back, prepared to support her further if needed.

After a few moments of labored breaths and forceful blinks to push past her mental haze that stirred like a storm, Rhea righted herself, taking a step back from both men. This was not the time nor place for her panic, not in the open, not before a Lord… not ever—if she had the strength to control her emotions in such a way. "I appreciate your words but where your father is cruel, so is my mother… And she has eyes and ears all over this valley." She raised her hands to tuck her wild and loose hair behind her ears. "I… I must go."

Rhea turned around and took a step forward. It was only then that she saw a bundle of flowers, discarded upon the ground and wrapped in twine. She couldn’t recall if she noticed Lord Emil with them or not, she approached far too fast to notice anything beyond nearly crushing him beneath Lily’s hooves. But they were far too orderly, too neat. Some of the flowers were nearby, shadowed beneath a bush or hugging a tree, but others had to be gathered near the water or in direct sunlight. There was thought behind them, intention. Gloved fingers gently scooped up the bouquet of wildflowers and turned back toward the bewildered Lord. She did not wait for him to take them, instead all but shoving them into his hand to avoid further conversation, guilt, or reassurances. "Please forgive me." The words slipped out, breathy, quick, and all nerves.

Before he could say anything or try and convince her to stay, she spun back around, loose dust swirling in her wake as she hurried over to her tethered horse. Rhea did not wait for Coren’s assistance, quickly unknotting the reins and mounting the white mare by the time the knight reached her. Without sparing either of them another glance, she sped off down the trail towards the Citadel in a familiar blur of white and turquoise. The guardsman gave Lord Emil a quick bow before mounting his horse with the same amount of haste, but lacking the Princess’s finesse. With one final nod, he followed after her like a shadow trying to catch the light, fast… but never quite fast enough.

For a long, breath-stilled moment Emil could only watch her go—first the flash of her eyes, wide and wounded, then the frantic whirl of turquoise skirts and white mare as she fled as though chased by specters only she could see. Coren thundered after her with the dutiful panic of a man who knew the consequences of letting a princess slip from his grasp, though even his horse seemed resigned to the truth: no one quite caught Rhea once she decided to run.

Dust bloomed in her wake, a pale curtain rising, swirling, and then drifting lazily back down to earth. By the time it settled, she was gone. The distant echo of hooves faded into the valley, replaced only by the familiar hum of insects and the lapping of the river against stone, mundane sounds that felt laughably at odds with the chaos she’d left him standing in. Emil blinked, once, twice, as though the scene might reorder itself into something comprehensible if he reset his vision. But when he glanced down, the world only grew stranger.

In his right hand—still poised awkwardly between himself and the empty road, lay the bouquet she had thrust at him. A few petals bent, a few stems bruised, but the colors still clung bravely to life. The absurdity of it all was too much, the fall, her panic, his own stumbling words, her retreat like a startled doe, the bouquet pressed into his hand as though it were a token of guilt she needed to rid herself of. A soft, bewildered sound escaped him, half groan, half laugh.

“By the gods,” he murmured under his breath. “Women.” He said it without bitterness, more like a man who had grown up with sisters he’d never fully understood. For another heartbeat he lingered, watching the dust settle into the grooves of the path she raced down. Then, with a slow exhale that tugged uncomfortably at his ribs, he tore his gaze away and turned toward the docks below, toward the ship that had carried him unwillingly into this furnace of a valley. His steps were careful, each one reminding him of the bruise blooming beneath his tunic, but he did not rush.

He let out a slow sigh and adjusted his grip on the blooms, holding them as though they might bruise further if handled with anything less than care. And with the quiet resignation of a man marching toward both duty and disaster, Emil followed the path back toward his family.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... selja, soleil............... collabs ....|.... @mjolnir}

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#EBCEED ....|..... outfit .....|..... arena}

Zelia lingered at the edge of the gathering campers, her fingers tapping out a restless rhythm against her thigh, not out of nerves but the low-grade thrill fizzing beneath her skin. The air still shimmered faintly with the echo of River’s feat— sand scuffed, water settling, the scent of sweat and churned earth coiling together like the after-breath of a storm. He had caught his breath by the time she approached, light on her feet, as if she floated more than stepped. The others lined up behind her like a row of dominos waiting for gravity, she stepped neatly out of line.

“River,” she said softly, not wanting the crowd to hear. When he lifted his gaze, she offered a small, apologetic smile, bright but brittle at the edges. “Before I run… I should tell you.” Her voice stayed steady, though she could feel her pulse ticking fast beneath the words. “I can’t swim. I have a thing with water, I just…can’t.” She shifted, not quite looking at him. Son of Poseidon, did that make them like… first cousins, or something? Their family tree was beyond fucked. She didn’t ask for modification, didn’t plead; she merely offered the fact like one might hand over a forgotten key. “Should I run extra laps?”

"Oh," River mused, his face showing his apparent confusion or the lack of consideration at the thought that there could actually be campers who couldn’t swim. It had been so ingrained in him since infancy, that he just naturally assumed everyone could swim. His free hand raised to scratch at the back of his head, attempting to think of a solution quickly. "Right… umm, do you know what a suicide is? You can run those alongside the pool—quarter, half, then three quarters—and we can set up swimming lessons after all the assessments."

Zelia blinked at him, once, twice, surprised not by the arrangement but by how gently he offered it. Most people, when she admitted she couldn’t swim, reacted with disbelief or laughter, or awkward reassurance. River just… adjusted, like he’d shifted a current around her rather than trying to drag her through it. Something in her shoulders unclenched.

“Yeah,” she murmured, nodding. “I know suicides. Track team made sure of that.” A small breath of a laugh escaped her, wry and airy, barely a disturbance in the morning chill. She’d run more suicides than she cared to remember, enough to know she’d hate them, enough to know she could do them anyway. The thought of sprinting back and forth along the pool’s edge didn’t frighten her. It grounded her. She could run anywhere. Running meant earth beneath her, not water hungry enough to pull her under.

But swimming lessons— Her throat tightened before she could stop it. She glanced at the pool, the surface dark and glittering like a polished stone with teeth beneath. Cold crept up her spine, uninvited and familiar. Half her life she’d avoided water deeper than her ankles. Half her life she’d trained herself not to look too long at lakes or deep ends or the color that happened when blue turned to black. Half her life, she’d pushed back the memory of the accident that took her mom from her.

River waited, patient, steady as a tide that refused to rush her. Zelia inhaled, slow and shaky around the edges, then nodded again, smaller this time, more fragile, like the gesture might crack if she pressed it too hard. “Swimming lessons… I don’t know if I can.” The admission tasted like metal, honest, raw, pulled from somewhere soft. She didn’t meet his eyes. If she did, she worried she’d see disappointment that wasn’t actually there. “But I can try. If the water isn’t too deep.”

The last words came out quiet, not timid but reverent, as if she were making a pact with something old and shadowed inside herself. A promise with conditions. A bravery that had limits but was still bravery. She finally looked at him, a thin, determined smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Fair warning though—I’m probably going to panic. Dramatically.” It was lighthearted, offered like a joke, but her pulse was thundering beneath her skin. Still— she said she’d try, so she would.

The corner of River’s mouth tugged into a lopsided smile that showed a faint bit of sympathy beyond his otherwise austere demeanor. "I won’t let you drown. It’s an important skill to have and you’ll be able to say you conquered a fear." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Two birds one stone."

While she wasn’t sure how she felt about that, she trusted her— maybe —cousin about as far as she could throw him when he came to water, there wasn’t much Zelia could do about it. He was trying to help and that’s all that really mattered. She nodded once, respectful, resolute, then drifted back to her position at the line, rolling her shoulders as anticipation gathered in her chest like wings.

When her turn came, she inhaled the cold, crisp air and stepped forward. The arena stretched before her, a skeleton of wooden beams, ropes, water, and distance, and instead of dread, something bright bloomed low in her ribs. The tires waited first, black rings set out like messengers of chaos, but Zelia slipped into motion without hesitation. Her feet found rhythm almost instantly, darting and threading through the pattern like a dancer tracing familiar choreography. Frost fled before her heat, breath puffing against the morning as she cleared the final tire with a tiny hop, landing light as a bird.

The hurdles rose next, long logs stacked higher and higher, each one a line to cross. She scaled them with a kind of airy determination, hopping the first with playful ease, swinging a leg over the second as if mounting it were part of the fun, her momentum never truly faltering. On the third she nearly misjudged the width and let out a small, surprised laugh as she wobbled— but she recovered quickly, pressing off the log with a burst of energy that carried her to the top of the fourth. The wood felt warm beneath her palms, sun-soaked despite the chill, and she balanced a heartbeat longer than necessary before dropping gracefully to the ground.

The low crawl swallowed her next, a shadowed stretch of sand and grit where she sank to her elbows without complaint. The earth was cool, the grains clinging to her skin, streaking her forearms, catching in her hair like stray stars. She moved with surprising efficiency, her breath steady, her body compact and quick. When she pulled herself free at the end, she rose in a single fluid motion, brushing her hands down her thighs— not out of discomfort, but to savor the feeling of dust and effort already marking her journey.

Ahead, the rope dangled in its tall wooden frame, swaying like it sensed her coming. She grinned, the electric excitement in her chest sparking again, and seized the rope with eager hands. Her climb was not flawless, she slipped once and nearly lost her grip, but her movements were measured after the slip, almost playful, as if she were greeting an old friend rather than tackling an assessment. The wind brushed her cheeks at the top, carrying the scent of woodfire, and she descended with controlled speed, landing lightly and shaking out her hands with a grin that felt too big for her face.

Then came the balance beams, narrow as knife-edges and far more judgmental. Zelia hesitated only half a breath before stepping onto the incline. Her arms rose instinctively, wrists loose, fingers fluttering in tiny adjustments as she crossed. She wavered once, letting out a quiet “whoa—okay!” under her breath, then laughed at herself, the sound bubbling up and drifting behind her. By the time she touched down on solid earth again, her pulse was singing— not with fear, but exhilaration.

And then the pool came into view. Zelia skidded to a halt at the edge of the pool, well, as much as someone could gracefully skid, breath fogging in front of her as she pivoted toward the gleaming water. It stretched long and glassy beside her, deceptively calm, reflecting the pale winter sky like a trap waiting to spring. Her stomach dipped, but she pushed the feeling down, deeper than the water itself.

Suicides. Easy. Familiar. Earthbound.

She inhaled once, sharp and bracing, then sprinted forward. The first dash was clean, fast, almost joyful. Her feet slapped the packed sand with a rhythm that sparked through her veins, the kind of cadence she’d once lived by on every school track she’d ever set foot on. She touched the first marker and whipped around, loose-limbed and springy, ponytail snapping behind her like a curled streamer caught in the wind.

By the second length, a flush began rising along her throat, blooming across her skin in warm, rosy waves. The cold air did nothing to tame it; if anything, it made the heat beneath her flesh burn brighter. Zelia pushed harder, leaning into the run, arms pumping, breath spilling from her lips in short bursts that puffed white and then vanished.

Quarter-line. Back.
Half-line. Back.
Three-quarters. Back.

Her lungs began to sting around the edges, nothing alarming, just that familiar spark of effort turning into strain, muscles waking and calling out in warm, insistent pulses. Sweat gathered between her shoulder blades, sliding in a thin line down her spine. More beaded at her temples, glittering against her hairline, catching in the stray strands plastered to her forehead. She touched the marker, spun, ran again. The scent of the water became sharper the longer she stayed close to it— clean, cold, unsettling in a way that prickled along her ribs. She focused on the sand instead. On her breath. On the way her legs still carried her, even as fatigue curled its fingers around her calves. Her strides stayed quick, if a little shorter now. Her exhale hitched once, just once, but she shoved through it, pushing off her toes as she bolted toward the final mark. She tapped it with the tips of her fingers, then staggered a single half-step before catching herself, chest rising and falling in sharp waves.

Her heart thrummed behind her ribs, hard and bright. Her cheeks felt sun-warm despite the cold. The back of her shirt clung to her from sweat, dampening the fabric over her shoulder blades.

Zelia hit the base of the towering log ladder with the momentum of someone who refused to let fatigue make decisions for her. The rungs— thick, rounded, forced her to shift her rhythm immediately. She leapt for the lowest one, fingers curling around the cold bark, and hauled herself up in a smooth, practiced sweep of muscle. Her foot searched for purchase, found none, and she adjusted until she found it. She pushed again, half climbing, half vaulting. Each rung was a small battle; her sneakers scraped, her arms trembled with the lingering burn of the earlier obstacles, and her breath came sharper now. Still, exhilaration hummed under her skin, bright and hot. She climbed in a steady rhythm— grab, hoist, plant, rise —until the topmost log met her with a sudden rush of open air. She hooked an elbow over it, swung her leg, rolled her weight, and let gravity help her descend the far side with controlled, almost gleeful recklessness, skipping rungs where she could just as River had, feet thudding a staccato pattern toward the ground.

Her landing was soft, but her lungs were burning harshly now, each breath like pulling in shards of winter. Still, she didn’t pause. The final obstacle glinted ahead: the wide pool of water, its surface dark and rippling faintly, promising a shock of cold misery should she misjudge even by an inch. Zelia wiped a quick streak of sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. Then she ran.

Every stride was a coaxed promise from her muscles, every inhale a negotiation with her own flagging endurance. But as she approached the edge, something in her refused to allow a timid finish. She gathered everything she had left, speed, will, stubborn joy, and launched herself. For one suspended heartbeat she was weightless, sailing farther than she intended, farther than was strictly necessary, as if her body wanted to prove something to the cold morning air.

She hit the ground on the opposite side harder than she planned, sneakers skidding for a breathless moment before she caught herself in a staggered, laughing stumble. The impact rattled up her spine, but the triumphant jolt of adrenaline overshadowed it. She bent forward, hands braced on her knees, chest rising and falling in deep, greedy gulps of air. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her hair clung damply to her temples, and her thighs trembled from the effort, but a grin unfurled itself across her face, slow and wild.

She straightened just enough to shoot River and Rae, from where her new friend was watching, a breathless thumbs-up, her grin still wide, her eyes bright with the kind of exhilaration that made the whole grueling course feel like a victory worth savoring.

^{interactions ....|.... river ............... mentions ....|.... rae ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir}

Reign of the Usurper

^{#42557d ....|..... outfit ............... #b5c7eb ....|..... outfit ............... guard's barracks}

The descent down the side of the mountain was peaceful. The wind sang a quiet tune as it whistled along the crags and down into the ravine. Gravel crunched beneath the soles of their boots, lost beneath light conversation and the rising bustle from the city below. Declan asked about Ironcrag, the land, its people, anything Lei was willing to share as his only glimpse into a land far out of reach, while also secretly clinging to the thought of ice and snow as his only respite under the oppressive sun.

The Valley of Kings was alive as if the relentless heat and cloudless sky was something to cherish and celebrate, not melt beneath in a puddle of sweat and fatigue. There was a constant murmur that was carried by the breeze as it slipped between shops and rustled the canopies over small market stalls. No one whispered or carried on in private. They sang and laughed and shouted toward a loved one across the square. The cacophony of frivolity could be heard from every corner of the town like nonsensical tendrils that pulled every soul to The Weave.

Dozens of boats were docked and moored along the shore of the Bramble Weave, some no more than simple fisherman’s boats while others held the distinct air of nobility. The shore was bursting at its seams, every inch of rocky white sand covered with bare feet and wiggling toes seeking the cool comforts of the mountain river. Children screamed and played in the shallows of the Weave, while parents stood ankle deep, laughing and splashing them in turn. Guardsmen, nobles, and commoners alike were all equals in the gentle current of the crystal blue waters, finding common ground in the chill of the waters and the revelry of the Summer Solstice.

Declan couldn’t help but smile as a warmth built in his chest, not from the heaviness of summer in the air, but the camaraderie amongst the people. There were many reasons why he served: his father, his family, duty, honor… But they all paled in comparison to the spectacle that played out before him. His father’s war was for the people and while he inherited many things from his father, he also shared the same love and steadfast loyalty for their people.

The Captain’s gaze drifted to the Weave loggingly, left hand lazily resting upon the pommel of his sword. He tilted his head toward his traveling companion as a glint sparkled in his eyes and a childlike grin curved into the recesses of his beard. "We can spare a moment for a bit of relief."

The warmth of the valley pressed close against her collarbones, slicking the hollow of her throat beneath the loose wrap of her shirt, but Soleil kept her stride even and unbothered as they descended toward the Weave. Declan’s easy questions had been a welcome distraction from the heat, and she’d answered each one with the measured cadence she’d perfected over the past year. A man’s voice wore the answers, steady and sure, though beneath the surface she felt each memory of Ironcrag like a pressure point. The cliffs, the ice, the walls she’d slipped between like smoke—she let those recollections color her tone without ever letting them claim it. Let him see the land. Not the girl who had run from it.

The land grew louder the closer they came, its revelry rising like heatwaves from stone streets and sun-warmed bodies. Lei watched it through the half-lidded calm she’d learned to feign, her expression the picture of composed indifference though the sudden swell of life tugged at something deeper. Children shrieked in the shallows; mothers and soldiers alike waded into the crystalline blue in equal measure; even the nobles cast off decorum like unwanted cloaks in favor of cool reprieve. It was strange, she thought, how free these people were with their joy. How fearlessly they occupied their own skin. Ironcrag had never allowed for such ease. Ironcrag had never allowed anything this… warm.

Declan’s own warmth beside her radiated outward, a hum of good spirit she could feel even without looking at him. But she did look, just in time to catch the playful spark in his eyes, the crooked grin buried somewhere in the rough lines of his beard as he gestured toward the water.

Lei rolled her shoulders back in a gesture that passed well enough for masculine nonchalance, though inside she felt the sharp pinch of caution slip beneath her ribs. Relief. For him, that meant stripping down, plunging into the blue with nothing but the sun marking his skin. For her… it meant remembering every boundary she could not cross. Every layer she could not shed.

Still, she stepped toward the riverbank with a quiet huff that could be mistaken for good-natured reluctance. “A moment won’t hurt,” she answered, voice pitched low, controlled, bearing just enough roughness to sound like a young man indulging an older captain’s whim. “Gods know I’ll melt into my boots if we stay on the road much longer.”

She crouched at the sandy white edge, fingers slipping to the laces of her boots. The heat had seeped through every seam of her clothing, laying heavy as molten ore along her spine, and the thought of cold river water did tug at her despite herself. She peeled one boot free, then the other, setting them neatly beside her before rolling her trouser cuffs to her shins. Her palms brushed the sun-warmed skin there—a reminder of the lie she wore, the disguise she had bled for, the future she was still clawing her way toward. When she finally dipped her feet into the Weave, the shock of cold shot up her legs like an exhale made of snow. She felt the mountains for a heartbeat. Felt home, in the smallest way that did not hurt.

She leaned back on her hands, letting the river swirl between her toes as if she were a man with nothing to hide, nothing to lose. “Ironcrag’s rivers aren’t so different,” she said lightly, continuing the thread of their earlier conversation as if it had never been broken. “Though you’d lose your toes if you stood in them too long. Water’s colder up north. Harsher. Like everything else.” A faint smile touched the corner of her mouth—subtle, wry, safe. “Can’t say I miss that part.”

She tilted her head just enough to glance at him, letting a rare note of dry humor slip into her borrowed voice. “But this? I’ll take. Even if you won’t get me any deeper than this.” And with the brightness of the sun on the water and the laughter rising like birdsong from every direction, Lei allowed herself, briefly, carefully, to enjoy the moment. To enjoy him beside her. Without letting him see too far beneath the surface.

The moment Lei conceded, Declan descended the rocky bank toward the crowded sands that hugged the Weave. It took an immense amount of control to not cave to his baser needs and dive head first into the blue ripples of the river that beckoned him closer. He wanted to desperately, but was also all too familiar with the torment that was walking around in wet clothing. Instead he settled for slipping out of his boots, holding one heel in place with the toe of the other as he wiggled free, then did the same with the other. Bare feet slipped beneath the rhythmic lull of the water, pulling a content sigh from his lips.

He glanced over his shoulder down at Lei with a smile that appeared to have lost the smallest bit of its weighted burden with the receding tide. "I wouldn’t let you drown," Declan mused with a soft chuckle as the wind tousled his loose curls across his face. Even with the lightness of his joke, he knew that no words could sway the man. Lei was a private man, never swimming or bathing with the others, preferring his peace and solitude. There were silent questions that were posed, but none the Captain asked. Perhaps the man was bashful. Perhaps…

Declan shook his head, brushing off the thought as his left hand reached behind his back. Calloused fingers wrapped around a spare bit of cloth tucked beneath his belt and the hem of his pants. After pulling it free, he leaned over and submerged the fabric into the Weave, letting it soak up as much of the cool water as possible before tossing it over his shoulder at Lei without warning. He chuckled as he watched the cloth hit the man square in the chest and splash excess water across his neck and face. "You are fortunate that I am kind. The other men would likely toss you in," he commented with a nod toward the river.

For a heartbeat, she was nothing but stillness. His words—I wouldn’t let you drown—landed with the soft weight of concern, yet they struck her like a stone dropped into deep water, rippling outward in every direction she could not afford. No one protected her anymore, not since she’d left home, not in any form of traditional way. No one could. The life she’d carved for herself depended on solitude, on vigilance, on the sharp edges of distance she kept between her and every man in the Guard. Yet something in his tone, in the easy certainty of it, startled her clean through, lodging beneath her ribs like a gasp she did not let surface. She lifted her gaze almost against her own will, and the world rearranged itself around the sight of him. The sun sat at his back, molten and unwavering, casting a burnished halo around the wild fall of his brown hair. Sweat shimmered along his bare forearms and the curve of his throat, his skin alive with heat and summer and unrestrained ease—so unlike the stone-carved severity of Ironcrag, so unlike the bleak, starved world she had known. He looked, in that impossible moment, like warmth made flesh, like a life she had never been permitted to want. And just standing there with his feet in the river, laughing breath on his lips, he stole the breath from her chest so swiftly she nearly forgot to breathe at all.

Then reality snapped back with the slap of wet cloth against her sternum. Lei jerked, a sharp, indignant sound ripping from her throat, something embarrassingly akin to a yowled hiss, like a cat scooped up without warning. Water splattered across her jaw and cheek, cold and shocking, and she blinked hard, the spell shattered as abruptly as it had begun. Her expression twisted into a scowl by instinct, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, tugging upward with a reluctant, rueful grin she tried to smother beneath the guise of annoyance. “Warn a man, would you,” she muttered, voice pitched low, steady, as if her pulse weren’t hammering like a forge’s fire against her ribs. She caught the dripping cloth in one hand, fingers curling into its cool weight before lifting it to the back of her neck. The chill bled through her flushed skin, coaxing a slow exhale she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

She rolled her shoulders as though shaking off the surprise, letting her posture drift back into practiced ease, legs still submerged in the Weave’s soothing current. “If that’s your kindness,” she added, dry humor threading through her tone, “I dread to see what mercy looks like.” But her smile lingered, small, genuine, and she kept her gaze fixed on the water rather than risk looking at him again and feeling that impossible warmth flare back to life. For now, the river was cool, her secret intact, and the moment, brief, fragile, and feeling stolen, was hers to hold in silence.

"You," Declan rebutted while pointing a finger back at the man. "Should not be so easily distracted while on duty." His words were but a jest, absent knowledge of the thoughts that stirred beneath Lei’s silence or the heavier implications that could be taken from them. Another chuckle rumbled free before he turned his attention back toward the Weave.

Rough hands reached behind his head, grabbing fistfuls of his damp tunic between his shoulderblades then pulled it free like peeling the rind from a piece of fruit. The sweat covered contours of his muscles glistened like the speckles of light that reflected off the ripples of water encircling his ankles. He had a strong, imposing form that came from years of hard work and dedication, not vanity. His muscles were not chiseled and sharp like the men in the guard who spent countless hours honing and shaping to draw the passing eye and entice the very women they had sworn to forsake. Declan’s form was not rigid, but soft in its strength, dense and burly like a man who sowed a field and tended the land. It was not built with fragile pride but rooted in patient necessity.

"I have yet had need to be merciful. I would not know what mercy looks like by my hands until the moment befalls me," he confessed with a soft pensiveness that was nearly lost beneath the merriment of those around them. He lowered himself to crouch above the low tide that flooded in to cover the tops of his feet, only to be pulled back out the moment it brushed his skin. Elbows rested on bent knees, head casted downwards as he submerged the tunic beneath the water, letting it wash away the salt of his sweat and fill the fibers with a soothing chill.

Before he could stand up, an outcry of childlike mirth tore through the crowd. "Ser Delcan!" the voices echoed before two small bodies tackled into him, knocking Declan onto his back against the sand just before the tide rolled in and dampened his previously dry trousers. But he was not angered, nor did he shout, instead a smile warmer than the sun curved nearly ear to ear as his own laughter roared out to match their own.

"Owen! Willa!" their mother called after the young children, pushing her way through the congregation of people on the shore. The woman’s hair was messily pinned to her head to stave off the heat, hems of her various skirts tucked beneath the ties of her apron to leave her feet free to feel the water with a third child perched on her hip. "Ser Delcan," she sighed, face reddening from embarrassment at her children' s lack of decorum. "My deepest apologies."

Declan sat up, a kid in each arm, furiously tickling their sides, sending a second wave of laughter rolling across the Weave. "There is no need. I should know better than to let my guard down when there are little terrors on the loose." He emphasized the word ‘terrors’ with more tickles before he let them both go and climbed to his feet. Whether or not he intended to slip free, both of the children latched onto his hands immediately while attempting to tug him deeper into the river with them.

"They thought you would be locked away in the Black Citadel until winter with the Lords visiting," the mother attempted to shine a light on her children’s excitement.

He sighed, giving each of the tiny hands wrapped around his fingers a gentle squeeze. "It is true. I cannot tarry long. But for you I could spare a moment longer as long as my friend does not mind." The children’s eyes widened in elation as they bounced up and down at his down, half hanging off his hands. Declan slowly turned with the small terrors in tow, looking down at Lei reclining in the sand. A single brow rose, posing the silent question while he lightly lifted the children with ease, eliciting more giggles and swinging legs from their weightlessness.

For a breath, no, for several, she forgot the world entirely. Declan’s voice had scarcely faded before he reached for the back of his tunic, and Lei had meant to glance politely aside, meant to maintain the careful composure she always wore around the Guard. But when the fabric peeled over his head and sunlight struck him full-on, she froze in place as though caught in a hunter’s trap.

He was… Saints, he was beautiful in a way she had no defenses prepared for. The sun poured over him like the molten fire back home in The Great Forge, catching in the curls of brown hair at his chest, glinting along the scattered trail of hair that narrowed down his sternum and vanished beneath the waist of his trousers. He wasn’t carved like the vain soldiers who posed in the mirror-polished shields of the barracks, no sharp angles sculpted for admiration. His strength was broad, grounded, honest, the strength of someone who lifted more than weapons; fields, families, responsibilities heavier than stone. His body bore the soft edges of a man who worked because the world needed him to, not because he wished eyes upon him.

And her eyes, traitorous, disobedient, lingered anyway. Lingering turned to staring. Staring turned to heat she couldn’t blame on the summer sun. A tight, panicked breath coiled in her chest, and she yanked her gaze downward so hard it almost hurt. The river became her salvation, cool water rippling around her ankles, silvery sand shifting beneath the surface, tiny stones glinting like river pearls. She forced herself to breathe with the current, in and out, until the burn beneath her skin eased enough for reason to return.

Fool, she snarled inwardly. He is your captain, and you— Her throat tightened. She had chosen a life where attraction had no place. No future. No room. She didn’t see the children crash into him, but she heard it, the squeals, the startled grunt, Declan’s surprised but booming laughter, and her body reacted before thought could catch up. She surged up onto her knees in the stream in one fluid motion, water splashing high enough to catch her thighs and the hem of her trousers. Her hands braced lightly on the sand as she whipped toward the sound, pulse leaping like a startled bird.

Only children. Tiny bodies clinging to him, their little arms wrapped around his ribs as he toppled backward into the water with a delighted roar. Relief flooded her so abruptly her limbs went loose, the tension melting from her shoulders as quickly as it had risen. She let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, as she watched him gather the little ones into his arms, tickling them until they shrieked and writhed in helpless joy. The sight softened her chest, soft in a way she didn’t want to feel, soft in a way that frightened her more than any sword could.

Declan looked, damn him, natural like that. As if laughter was a second language, as if kindness was stitched into his bones. As if he belonged surrounded by warmth and children and sunshine. And she…she had chosen steel and shadow. Masks and lies. She had chosen a life where children would never be anything but distant, unreachable futures she had forfeited long before she fled Ironcrag. The ache that flickered through her ribs was sharp, private, quickly tucked away where no one could see it.

When her captain turned, tiny hands dangling from his like ornaments, seeking her permission with a lift of his brow, Lei wiped her damp palms on her trousers, smoothing her expression until only calm remained. The smile she offered him was small but real—a gentle, steady thing she rarely let herself show. “As you wish, ser,” she said, her voice low, warm, steady as river stone. And though her heart felt too full, too complicated, she bowed her head in quiet permission, letting the moment, sunlit, fleeting, fragile, pass through her like water through open hands.

Before Declan had a chance to respond, the children that dangled from his hands wiggled and squealed with joy. He nearly doubled over as their excitement brought them back down to earth with a tug. "Me first! Me first!" Owen shouted, pulling on the Captain’s hand while pointing at the river with glee.

"Did your mother never tell you, ladies first?" Declan goaded the young boy, sparing a glance toward his mother who gave her child a knowing glance.

"Well, yes—but—" The boy groaned and crossed his arms over his chest in a huff.

"Good lad," Declan smiled warmly down at Owen, lightly tousling his hair affectionately before turning his attention toward his sister. Willa, equally as excited, waited patiently, both hands gripping his pinky and index fingers while looking up at him with wide green eyes. He leaned down to be more at eye level, bracing his other hand against his thigh. "Shall I toss you in?"

Willa’s smile grew as she vigorously nodded her head up and down

Declan’s eyes squinted, studying the young girl with a playful skepticism. "Are you certain you will not be scared?"

She shook her head back and forth with an equal amount of fervor causing her damp blonde locks to bounce back and forth while sprinkling him with water. "Please, ser Declan," the girl asked, timid but earnest.

"Very well then, little Lady." Declan took hold of one of her small hands and gave the young girl a small twirl before turning her to face the soft rippling current of the weave. He leaned down and placed his hands gently upon her sides. "Are you certain?"

She nodded.

"Is your nose held?"

She nodded a second time with a quiet giggle as she pinched her nose.

"One… Two…"

Willa’s hold on her nose tightened as she sucked in a deep breath and snapped her eyes shut in preparation.

"Three!" Declan shouted as he scooped her up with ease. He spun around once with her dangling free from his hands before lightly tossing her into the water safely only a few feet away. The moment she slipped from his hold she screamed and kicked her feet with excitement before disappearing beneath the sparkling blue surface. While his laugh was jovial, Declan watched the water, vigilant and ready to act at a moment's notice. Once her head popped back up, the faintest bit of tension slipped from his shoulders and he clapped for her as she swam back to the beach.

To no one’s surprise, especially Declan’s, every small child on that side of the Weave swarmed to his side begging for their turn. Without a single complaint or falter in his smile, he obliged, giving every single one of them their moment to fly. Once they returned for seconds, he graciously declined to a sea of frowning faces and the roar disappointed whines. It was only then that his smile wavered. He would have happily remained upon the shore, drowning beneath the wave of children’s laughter until his muscles ached… but duty called. He gave each one of them a hug or a gentle pat on the head as he weaved his way through the dense crowd to where his tunic had floated down the river until it came ashore.

Declan scooped it up, dipping it into the river a second time to rid it of any sand and soak the fabric a second time. He rang out any excess water before pulling it on over his head, thankful for the temporary chill of the damp tunic against his sun warmed skin. As he began to tuck the tunic back into his trousers, he turned to find a small girl standing beside Lei in quiet conversation, dripping water from head to toe.

At first, she had watched him as if spellbound. As if something in the world had shifted its axis, tilting everything toward the sight of Declan standing waist-deep in sunlight and river-laughter. The Weave shimmered around him, each ripple reflecting a sliver of gold onto his skin, and he moved with an ease so natural it made something inside her ache, an ease born not of training or discipline but of a heart accustomed to giving, over and over, without thought or restraint.

Lei had sat in the water once more, fingers curling unconsciously into the cool, silty sand beneath the surface. Each grain slid between her knuckles, grounding her as her mind floated elsewhere—toward the way he lifted the children, toward their shrieks of delight as he spun them once, twice, then let them fly; toward the open warmth carved into his smile, unguarded and bright; toward the way vigilance, even in joy, never fully left him.
It was unfair, dangerously unfair, how easily he seemed to embody every softness she’d trained out of herself. Every warmth she had learned to bury. Every dream she had abandoned. The longer she watched him, the more tangled her heart became, stretched taut between yearning and the cold reminder of the life she had claimed. He would make a fine father, she thought before she could stop herself, the kind who would laugh until he ached and lift his children high enough to touch the sun. He would never raise a hand to his children, to his wife. And she, who hid even the shape of her body, was barred from such futures entirely. Oath-bound. Secret-bound. Made to live half in shadow so she could survive in daylight.

She dug her fingers harder into the riverbed, feeling the chilled current sweep over her wrists. It steadied her. Kept her from drifting too far into dangerous waters of thought. Declan was oath-bound as well, perhaps even more so than her due to his royal blood, and yet—

A small shadow fell across her.

Lei blinked out of her reverie just as a little girl, dripping from crown to heel, curls of deep red plastered to her scalp, came to stand beside her with all the quiet confidence of a creature unbothered by the world’s sharpness. The child smiled at her, wide and sweet, revealing the gap where one front tooth was missing. A bright birthmark bloomed over her left cheek, red as summer berries, made darker by the water beading upon her skin.

“You have hair like me,” she declared, not as if making a comparison but as if stating a shared secret. Tiny fingers pointed toward Lei’s braided hair. The girl’s eyes were a startling green—moss-bright, earnest. “Are you a King’s Guard too? Like Ser Declan?” The words struck her like a soft, unexpected blow. Her breath stilled, caught somewhere between surprise and something gentler, something that made her ribs feel too thin to hold her heart properly. She parted her lips to answer, but for a moment nothing came. She looked at the girl, at the small hands dripping cold river water onto Lei’s bare ankles, at the innocent curiosity untinged by suspicion, and felt her throat tighten with a quiet, private longing she would never voice.

When she finally managed to speak, her voice came low, steady, but touched with an unfamiliar warmth. “I am,” she murmured, offering the girl a small, solemn nod. “What’s your name?” The little one’s grin widened into something triumphant, delighted. And for a brief, fragile moment, Soleil let herself smile back, softer than when she was pretending to be a he, unsure, but undeniably real, before the world could close in around her again. It was easier, with the reminder that she was a King’s Guard, that she’d made all her dreams come true, to swallow the truth behind her oaths.

“I’m Tavia,” she chirped, rocking a little on her heels with an excitement she barely contained. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her damp shift, wringing water that splattered onto Lei, who smiled indulgently at the girl. “Like my gran’s name. She says it’s old, like from stories.” She puffed up a bit, proud of this lineage of tales.

“Tavia,” Lei echoed softly, letting the name settle on her tongue. It suited her—a name with roots, with a history that could stretch back into forgotten hearthfires, yet still small enough to cradle in two hands. The river breeze toyed at her braids, tugging loose strands across her brow. “Pleasure to meet you, I’m Lei, did you…did you want me to throw you in?” Her brows furrowed, feeling uncertain compared to Declan’s ease with the children.

Tavia fixed her with a look both bold and uncertain, the way only a child could manage—half bravery, half trembling curiosity. “No, Ser Lei. I was just wondering…did you always want to be a King’s Guard?” she asked, voice gone soft, nearly reverent, as though the question itself was something she wasn’t allowed to ask.

For a heartbeat, Lei said nothing. The world narrowed to the quiet between them, to the distant echo of children’s laughter still drifting from the riverbank, to the weight of memories she kept locked tight beneath her armor. She studied Tavia’s face, the hopefulness there, the openness, and felt some small, aching thread inside her loosen.

“Not always, not quite,” Lei admitted, her voice low as the hush of river reeds. “But as I grew older… I knew it was my duty. I was strong enough, brave enough, able-bodied. And the royal family need people who are willing to stand between them and danger.” She paused, swallowing against the thickening in her throat. The child’s green eyes never wavered. “But that wasn’t all,” she continued, gentler now, choosing her words carefully, shaping them into something kinder than the truth but still true enough. “I wanted to protect little girls like you. Because when I was your age… I couldn’t protect my sister the way I wished I could have.”

Tavia’s breath caught, her small lips parting as though she’d been struck not with pain, but wonder. She regarded Lei with a wide, shimmering gaze, one that made Lei feel suddenly too large, too human, and too exposed. The girl stepped closer, water droplets sliding down her birthmarked cheek like beads of melted rubies.

“Then you’re a hero,” she whispered, awe spilling from her voice like sunlight on the river.

Heat rushed up Lei’s neck so swiftly she nearly fell back into the sand as she shook her head at once, flustered, startled, hands rising instinctively as if to bat the word away. “No, no—I’m not,” she said, too quickly, too earnestly, too much like herself. Her heart thudded hard against her ribs, as though embarrassed to be caught beating in such a fragile moment. “Heroes are… bigger. Braver. They do impossible things. They’re men, like Captain Declan.”

Tavia frowned, as though Lei had said something entirely wrong. “You protect people,” she said simply, with the unwavering certainty only a child or a prophet could summon. “That makes you a hero, Ser Declan too.”

Lei found she had no answer for that, not one she could shape into words. So she only let out a quiet breath, a soft, cracked laugh, and bowed her head slightly to this small, waterlogged oracle with riverweed in her hair and truth dripping from her lips. She glanced up toward Declan, not having noticed his approach, unsure of how long he’d stood there, but there was a sort of helpless, help me look about her as the little girl stood there, grinning brightly.

Declan stood on the outskirts of the conversation, not partaking but observing with his thumbs hooked onto his belt lazily. "From the mouths of babes," he commented when he was caught eavesdropping. He slowly crossed the soft white sands, leaving an imprint of each step in his wake that were swiftly washed away by the tide. One hand scooped up his discarded boots, while the other lightly rested atop Tavia’s damp head affectionately. "I do not think you can only call me a hero when we are both guardsmen."

"See," the young girl beamed happily, bouncing and rocking on her feet with palpable excitement.

"Tavia!" a voice called from the crowd further down the bank followed by the wave of a mother’s hand above the heads of those around her.

"I believe that is your mother," he spoke to the girl with a gentle stroke of his thumb across the crown of her head. "Say goodbye to Lei and I shall help you find her." While Tavia half tackled Lei with a hug that was far too large than her little arms could muster, Declan slipped back on his boots over sand covered feet and damp trousers, an inevitable discomfort, but he still did not dare to regret the temporary delay. Being among the people was just as important as guarding them and their rulers. While others might not agree, it was something the Captain endeavored to fulfill as often as he could, brokering trust and a steadfast relationship with those he sacrificed everything to protect.

Once their farewells were finished, Declan disappeared into the crowd with little Tavia in tow, her small hand lightly cradled in the palm of his calloused hand. It did not take long for him to help the girl find her mother, then return to Lei with the same warm smile that had yet to waver. He held out a hand in offering to help the man to his feet. "Back to work I am afraid."

Lei watched them go, Declan with his easy, unthinking grace and Tavia with her jubilant skip that sent droplets scattering from her hair.. Their silhouettes slipped into the swell of bodies along the riverbank, swallowed and revealed again by movement, by laughter, by the glint of sun on water. His words lingered behind like a bell’s soft tolling: From the mouths of babes. And worse: We are both guardsmen. True, simple, unadorned, yet somehow it struck her with the force of something heavier, something she wasn’t sure she had the armor to deflect.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, turning her gaze back to the river. The water curled around her ankles, cool as breath drawn between teeth, slipping over her skin with a kind of insistence, touching, retreating, returning again as though testing if she were truly there. Sparkling currents braided and unbraided themselves around her feet, tugging lightly at the sand beneath her. It felt like standing on the edge of something nameless, something that shifted if she tried to look at it directly. The crowd’s joyful murmur dimmed into a distant hum, blurred by the sudden inward tilt of her thoughts.

Home rose in her mind unbidden—her father’s voice echoing through the stone corridors of the Frosthearth keep, firm and instructing, cold and unyielding. She saw the tilt of his chin when he told her that duty was a choice one made again and again, especially when he was using it as an excuse to hurt her. She felt the familiar press of expectation across her shoulders, and beneath it all, like a thread woven through every memory, the ghost of her sister’s laughter—high, bright, then suddenly absent. Lei’s chest tightened, ribs drawing in as though trying to hold too much at once. She did not know how long she sat there, suspended between the river’s whisper and the distant echoes of her past, before a voice broke through the haze—warm, patient, unmistakably his.

Lei blinked, the world snapping back into sharpness. Declan stood before her, hand extended, his smile steady as sunlight. She looked up at him unguarded, raw for a heartbeat, the river wind catching strands of hair that had slipped free from her braid. She shifted her weight, preparing to rise, but Declan’s outstretched hand remained steady between them, an unspoken offer she had forgotten to refuse, or perhaps had never intended to. For a breath, she merely looked at it, the lingering sheen of riverwater on his skin, droplets gathered in the lines of his palm, the faint grit of sand clinging to his wrist where the current hadn’t quite washed it clean.

Then she placed her hand in his. The moment their palms met, a quiet shock went through her, nothing sharp or startling, but something warm, something she felt in the hollow beneath her sternum. His hand was still damp from the river, cool on contact, yet somehow radiating heat beneath the wetness. Her own fingers curled around his instinctively, and she felt the slide of his skin against hers—calloused meeting calloused, but even so… even with all the labor she’d done, all the weapons she’d trained with, all the harsh miles she’d walked across stone and shale… her hand felt softer.

The realization struck her with a flush that climbed swiftly up her throat to her cheeks. She hoped, desperately, that the sunburn already blooming there would hide it. His grip tightened just enough to guide her upward, steady and assured, and she rose with him, the pull of his arm smooth, effortless, infuriatingly gentle. For a heartbeat she did not release him. Their hands lingered, skin slipping slightly from the dampness, her pulse tapping quickly against his thumb. It was only when she realized she’d been staring at their joined hands instead of releasing them that she let go, perhaps too quickly, fingertips dragging lightly across his palm in the process.

She wiped her hand on her trousers, a gesture meant to disguise the tremor she felt rather than the moisture from his touch, then dipped her head as if hiding from the brightness of the day. She swallowed, nodded, and the exhale she gave was half-apology, half-acceptance. “Right,” she murmured, voice quieter than she intended.

She bent to retrieve her boots, half-buried in sand where she had abandoned them earlier. The leather felt warm from the sun, yet the moment she slid her foot in she grimaced, nearly flinching, the grit of river sand clung stubbornly between her toes, scraping like an unwelcome memory. She shook her foot, wiped her palm along her arch, and tried again. Still more sand. A soft huff escaped her, somewhere between irritation and resignation.

Boots finally laced, she straightened and stepped to his side, the lingering coolness of river water still tracing lines along her skin. When she met Declan’s gaze again, she had smoothed her features back into the practiced calm of Lei, the guardsman, the loyal shadow of the royal family. But somewhere within, below the surface where words dissolved and duty braided itself with longing, Soleil still shivered from the touch of the river and the weight of being called a hero by a girl with moss-green eyes. She held out the still damp offering he’d thrown at her earlier, smiling wryly. “Lead the way, Ser Declan.”

Declan’s gaze fell to the cloth extended back to him and shook his head, denying its return. "Keep it. The Rose can be quite warm on a cool day. You will be thankful for its comfort." While his smile had lessened, slipping to something more resolute and forlorn at the prospect of leaving the content peace he found at the riverside, the warmth still clung to the faint curves and the gentle squint in his eyes. "Just Declan, remember?" he corrected with a soft levity before he started back up toward the market street while sparing the children shouting his name a parting waving.

Lei’s gaze dipped to the square of fabric in her hand— navy blue, soft from wear, the corner stitched with careful silver thread. D.S. The initials gleamed faintly in the afternoon light, impossible to miss, impossible to mistake, a small snow owl taking flight from embroidery.

Something in her chest jolted, a quick, traitorous flutter against her ribs, but she masked it with a slow exhale and the faintest tilt of her mouth. “Then… thank you,” she said lightly, tucking the cloth into her belt as though it were any ordinary scrap and not something that felt unreasonably warm against her hip. Lei snorted under her breath at his reprimand, falling into step beside him, boots thudding softly against sun-dried sand. “As you say… Ser,” she murmured, just quiet enough to toe the line, just bold enough to let the corner of her mouth curl.

The breeze off the Weave shifted, brushing cool fingers along her skin. She didn’t look back at the river, nor at the children, nor at the imprint of the moment left on her palms. She only followed him upward, leaving the glittering water behind as the sounds of the shore slowly faded into the hum of the waiting streets.

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Reign of the Usurper

^{#5b90b5 ....|..... outfit ............... ............... thornvale}

Late afternoon draped Thornvale in a molten haze, as though the valley itself had been left too close to the forge. Heat pooled in the streets, clung to skin, gathered beneath the collar of Elrik’s tunic until it felt like an irritant deliberately placed there to test his patience. The air was wrong here, thick, almost sweet with river silt and farmland rot, carrying none of Ironcrag’s clean bite. He missed the cold, the honest cut of it, the way it stripped the world down to bone and truth. Here, nothing cut. Everything softened. Even the mountains seemed gentler, their peaks hazed by summer light instead of carved by winds that howled like wolves.

Their ship had been tethered along the Bramble Weave for two days, the crew restless, his sister and mother bored, brother absent, his father coiled with silent expectations. The Weave itself was the only familiar thing in this place, threading across the land like a scar stitched through stone, its waters deep and fast and cold enough to feel like home on its warmest day if he closed his eyes. It wound through Thornvale with deceptive grace, carving out the one path of safety in a city built on softened stone and warmer whims. Elrik found himself drifting toward it whenever he could, though it did nothing to ease the low thrum of annoyance crawling just under his ribs. Today, of all days, the day they were finally to be called to the castle, he felt as though the heat had seeped beneath his skin and made a home behind his sternum.

The smithery stood near the central market, smoke rising lazily from its chimney as though even the fire had grown languid in this oppressive warmth. He ducked inside more out of necessity than curiosity, hoping the shade might offer a moment’s reprieve. Instead, he found the heat doubled, trapped, focused, fed by the roaring forge until the air shimmered with it. The scent of worked metal clung to everything; iron, coal, sweat, and the unmistakable sharpness of freshly ground steel. It should have been comforting. It should have reminded him of home. But the steel here felt different, too polished, too ornamental, lacking the stern pragmatism that defined Ironcrag’s craft. These were weapons meant to be admired, perhaps paraded, but not trusted.

He moved slowly through the room, eyes narrowing as he inspected the craftsmanship. Swords with hollow cores disguised as elegant tapering. Axes with edges that were more for show than for splitting skull and bone. Daggers balanced improperly, their weight distribution better suited to a child’s toy than a soldier’s hand. He did not speak, but his silence was its own blade— sharp, assessing, unimpressed. Thornvale steel would hold in a skirmish, perhaps even a battle, but it lacked soul. Ironcrag steel was shaped by a land that demanded resilience; it sang with the memory of mountains, storms, and men who knew the weight of survival. Here… the metal merely tolerated its makers.

A sword displayed on a raised stand caught his attention if only because its color seemed almost desperate for it. A pale, powdery blue ran the length of the blade, catching the forge’s glow. The smith, who had been studying him with thinly veiled nerves, seized the chance. “Fine piece, that,” the man said, voice ringing with pride that bordered on bravado. “Forged from cragore itself. Rare metal, that is—cost me a fair deal to acquire.”

Cragore. The word alone made Elrik still. He reached for the blade, lifting it with the ease of someone who had done so a thousand times before. The weight was wrong immediately, too light by at least a hand’s breadth of steel. The balance was uneven, the spine too thin, the hilt unanchored. And the color, gods, the color, cragore was not bright. It smoldered. A quiet, deep blue caught from the veins of Ironcrag’s mountains, subtle and heavy as a held breath.

“This is not cragore,” he said, voice low, unadorned, carrying the kind of certainty that did not tolerate contradiction.

The smith bristled visibly. “Aye, it is. Only Ironcrag gives metal like that—”

“It’s dye,” Elrik interrupted, running his thumb along the fuller, then flicking away a thin residue that clung there. “A mixture of ash and powdered stone to mimic the shade. Cragore is twice the weight of this. This would shatter on Ironcrag stone before it drew blood.”

Color climbed the smith’s neck, whether from anger or embarrassment was irrelevant. “I don’t take kindly to foreigners insultin’ my work.”

Elrik set the sword back onto the stand with slow, deliberate care, as though it were something fragile, not precious. “Then craft something that is not an insult.” The words drifted in the thick heat like a blade drawn across leather, quiet, sure, sharp enough to cut if one listened closely. He did not raise his voice; he never needed to. Truth had a way of echoing louder than temper.

As he stepped out into the street again, the sun hit him with an intensity that felt personal, as though Thornvale itself sought to test him. The noise of the market rose like a tide, clanging and shouting and haggling, all of it too close, too warm, too alive in ways that irritated more than impressed. He inhaled, found no cold in the air, no hint of home, only the summer’s heavy breath pressing against his lungs.

He had no patience for the city’s noise or its heat, no patience for pretenders gilding their steel with lies, and even less for the political theater that awaited them at the Black Citadel. His father expected rigid perfection. His mother hoped for harmony. And Emil, Gods, Emil would be hoping for something soft, something kind, something impossible in a place like this. Elrik adjusted his cloak, spine straightening as he began the walk back toward the docks where their ship waited. The Bramble Weave glittered faintly in the waning light, cold beneath its surface even now. A reminder. A promise.

Let the valley cradle its illusions. Let the royals preen. Let his brother dream of gentler worlds.

Elrik knew what he was, what he must be. Someone in this family had to be iron. For his mother, for his sisters—

He paused mid-stride, the thought catching on something sharp inside him, like a nail buried beneath snow— unseen until it lodged deep enough to halt him. His sisters. The word was a weight, familiar yet shifted, unbalanced, as though a piece of it had been carved out and replaced with air. Where there should have been three shadows moving at his side, one lingered elsewhere, diffuse and unreachable, leaving behind a hollow that had become part of the family’s architecture.

Soleil.

Even her name felt like a wound he refused to look at directly— bright, warm, impossible to cage. She had always been like that, sunlight on snow, dancing where she should have walked, laughing where she should have stayed silent, slipping through his fingers as though she had been made of something lighter than the world around them. She had taken after their mother in ways he never had, the gentleness, the warmth, the stubborn hope. All the things that made Ironcrag bearable in the cracks between storms.

And then she left. Nearly a year now. A year of empty places at the table. A year of their mother’s eyes searching doorways. A year of his father’s rage sharpening into something quieter, colder, more dangerous. A year of him pretending that her absence was merely an inconvenience, another loose thread to be tied down and forgotten. He failed spectacularly at the pretense.

As he walked, the streets of Thornvale blurring around him, heat shimmering off the stone, he felt the familiar spark of anger ignite in his chest. Not the blistering anger he reserved for his father or the contempt he held for his brother, but something far more treacherous. A brittle, aching fury.

How dare she leave.
How dare she leave them.
How dare she leave him.

He had tried, Gods, he had tried, to shield her from the worst of their house, to keep her from their father’s sharpened expectations, from the silent wars that shaped every corner of Ironcrag. She had been the only softness he allowed himself to look at without flinching. And she had slipped away in the night like a secret he’d never been trusted to hold. He hated her for it. He missed her for it. And beneath both, buried so deep he could barely admit it even to himself, was the quiet, shameful flicker of hope.

That she was free.

Free in a way no Járnbjørn had ever been. Free of the cold, the shadows, the weight that pressed on all their throats. Free of the duty that wrapped around their bones like chains. Maybe she was living under a false name somewhere, dancing around a fire in a place where winter was merely a suggestion. Maybe she was laughing. Maybe she had managed the impossible, escaped both their father’s reach and Ironcrag’s gravity. He despised the thought as much as he clung to it.

Soleil lived now in the quiet gaps of their family’s conversations, in the way his mother lingered by windows as though expecting a bird to return to its perch, in the way his siblings whispered at night. She haunted them not as a tragedy, but as a possibility. That alone made his stomach twist.

Selja bore the brunt of it now, the expectations, the eyes, the comparisons. She had stepped into the space Soleil left without complaint, but he saw the strain in her posture, the way her shoulders had begun to draw inward as if preparing for a weight she had never asked to hold. Their father had redirected all his pressure onto her, molding her with the same cold, uncompromising hands he had used on Elrik himself. She was too young for it. Too bright for it. And yet she endured, because what choice did she have? Soleil may have flown, but Selja had stayed, anchored to the family that demanded more than it ever gave back.

Part of him resented Soleil for that, too. For leaving Selja to the wolves. For leaving him to carry the jagged side of their father alone. Irritation simmered in his blood. The heat only made it worse, clinging to him like a second skin, stealing the clarity he usually found so easily in Ironcrag’s cold, his thoughts continued to drift.

And then there was Emil.

Elrik’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along the edge of his cheek. His brother’s softness was a constant irritation, an open flame flickering too close to dry tinder. Emil moved through the world as though compassion were a shield and kindness a sword. As if people, dangerous, manipulative, insincere people, would ever return the softness he offered. The boy had no spine. No iron. No sense of the brutality beneath every surface of their world. He clung to peace the way a drowning man clung to driftwood, believing it would carry him somewhere safe instead of simply prolonging the inevitable.

And watching it disgusted Elrik. Not because Emil was weak, but because Emil’s weakness made him vulnerable. Breakable. It offended something primal in him, the instinct to harden, to protect, to anticipate cruelty. Emil did none of that. He simply hoped. Hope was a dangerous thing in Ironcrag.

It was something their father had tried to beat out of all of them, sometimes with words cold enough to frost breath, sometimes with silence heavy enough to crush bone, and sometimes with hands that did not know gentleness. Elrik remembered those lessons well, the training yard with its frozen dirt and iron dummies, the impossible standards, the brutal expectations, the way mistakes were met not with correction but with contempt. He had learned early that survival required armor, that emotion was a liability, that softness was a flaw worthy of scorn.

Their father had never said he wanted sons of steel. He didn’t need to. His every action carved the truth into them.

And yet their mother, his mother, had always tried to mend the fractures he made. Her touch soft, her voice warmer than the hearthfires, her presence the only thing in their house that didn’t cut. But even she was fading now. Elrik had seen it, though she tried to hide it behind forced smiles and busy hands. Ever since they’d set out for this valley, she seemed dimmer, as though the sunlight had stolen something from her that winter had helped her keep. He wondered if the heat was too much for her. Or perhaps it was something deeper, the ache of a child gone missing, the dread of a husband growing colder with every mile.

Elrik couldn’t fix that. He could only stand between her and the worst of their father’s storms.

He moved downhill, toward the Bramble Weave, letting the river’s cooler breath brush against his face. Thornvale was louder here, bustling with merchants and dockworkers, but the noise washed around him rather than upon him. His attention drifted toward the water— a deep, steady blue green that looked cold even in summer. The currents curled around the ship’s hull with quiet force, whispering a familiar language he had grown up hearing in the mountain streams of home.

He stopped at the edge of the dock, staring down at the river as it folded and unfolded itself beneath the sunlight. A quick dip would strip the heat from his skin, perhaps unknot the tension wound tight in his bones. The thought of immersion was almost seductive, cold closing over his head, muting the world, silencing the ghosts of siblings and the echo of his father’s voice.

Maybe he would let the river take the edge off. For now, he stood there, silent and still, with the water whispering at his feet— the only thing in this valley that felt sharp enough to mirror him.

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^{#c77652 ....|..... outfit ............... ............... bramble weave - ironcrag ship}

Selja read by the light of a fat, sweating candle, the wick bending as though it too wilted under the ship’s trapped heat. The day outside was still young enough to be gold at the edges, but here in the belly of the vessel the air sat heavy and stale, thick with resin, old rope, and the humid reek of summer water. She turned another page with deliberate care, fingertips skimming the grain of the parchment—thin, dry, and cool in a way the air refused to be. Thornvale’s Medicinals: A Compendium of Curatives and Natural Poisons. Emil had bought it for her from a traveling apothecary on their first day here.

Her father sat only a few paces from her, angled toward the wall like a man carved from shadow and disdain. He had said little since they’d moored along the Bramble Weave, but then, he rarely needed words to speak. His silence pressed more sharply than any reprimand ever could. It coiled around her ribs, a cold hand tightening whenever she dared to breathe too freely. Even now, she could feel the knife-edge of his presence grazing the soft place at her throat, a reminder of what loyalty cost and what defiance earned. She kept her eyes on the ink, not because she feared looking up, but because she feared what looking up would reveal in him. And worse, in herself.

A bead of sweat rolled down her spine. She missed winter with a physical ache, missed the crisp air of Ironcrag that bit its way into her lungs like honest teeth. Here, the warmth was a cloying thing, a smothering embrace she had not asked for. She had shed her outer cloak hours ago, folded it with care, and still her undershirt clung damply to her skin. Each breath tasted faintly of sun-warmed tar. The ship creaked under her as if restless, impatient, as if even wood and iron wished to be done with this waiting.

Above, she could faintly hear her mother’s footsteps crossing the deck, the soft, lost pacing of a woman whose gaze had been claimed by the unrolling river. Her mother had spent much of these two days standing at the railing, staring at the Bramble Weave as the afternoon light braided itself across the surface. Maybe she found comfort in the movement. Maybe she feared what waited on shore more than the deep places of the water. Selja didn’t know; her mother’s sadness had grown quieter with each year, drifting farther out of reach like a boat untethering itself from its moorings. Selja did not ask. Some wounds lived best untouched.

She returned to the illustration before her. Bloodroot, all curling leaves and pale red veins, a plant that aided in healing if coaxed properly and poisoned if mishandled. A fitting emblem for Thornvale, she thought. A fitting emblem for herself. Soleil’s face rose in her mind unbidden, her soft smile, her strange spark, the way she used to sneak into Selja’s room with secrets clutched in her hands like contraband light. Selja had never wanted to be anyone’s refuge, but she had become Soleil’s without ever realizing when the shift occurred. And when the time came to choose between the safety of silence and the danger of love, she had not hesitated. She would not regret that. Even here, with her father’s breath like ice behind her, she did not regret it.

She traced the inked stem of the plant, following its curve as if it might lead her back to the moment she last saw her sister. The moment she helped her go. She had told no one. She would tell no one. Soleil’s secret lived inside her like an ember, a tiny, burning truth that warmed instead of consuming.

Outside, a gull cried. The ship rocked softly. A breeze moved through the open hatchway at last, brushing her cheek with the faintest whisper of cooling relief. She exhaled slowly, letting herself imagine, for just the span of that breath, that the breeze carried a blessing. That the Bramble Weave itself, old river that it was, wished her strength.

She shut the book gently, marking her place with a strand of twine. Soon they would be called to the castle. Soon she would stand in halls built to intimidate, before rulers who saw people as pieces to shift across maps. She would not tremble. She would not bow any more deeply than courtesy required. Knowledge had always been her blade, and she had sharpened herself for this moment her entire life. Still, as her father shifted beside her, a small movement, a clearing of the throat that sounded like judgment, she felt her spine stiffen, a quiet rebellion rising from bone to breath.

Her father’s breath scraped the air before his words did, a sign she had learned to brace for. Selja felt the shift of him, an almost imperceptible straightening of his spine, the faint grind of leather against wood, and knew the silence was ending. When he spoke, his voice cut through the slow-moving heat like the coldest current of the Bramble Weave, slicing straight to the bone.

“A daughter of Ironcrag must know her duty,” he said, as he had said many times before, not looking at her but at some fixed point ahead, as if delivery mattered more than audience. “She must honor her bloodline. Conduct herself with dignity. Show the royals we meet today that she is not a frivolous girl, but a woman worthy of respect. And in time, she will make a respectable wife— one who reflects well upon her house, one who strengthens alliances rather than… distracts from them.”

Selja kept her gaze on her closed book, though her fingers curled slightly against its cover. She could feel each word settle like cold ash along her skin. The ship creaked in the long pause that followed, as though hesitant to breathe. Her father went on, voice a steady grindstone. “I expect composure. Obedience. Grace. You will not shame us with idle curiosities or… eccentric hobbies. Knowledge is fine in moderation, but too much of it can rot a young woman’s purpose. Remember your place today, Selja.”

His presence felt like a hand pressed to the back of her neck. She did not lift her head. She did not let him see that her teeth pressed into her tongue until she tasted the faintest copper bloom. She thought, instead, of bloodroot, harmless until bruised. She drew a steady breath, slow enough not to betray irritation, deep enough to keep the tremor out of her shoulders. Her place was among the people of Ironcrag, tending to the ill, making sure their crops did not fall to blight, it was not here. Her thoughts drifted to Emil, he’d had wandered off earlier in that quiet, drifting way of his, as though a part of him was forever listening to some distant call the rest of them could not hear. He moved like a man not wholly anchored to his own body, following the wind’s whims more faithfully than he followed instruction. Their father despised that about him, calling it softness, weakness, a stain in the bloodline. But to Selja, there was something enviable in his ability to simply… step away. To let his mind float somewhere ungoverned. He would not have stayed to endure this lecture. His spirit would have slipped through the cracks in the hull and ridden the cool currents downriver without ever looking back.

She envied him that freedom, even as she knew he paid dearly for it.

Her father shifted again, and the air grew colder despite the heat. Selja wished, not for the first time, that Elrik were here rather than observing the local smitherys. Her older brother had a way of absorbing the brunt of their father’s scrutiny, pulling it toward himself like the earth pulled snow down to itself. If Elrik had been seated in this dim cabin, leaning against the wall with that storm-brewing look in his eyes, their father’s blade-edged attention would have sliced toward him instead. He was forever a shield she had not earned but still relied upon. Since childhood, he had drawn their father’s expectations like iron to anvil, leaving Selja in the sheltered slipstream of his shadow.

But Elrik was somewhere else. And so she sat alone beneath the weight of their father’s expectations, letting the words settle, letting them pass through her like cold water through stone. She would bear it. She always did.

Outside, the river murmured— a soft, continuous sound, as though the Bramble Weave itself whispered reminders of far gentler worlds. She imagined the Threads of the Weave weaving themselves around the ship, promising escape routes to anyone brave enough to follow them. She imagined drifting down one, book in hand, leaving behind the iron demands of fathers and kings.

But she did not move. She listened. She endured.

Knowledge is her greatest weapon, she reminded herself, feeling the truth rise steady and warm within her. And some blades, honed in silence, cut deeper than any forged in fire. “I understand my duty, Father,” Selja said, her tone measured, smooth as still water. She let her gaze drift back to her book, though not before offering the slightest, almost imperceptible lift at the corner of her mouth, too faint to name as a smile, too fleeting to accuse as insolence. “I intend to bring honor to our family this evening. In the way I’m best able.”

It slipped out light as breath, shaped to sound like reassurance, harmless enough to pass without remark. So subtle it could be mistaken for nothing at all. Yet it carried a quiet undertow, an acknowledgment that she would fulfill her duty, yes, but on her own terms, with her own mind intact. She felt his eyes on her for a long, searching moment, the weight of his scrutiny pressing against her cheek like a cold hand. Selja didn’t move. Didn’t rise to meet it. She simply opened the book once more with calm, unhurried fingers, giving him nothing to catch hold of.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... soleil, emil, elrik............... collabs ....|.... none}