Sleepy Tani

What Lies Below

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Something was breathing in the dark.

The sound pulled unevenly through the house, damp and ragged and wet. The sound drifted unevenly through the room like lungs struggling to fill somewhere just beyond her line of sight, and each breath seemed to drag the air cooler around her. Arabella stood barefoot against wooden floorboards with cold pressing through the soles of her feet and the taste of copper settling against the back of her tongue. The bedroom around her flickered weakly beneath a dying candle set somewhere behind her shoulder, its amber glow barely reaching the open doorway ahead. Beyond it stretched a narrow hallway swallowed in shadow, the wallpaper softening and tightening in slow pulses that made the entire house feel faintly alive.

Each breath she took felt shallow, strained like she was suddenly in a higher elevation than she had been only a moment ago. The fine hairs along the back of her neck prickled hard enough to ache beneath the sensation of being watched. She became aware of the woman gradually, a pale shape standing motionless at the far end of the hallway where the darkness thickened deepest. Arabella’s mind reached for the simplest explanation immediately: a mirror.

The resemblance felt too exact for anything else. Red hair spilled over slender shoulders in tangled waves. The angle of her jaw, the shape of her mouth, even the rigid set of her posture belonged unmistakably to Arabella herself. The woman stood perfectly still for several long seconds before slowly tilting her head to one side, and a sickening chill slid through Arabella when her own neck followed the motion a heartbeat later without permission.

The candle sputtered sharply behind her, and the woman looked wrong now that Arabella could truly see her. Dirt streaked across pale skin in smeared lines while old blood cracked darkly against the fabric of a thin white slip hanging from her shoulders. Terror hollowed her face in a way that sharpened every feature beneath it. Her eyes glistened too brightly. Her breathing looked shallow and frantic. She kept glancing over her shoulder toward the door behind her like something waited just beyond sight, close enough that she could feel it breathing against the back of her neck.

The hallway seemed deeper now. It stretched far beyond the dimensions the house should have allowed, disappearing into a suffocating dark that rolled slowly along the floorboards in thick currents. Arabella could hear stone grinding somewhere below her feet, low and heavy, each slow shift vibrating faintly through the walls around her. The air grew colder with every passing second until her lungs began to ache from it. Sweat dampened the back of her neck despite the cold. She took a small, tentative step closer, and the floorboard beneath her creaked. The woman at the end of the hallway stiffened violently at the sound, but she had not moved when Arabella did.

Then she looked directly at her, eyes connecting. Her lips moved quickly now, forming words Arabella couldn’t hear. The desperation in her face landed harder than panic ever could. Arabella stepped forward again before realizing she meant to, her pulse thundering painfully through her chest as the shadows behind the woman shifted and thickened. Something moved there. Large enough to distort the darkness around it. The candlelight dimmed further until the hallway dissolved almost entirely into black, leaving only the woman’s pale face still visible at the end of it. She raised one shaking hand suddenly and slammed it hard against the wall beside her, and she only had the briefest moment to glimpse some sort of ancient sigil drawn on the wall in what looked to be blood and then—

The candle went out.

Darkness crashed through the room all at once. Arabella jerked backward blindly as cold swept over her skin in a violent wave, thick enough that it felt almost physical. The house groaned around her. Another breath sounded directly beside her ear this time, deep and grotesquely damp and impossibly close. Panic surged hot through her body as something brushed lightly along the back of her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut hard enough to hurt while the sound of grinding stone swelled louder beneath the earth below, and somewhere inside the dark, something exhaled slowly into her ear like it had finally found her.

Arabella jerked awake hard enough that the mattress springs groaned beneath her. For one disorienting moment she simply stared, breath shallow and pulse still hammering violently from the nightmare as unfamiliar walls swam slowly into focus around her. Cheap wood paneling stretched across the motel room in dark amber strips stained by age and cigarette smoke, while thin morning light filtered weakly through sheer curtains that stirred faintly beside the window unit humming beneath them. The room smelled faintly of old coffee and overused detergent. Somewhere outside came the muffled sounds of car doors slamming and distant laughter drifting through the parking lot below, the town already awake and moving beneath the gray October morning as they prepared for their annual Halloween festivities. Then memory settled heavily back into place. Pine Ridge. The motel. Arriving sometime after four in the morning exhausted enough to barely remember checking in.

A soft weight shifted against her ribs. Bramblebit blinked up at her from where he had curled himself tightly against her side during the night, yellow eyes narrowed in sleepy irritation at the abrupt movement. His black fur looked almost blue beneath the washed-out morning light spilling across the bedspread. She exhaled shakily and leaned down instinctively, pressing a lingering kiss against the top of his head while her fingers smoothed slowly along the length of his spine. The familiar warmth and scent of him grounded her far more effectively than logic ever could.

Home rose sharply in her chest at the feeling of him beneath her hands, followed almost immediately by the hollow ache that now accompanied the thought of it. Her small house back in Connecticut already felt strangely distant in her memory, as though she had crossed much farther than state lines to get here.

The shower barely stayed warm long enough for her to wash the sweat from her skin. Pipes rattled somewhere deep within the walls while weak water pressure sputtered unevenly overhead, and by the time she stepped back into the motel room the mirrors had already fogged at the edges from lingering steam. Pine Ridge seemed colder than she had prepared herself for. Last night’s drive through the mountains had left the cold settled deep into her bones, and after checking the weather app on her phone she found little comfort in the day ahead: fifty-two degrees, heavy clouds, heavy wind rolling in by afternoon.

Arabella stood staring into her open suitcase for several long moments before finally dressing practically instead of for the holiday. Dark brown corduroy trousers sat high against her waist beneath a fitted ribbed sweater the color of bitter coffee, while a worn leather satchel rested comfortably against her hip once she slung it over her shoulder. She braided her long red hair loosely down her back afterward, fingers working automatically through damp strands until the braid settled against her waist.

By the time she finished feeding Bramblebit and refilling his water dish, the town outside had grown louder. Arabella paused briefly at the motel door before stepping outside, her fingers tightening unconsciously around the strap of her bag as cold mountain wind slipped immediately beneath the fabric of her sweater. The motel wrapped around a narrow parking lot lined with faded white paint and cracked asphalt, its flickering vacancy sign buzzing softly near the roadside.

Everything about the place felt worn thin by time. Rust climbed the railings outside the second-floor walkway, and somewhere nearby came the hollow metallic clatter of an ice machine struggling to stay alive. Arabella glanced once toward the dark line of pine forest stretching beyond the town below before starting toward the street, unease from the dream still sitting quietly beneath her ribs, though the memory of it was already slipping away.

_______________________________________________

Arabella winced faintly as she eased her Bronco into a parking spot along Main Street, the vehicle looking painfully out of place beside the line of older trucks and weathered sedans crowding the curb. Directly ahead of her sat an old Chevy pickup half-swallowed in rust and streaked in dried mud, the sort of truck that looked as though it had belonged to the town longer than some of the buildings had. Her own vehicle gleamed darkly beneath the cloudy morning light by comparison, too new, too clean, and much too expensive. She lingered behind the steering wheel for a moment after killing the engine, fingers tightening briefly against the leather as unease settled low in her stomach. It was ridiculous. No one cared that she was here. Outside, half the town seemed busy stringing faded orange garlands and paper ghosts around wrought iron lamp posts while old speakers somewhere down the block crackled out muffled Halloween music beneath the wind.

Arabella pushed the door open and slipped out into the cold. Wind immediately caught loose strands of red hair around her face while she hauled the heavy leather satchel over her shoulder and shoved the Bronco door shut with her hip. The weight of the books inside dragged uncomfortably against her side as she glanced once up and down Main Street, still struggling to shake the feeling that she had stepped sideways into another decade the moment she crossed into Pine Ridge. Older trucks lined the curb beneath wrought iron lamp posts draped in faded Halloween garlands, and nearly every storefront looked worn smooth by time and mountain weather alike. Her own Bronco sat among them like something intrusive and polished and painfully temporary.

Her eyes drifted toward a nearby wooden utility pole layered thick with staples, rusted nails, and years worth of weathered paper. Fresh tape flapped softly against the wood in the wind. A missing persons poster stared back at her beneath the gray morning light, the smiling blonde girl on it far too young for the hollow feeling that immediately settled in Arabella’s stomach. Clare Ann. Twenty years old. Medium-length honey blonde hair tangled loosely around sun-browned skin, soft bangs swept across her forehead, bright eyes nearly hidden by the warmth of her smile. The photograph looked candid, taken outside somewhere rural with open fields stretching behind her while wind caught strands of hair across her face. She looked vibrant, familiar somehow in the deeply human way all missing persons posters did once someone reduced a life into a single smiling photograph and a date beneath it. Missing since August 5th, 2026.

The corners of the poster curled slightly where rain had already gotten to it. Beneath Clare’s face, older flyers remained partially buried beneath newer ones, fragments of names and photographs still visible where time and weather had failed to fully strip them away. Someone had torn several others down entirely at some point, leaving only ragged scraps of paper trembling around deeply embedded nails near the base of the pole. Damp white fragments littered the sidewalk below like dead leaves. Arabella frowned faintly, cold creeping deeper beneath her sweater as another gust of mountain wind swept through the street. The unease she’d been carrying since arriving tightened quietly beneath her ribs again. Missing people. More than one, apparently.

Her fingers curled harder against the satchel strap while she looked away from the pole and toward the black-painted brick storefront tucked between two older buildings. It looked like it had once been an old bank before someone hollowed it out and filled it with candlelight and old herbs instead. BLACK LANTERN APOTHECARY stretched across the sign overhead in faded gold lettering, warm amber light glowing softly through the windows against the dreary morning around it. Then she felt it again, eyes on her. A man across the street was watching her. Arabella glanced up instinctively and found him standing beside the hardware store, cigarette hanging loose between two fingers while smoke curled lazily into the cold air around him. He wasn’t staring in an aggressive way. If anything, he looked mildly curious. That somehow made it worse. Heat crawled faintly up Arabella’s neck anyway beneath the weight of being visibly unfamiliar in a town that clearly noticed outsiders quickly. She turned away before he could catch her looking back and hurried down the sidewalk faster than she intended, boots scraping softly against damp pavement while the wind tugged at her hair.

The bell above the door gave a soft chiming note as she stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around her almost immediately, carrying the thick familiar scent of dried sage, pine resin, old parchment, incense smoke, and something darker beneath it all that reminded her faintly of rain-soaked earth. The smell landed hard enough in her chest to ache. It smelled like her mother’s study late at night, like afternoons spent sitting cross-legged beside her great-grandmother while old books lay open across the kitchen table. Arabella stood still for several long seconds while her eyes adjusted to the dim amber lighting spilling softly across the shop. Dried herbs hung bundled from dark wooden beams overhead while towering apothecary cabinets lined the walls beneath bookshelves stretching nearly to the ceiling. Glass jars, candles, crystals, tarot decks, and scattered curiosities crowded nearly every surface near the front of the store, arranged carefully enough to feel intentional rather than cluttered. Somewhere deeper within the building came the soft rustle of wings.

A black cat lounged lazily across the lowered counter near the back steps, yellow eyes half-lidded as it watched her from beneath the hanging glow of brass lantern lights. Red-winged blackbirds fluttered somewhere higher overhead between shelves and exposed rafters, their claws clicking softly against wood before settling again. Beyond the counter, partially hidden by strands of black beads and sheer dark fabric, Arabella caught sight of the massive circular bank vault door. Her fingers tightened anxiously against the satchel strap resting beneath her hand while she took a few tentative steps farther inside, eyes lingering across old books and labeled drawers and dried flowers hanging upside down from ceiling hooks.

The cat lifted its head slightly as she hesitated, and despite herself Arabella softened immediately at the sight of it, looking momentarily tempted to pause and scratch behind its ears. Instead she hesitated near the doorway another second too long before glancing back toward the street outside, chewing lightly against her bottom lip. This was ridiculous. She should have gone directly to the sheriff's office, or called Noah, instead of wandering into an occult shop on the off chance someone knew anything about her great great great great great great grandmother who, apparently, fancied herself a witch.

Deep in the shop, hidden somewhere out of sight beyond lined bookshelves and velvet curtains, a woman sang out, "Just a moment, dear." The voice didn’t sound like a shopkeeper greeting a customer, but a mother welcoming home a child or an old friend that had been gone far too long. It was like a sweater on a crisp fall morning, warm enough to comfort but not crowding or stifling. And beneath the effortless kindness was an authority that was not demanded or taken, but earned, wise and patient beyond her years.

Before a response could be a given, the sharp whistle of a kettle cut through the quiet peace of the shop. It sent startled blackbirds fluttering about the rafters, while the cat lounging along the counter remained unbothered, only managing a yawn and an adjustment of his head before returning to his daily nap. The noise did not last long, deft hands were poised and ready to silence it, ending the cry just as quickly as it came. The sound reverberated off the walls like an echo, ringing in their ears as the serenity crept back in, settling in the soft groan of old floorboards, the creak of brass lanterns swaying, and the distant trickle of steaming water from a kettle.

A moment or two passed as if the quiet surrender of the shop had never been interrupted in the first place. Then came the sharp tap of thick heels against uneven wood in a steady, unhurried rhythm. Bamboo beads rattled and clicked together as a polished hand swept them aside and a figure emerged from the backroom. She was tall and slender, carrying herself with a regalness that seemed almost out of place in a tiny occult shop in a town like Pine Ridge. Pleated black trousers cinched at her waist and swayed around the ankle of her pointed leather boots. A soft clink similar to the sound of rattling keys preceded her. Crystals and gemstones hung from her belt by silver chains, bouncing off her thigh with every step, colliding into each other like a personal windchime.

The woman slowly ascended the small staircase that led from the heart of the shop up to the elevated, more tourist focused, entrance area. Slender fingers adorned in a polish that matched the rich maroon of her coat curled around the porcelain handle of a teacup. Her other hand held a small string, rising and falling with a timeless patience as she steeped the teabag. Steam billowed from the cup, breaking against the woman’s sharp jaw. Dark hazel eyes looked out from beneath raven hair that had slipped from where it had been pinned back out of her face. A warm and welcoming smile curled freely at the corners of her mouth. "Apologies for your wait. A day like this calls for a warm cup of tea," she mused like one would with a friend. "How can I help you?"

Arabella had been seconds away from leaving. The instinct had risen sharp and sudden the longer she stood near the entrance, fingers curled tightly around the strap of her satchel while unease climbed steadily beneath her ribs. The shop felt too familiar in ways she couldn’t comfortably explain to herself. The smell of herbs and parchment. The low creak of old wood settling beneath unseen footsteps somewhere deeper within the building. Even the warmth of the space reminded her painfully of evenings spent tucked inside her mother’s study while candlelight flickered across old books and steaming mugs of tea. Then the woman’s voice drifted through the shop, soft as wool pulled fresh from a dryer, and something inside Arabella loosened before she could stop it. She stayed rooted to the floor instead of fleeing back out into the cold.

Her attention wandered nervously across shelves lined in crystals and hanging herbs until movement drew her gaze downward again. The woman emerging from behind the velvet curtains carried herself with the sort of quiet grace that made the cramped occult shop feel momentarily too small to contain her. Dark hair framed sharp, elegant features while steam curled softly around the line of her jaw from the teacup resting in her hand. Silver jewelry wound delicately along one ear in serpent-like curves that caught the light each time she moved. For one strange second Arabella found herself thinking the woman looked less like a shopkeeper and more like someone pulled directly from the pages of an old myth. The feeling unsettled her almost as much as it comforted her.

"Um," Arabella managed, oh so intelligently. Heat crept faintly up her neck as one hand fluttered instinctively toward the leather satchel hanging against her hip. The bag suddenly felt impossibly heavy beneath her palm, weighed down not just by books and journals but by every irrational decision that had carried her across the country to this town. Arabella exhaled slowly through her nose and stepped closer to the counter despite herself, boots creaking softly against old wood..

"It’s a little hard to explain," she admitted at last, shoulders drooping faintly beneath the exhaustion she had been holding together with caffeine and stubbornness for the better part of a month. Her gaze dipped briefly toward the steam curling from the woman’s teacup before lifting again. "I’m not even entirely sure where to begin, honestly. It’s sort of a mess." Her mouth twitched weakly as she attempted something resembling humor.

"Would you prefer to hear first about the missing mother, the deeply concerning books left behind by my great-great-whatever grandmother, or the cryptic note said missing mother apparently thought was an acceptable replacement for actual communication?" The joke landed with all the grace of a brick tossed through stained glass. Arabella grimaced almost immediately afterward, the expression tightening across her face before she glanced away toward the shelves behind the counter. Embarrassment prickled hot beneath her skin.

"Sorry," she muttered automatically, fingers tightening harder against the satchel strap. "That sounded less insane in my head during the drive here."

The elder witch listened with a patience that never felt heavy or rushed. Her piercing gaze drifted along the girl as she spoke, taking in her stature, the anxious wringing of her hands along the strap of her satchel, or most notably her hair, bright like copper in the soft glow of the lanterns that hung overhead. Sable’s head cocked to the side slowly like she was studying a specimen and weighing the components before making a hypothesis. Magic had an aura, a scent like ozone in the air before lightning strikes or the metallic taste of iron that preceded blood along the tongue. She could sense it on all of her witches. It was lighter, softer here, like the fragrance of a candle lingering after the flame had long since been snuffed. But she could still feel it.

And that red hair.

Nine women received the gift on that fateful day one hundred and seventy-eight years ago. Nine families carried the gift through their bloodline, passing it on from one daughter to the next. And only one of those families had hair like leaves at the peak of autumn, warm, vibrant, and unmistakably them.

"You are a Crowe." The words fell from Sable’s burgundy painted lips, landing somewhere between a rhetorical question and a confident fact. Her expression softened as a heaviness settled behind her eyes and in the subtle furrowing of her brow. "I think this might be a conversation best had over tea."

Sable’s boots tapped softly against the creaking floorboards as she stepped around the young woman. She threw the deadbolt on the door and flipped the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed,’ then turned back toward her guest with a smile that widened with the unspoken understanding of a teacher who had shared similar conversations countless times before. "Come," she instructed gently with a nod of her head toward the deeper parts of her store.

The woman did not wait to see if the anxious girl seeking answers followed or not. It was her decision and the door was right there. But Sable knew, like she always did, that she’d follow eventually. If not now, then in five minutes, or ten, or she’d return in a day… Time was irrelevant. It was the questions seeking answers that only she could give.

Sable crossed the store with the same unrushed grace she had approached with, sharp clicks of her heels, muffled swish of fabric, and the soft clack of crystals dangling at her hip. She descended the small set of stairs with a hand on the railing, rounded the counter, making sure to give Cinder a passing, affectionate pet, then disappeared beyond the same beaded curtain that had yet to settle from her emergence. Beyond it was a small breakroom, of sorts. There was a half-sized fridge, a narrow counter with a single burner, and a tiny hanging cabinet above it. A slender window framed in maroon velvet and sheer black curtains looked out toward the alley behind the store. And tucked against the wall was a small round table with just enough room for two.

She set her cup down in front of one seat, then turned toward the kitchenette with purpose. First, Sable opened the cabinet to pull out another porcelain cup. Unlike hers which was white with black filigree and gold leafing around the brim, this one was ivory adorned in rich orchids and green vinery. She set it before the other available chair, then grabbed the kettle that was still warm and began filling it. There was already a small wooden box of teabags resting on the table, leaning against the wall, along with a sugar bowl, but she grabbed the honeypot as well before sitting down. Her back remained straight as a pin, never resting against the chair, as she crossed her right leg over her left and finally let herself enjoy a sip of her tea, which had dropped to a manageable temperature.

Arabella paused the moment the woman spoke her last name. The expression that crossed her face tightened faintly at the corners like she had bitten into something unexpectedly sour, uncertainty flickering quick and sharp behind her eyes. She had spent the better part of a month feeling as though she were steadily losing her grip on reality, and hearing a stranger identify her family line on sight did very little to improve the sensation. Still, she didn't argue. Curiosity rooted itself more stubbornly than fear ever could, and despite the cool ribbon of apprehension that slid down her spine when the deadbolt clicked into place behind her, Arabella found herself following after her anyway. The shop seemed quieter deeper inside it, the sounds of Main Street dissolving entirely beneath the creak of old floorboards and the soft chiming collision of crystals hanging from the woman’s belt.

The back room felt strangely intimate compared to the sprawling occult warmth of the storefront. Steam curled lazily from the kettle while soft gray daylight filtered through sheer black curtains across the narrow window, turning the room silver around the edges. Arabella hesitated briefly beside the small round table before lowering herself carefully into the offered chair, satchel perched protectively in her lap. Her attention drifted toward the porcelain cup set before her and then toward the open wooden tea box leaning against the wall. The labels were elegant, handwritten in careful script across cream-colored paper tags. After a brief pause, she selected one labeled Lemon Balm & Valerian Root.

"Do you make the tea blends yourself?" she asked quietly, curiosity threading naturally into her voice despite the knot of anxiety still tightening her chest. The sheer sachet looked handmade, delicate herbs visible through the thin mesh as she lowered it carefully into the steaming water. She added honey rather than sugar afterward, generous enough that golden ribbons sank slowly through the tea before disappearing beneath the surface. Even exhausted, Arabella carried herself with the sort of unconscious polish years in academic circles tended to cultivate. She stirred the tea carefully side to side without allowing the spoon to tap once against the porcelain, posture straight despite the weariness softening faintly through her shoulders. Somewhere between the warm scent of herbs and the muted amber light, she became abruptly aware that the woman across from her was very beautiful, though the realization arrived accompanied by immediate embarrassment she carefully shoved aside.

Sable lifted her hand from the side of her cup, waving it with an easy nonchalance along with a single shrug of her slender shoulders. "It is a quiet and boring town. I don’t often get customers, and I can only reread the same books so many times," she mused with a warm chuckle, dragging the tip of her index finger along the gold foiled brim of porcelain. "It’s good to have hobbies."

Arabella looked faintly surprised by the easy honesty of the admission. Something in her softened despite herself, tension easing subtly from her shoulders as her gaze drifted back toward the neat little box of tea blends resting beside the honey pot.

"It’s a nice hobby to have," she murmured, fingertips brushing lightly against one of the paper tags. "My grandmother used to do the same thing." A small smile touched briefly at the corner of her mouth before fading into something quieter, more distant. "My mom too, actually. I..." Her eyes lowered toward the steam curling from her tea. "I never really got into a lot of the things they wanted me to." And there was something in that admission, something that was followed by the hollow, guilt-addled sense of quiet but haunting grief.

"You are still young," Sable countered before the heaviness she saw in the girl’s eyes turned to something dark within the recesses of her mind, something that told her she was cruel for following whatever path she chose. "And even if you weren’t, nothing is stopping you from taking interest in something new." Her thumb lightly tapped against the handle of her cup, before lifting it to her lips to take another sip. Now, if she meant some as trivial as tea making, who’s to say. The advice could be applied in more ways than one.

Without another word, Arabella finally loosened her grip on the satchel and reached inside. First came the journal, old leather worn soft with age as she placed it carefully in the space between them. Then the larger book followed, heavier and stranger, its spine cracked from decades of use.

"It’s not in English," she warned, lips pursing slightly as her fingers lingered against the cover. "Mostly Latin, but there’s enough Sardinian and French scattered through it to feel intentionally hostile. I haven’t translated much yet, but… enough." Her voice faltered briefly there while her gaze dipped toward the open pages. Enough to find Pine Ridge written repeatedly through the margins. Enough to begin understanding that Lenora Crowe had believed in things Arabella had spent her entire adult life dismissing as folklore and ritual psychology. Heat rose faintly into her face a second later as another realization struck her all at once.

"God, sorry—I never actually introduced myself," she said quickly, looking up again with clear embarrassment painted across her cheeks. "You’re right, I’m a Crowe, Arabella. How did you..." she cleared her throat, and suddenly her tea cup seemed very interesting as she curled her hands around it, feeling the warmth settle into her fingers, eyes set on the teabag.

The elder witch slid her cup aside, polished ceramic dragging across the tapestry table cloth, to make room for the books. Her eyes settled on the journal first, leatherbound and nothing particularly unusual at a glance, but the moment the second text came into view, the first became immaterial. Sable should have known, should have felt it before she saw it. But the way the cracked leather and heavy tomb settled onto the table, like it had been brought home after over a century of distance, it nearly drew the breath from her lungs.

Old parchment, worn from weathered hands pouring over the pages, crinkled with age as the young woman opened the book before her. Sable’s eyes narrowed, dragging across the text as a dormant nostalgia churned to life beneath her ribs, warm and unbidden at the sight of a familiar script she had long since forgotten. There was a desire—no, a pull—to reach out and touch it, to run her fingertips along the pages etched with the scrawlings of a friend long past. But, she did not. It was not her place, nor did she have permission, and respect was everything within the Circle.

Her gaze lifted, finding blue eyes staring back at her, framed in the flush of her cheeks and the rich copper of her hair. For a brief moment, she saw Lenora sitting across from her, as bright and curious as the day they met. Then she blinked and time and reality settled heavily back upon her shoulders. While age had taken its toll on Sable’s soul, it did not show across her face as young features softened into a warm smile of patient understanding and knowing. The sleeve of her jacket nearly brushed across the pages as she extended her right hand across the table. "I am Sable Pritchard."

She then nodded her head toward Arabella’s hair, one side of her smile curling the faintest bit brighter. "Not many wander into my shop. Most assume it’s Satanic—devil worship," she clarified with a soft, amused chuckle. "It takes a certain breed to stumble their way through my door, and your hair—Crowe red—is not easily mistaken." Sable rocked her head back and forth in a small, pensive motion before curling two fingers through the handle of her cup. She lifted it slowly until the brim rested against her bottom lip. Hazel eyes studied the woman across from her for just a moment, then fell to the sloshing amber liquid beneath her nose. "You also smell like magic," she added casually, not looking up before taking a long sip.

Arabella’s lips pursed faintly at the mention of Satanic panic and devil worship, the expression carrying the tired familiarity of someone who had spent most of her adult life buried in old folklore and obscure theology departments. The impulse to dismiss it rose immediately to the tip of her tongue. She wanted to explain that she did not believe in any of this sort of thing either, not really. Not crystals humming with energy or chakra alignment or sage cleansing bad spirits from apartments in Brooklyn. Her relationship with old texts had always been academic, historical, and practical. Devils and Gods belonged to stories people told themselves when science failed to provide prettier answers.

Then Sable casually informed her that she smelled like magic.

Arabella’s mouth shut with a soft, audible click.

She blinked twice across the table, suddenly looking faintly unmoored in a way that sat strangely against the otherwise composed sharpness of her posture. Heat crept slowly into her face while her brain struggled uselessly to decide whether this conversation had crossed into charming eccentricity or full-blown insanity. Such a shame, honestly. The woman was distractingly pretty. "Right," Arabella said after a beat too long, her voice pitching slightly higher than it had been a moment earlier. "Well, that’s—um. That’s nice."

Her fingers twitched lightly against the warmth of her teacup while tension gathered visibly through her shoulders. For a fleeting second she looked on the verge of scooping the books back into her satchel and fleeing the shop entirely. The feeling passed almost as quickly as it came. Curiosity settled heavier than fear ever managed to, steady and relentless beneath her ribs. Arabella glanced briefly toward the journal resting between them before lifting her eyes back toward Sable again, cautious and intensely focused all at once.

"What, uh..." She paused, lips pressing together faintly as though reconsidering the wisdom of the question already halfway formed in her mouth. "What does that smell like?" The question slipped out quieter than the others had. Earnest despite her obvious skepticism. Arabella wrapped both hands around the porcelain cup afterward, grounding herself in the warmth seeping against her palms while steam curled softly between them.

Sable couldn’t help the small chuckle that hummed from behind her lips that were still pressed softly to the porcelain. It was a surprisingly tame response, all things considered. She expected a reaction. A latent witch raised far from Pine Ridge who shows up at her doorstep with a grimoire and no knowledge of what it is was obviously out of her depth, or at least kept in the dark. But the confused calmness was still entertaining nonetheless.

Lenora Crowe did not disappear from Pine Ridge with an artifact, never to be seen again, with the intention of carrying on the knowledge of their gift to her daughters. That much was obvious. Arabella wouldn’t have been sitting across from her asking questions she should have known the answers to. She should have been fluent in Latin, studying those inscriptions since she could read, yet she was none the wiser. It seemed Lenora had no intentions on sharing their craft. Sable just didn’t know how she felt about her old friend keeping their truth secret… keeping her secret. There was a subtle sting that came with that knowledge, one that slipped between her ribs like silk and cut deep, even if it did not show across her face.

Then the witch’s brows lifted, blindsided by the question. Based on Arabella’s reaction, her assumption was that the girl would swiftly move the conversation to other more comfortable topics… Or grab her things and run for the door. But instead she asked, her curiosity outwinning any apprehension. Sable nodded her head in quiet acknowledgement, setting down her cup and running her hands along the table, smoothing out the old tapestry cloth. "Distinctly metallic, like ozone in the air before lightning strikes or the after taste of iron down the back of your throat following a nose bleed," she offered up the answer plainly, without any fanfare or skirting around the truth. "Though every witch has her own—" She rubbed her fingers together like she was searching her mind or palate for the correct descriptor. "—zest."

Her hands settled, resting against the table, one on top of the other as she continued. "One of my girls smells like eucalyptus, something soft and welcoming, with a peaceful sort of calm." Sable’s head lulled minutely to the side, her brows raising with a mother’s sort of knowing and exhaustion. "The other smells like patchouli. Sometimes it’s sweet and sometimes it’s more musky, but it’s powerful, overwhelming… I almost can’t smell the neutral aura of magic beneath it." Then her eyes narrowed as she leaned a fraction closer and drew in a deep breath. "You—" She inhaled once more, nostrils flaring as she pulled in the woman’s scent and catalogued it. "—smell like cedar. It's an earthy sort of warmth, soothing with a tinge of something unexpected like embers of a dying fire."

Sable leaned back into her chair fully, letting her back rest against the support with a small shrug that almost feigned innocence. "However I cannot tell you my scent, only another witch can." She held up a single finger, interjecting gently with her own thought. "Though my ancestors’ texts say that there is a scent profile that carries through bloodlines, distinctly different between each member, but there is a symbiosis between them all." Her hand then rose, motioning toward Arabella. "Like your scent, cedar, for example. I’d say it’s a fair assumption that other women in your family had scents like sandalwood, vetiver, or oakmoss… If I had to make an educated guess."

Arabella listened in complete silence, though her mind moved fast enough beneath the surface to leave her faintly dizzy with it. Part of her wanted desperately to reach for the notepad tucked inside her satchel and begin documenting every word before memory could distort it later. Scent association through bloodlines. Latent magical markers. Inherited sensory patterns. The academic in her practically vibrated at the edges of the conversation despite the increasingly surreal subject matter. She resisted the urge only because she suspected pulling out a pen mid-conversation to take field notes on witchcraft might finally tip her fully into humiliation. Instead she sat very still with one hand wrapped around her teacup while the nails of her opposite hand tapped lightly against the porcelain in uneven little rhythms whenever her thoughts snagged somewhere important.

There were too many things suddenly fitting together in ways she did not appreciate.

Her mother had always smelled faintly of sandalwood regardless of what perfume she wore. Arabella remembered burying her face into the collar of Eleanor’s sweaters as a child and breathing it in without ever questioning why the scent lingered so consistently. Her grandmother’s house had carried thick traces of oakmoss in every room, earthy enough that it used to make Arabella sneeze during holiday visits. And beneath those memories sat another older one she had not thought about in years; standing beside her great-grandmother’s bedside while the woman lay dying, the room filled with the cool green scent of vetiver so strongly it almost coated the inside of her mouth. At the time she had assumed it came from candles or oils or old furniture polish. Now the memory sat beneath her ribs with an entirely different sort of weight. Arabella drew in a slow sharp breath and pressed her lips tightly together while staring into the amber surface of her tea.

The silence stretched long enough to feel tangible. She could not quite bring herself to look directly at Sable again, mostly because the mortifying reality of trying to identify another person’s scent across a table felt deeply insane even by the rapidly deteriorating standards of this conversation. Still, once the thought lodged itself into her mind, she found herself noticing it anyway. The woman smelled distinct. Expensive, perhaps, but softer than traditional perfume. Floral notes lingered beneath something darker and resinous that reminded her faintly of old churches and antique libraries warmed by candlelight. Arabella chewed lightly against the inside of her cheek before finally glancing up again, brows furrowing faintly as she sorted carefully through the impressions.

"Amber… black orchid, maybe. Scarlet poppies?" she murmured slowly, fingertips tapping once against the side of her cup. "Carnation too, I think." The moment the words left her mouth, embarrassment crashed into her almost immediately afterward.

"This is…" Arabella paused, visibly searching for the least offensive phrasing while one hand rose to push loose copper strands nervously behind her ear. "Unique," she settled on finally, though the word carried clear strain around the edges. Her posture remained tense despite her efforts to appear composed, shoulders held too straight while uncertainty tightened quietly through her expression.

"You are just wearing a perfume though… right?" she asked carefully, though conviction wavered badly beneath the question. "Magic isn’t…" The sentence faltered halfway through. Arabella frowned faintly at her own reflection trembling in the surface of the cup. "I’m sorry, but magic isn’t real." The words landed softer than she intended. Less like certainty, more like something she was trying very hard to keep believing.

For a moment, Sable found herself intrigued, eyes narrowing and head tilting to the side as she ran her tongue along the back of her teeth. The other scents she had never heard and could very well be a result of her perfume, soaps, lotions, or plethora of other things that touch her skin throughout the day. But black orchid. She could remember it as if it was yesterday… Sybil in her ivory dressing gown so large that the ruffled hem dragged along the floorboards. Her wild black curls tamed into two braids fastened with uneven ribbon bows. She wasn’t yet five and was doing as young children often did, finding any and every reason to avoid going to bed. A few more moments, that is all.

She came stumbling up the hall, tripping over her nightgown and her own little feet that she hadn’t grown into yet. A single chubby finger was looped through the handle of a brass candlestick holder, the other clutching a flower so tight that the stem flattened in her grasp. She hurried up to Sable’s—Sabine’s—bedside, practically shoving the plant up into her face. "Look, momma," she squealed with excitement. "It smells like you." A single orchid, darker than night with a faint touch of burgundy along its petals, stared back up at her… A black orchid.

The memory then faded away like a vision in smoke as if Arabella’s words cut through the illusion and brought her back to the emptiness of the present. Sable’s curious smile faded beneath the unseen weight of grief and the girl’s own reluctance to accept her words for fact. But, not all can be convinced so easily and it was becoming blatantly obvious that Lenora had failed to educate her daughters and her daughter’s daughters. It was sad to see the absence of knowledge as a choice rather than the weathering of time. In the end, no one could help her see beyond the lies until she chose to open her eyes and see for herself.

"Ah, right," she mused with a soft laugh that was tired, like a woman who had heard the same sentiments whispered by others who wandered into her shop. "Magic and witches are just folklore… tales to scare children at night or tools to make the undeserving, like J. K. Rowling, wealthy." Sable lifted two fingers from where they rested on top of her other hand, motioning them twice without giving it much thought, almost like a tick rather than something given proper thought. Then somewhere beneath her coat, two small crystals that hung from her belt—one clear quartz and the other labradorite—shimmered faintly in the darkness.

"I am afraid then that your inquiries might be better answered at the local library, or the Sheriff’s Station." Her right hand shifted from where it was lying, lifting just in time to catch a paper business card and an ornate silver fountain pen as it floated through the air and drifted straight into her grasp. She set the card face down with no flourish or unnecessary pomp, and began to write directions with a steady hand in an elegant, curling cursive. "If you take a left out of my shop, the library will be the large building at the center of town on the right, with a clock on top." She gestured along as she spoke, before putting pen to paper once again and continuing. "And the road ends in the Sheriff’s Station. You can’t miss it."

With that, Sable scooped up the business card and held it out to Arabella with a faint smile that, if for but a moment, showed the weariness of her age behind her eyes. "I do hope you find all the answers you seek."

Arabella felt herself stiffen almost immediately at the woman's words, heat rising up the back of her neck and blooming across her cheeks in a quiet wave. Something defensive lifted its head inside her chest before she even had time to understand why. She sat a little straighter in her chair, fingers tightening around the warm porcelain of her cup as she prepared herself to argue—to explain that she wasn't dismissive, that she wasn't ignorant, that skepticism and judgment were not interchangeable things. Whatever speech had begun assembling itself in her mind died a sudden and graceless death.

Because the pen floated through the air.

Her mouth dropped open slightly as her eyes tracked the silver fountain pen and business card drifting cleanly across the room before settling neatly into Sable's waiting hand. Arabella stared at them without blinking. The expression crossing her face held no simple shock to it. Her thoughts moved too quickly for that. Heat lived behind her eyes now, a frantic sort of focus, the expression of someone staring at a puzzle already halfway solved but with no understanding of how the pieces had been placed together in the first place. Her face puckered faintly, lips twisting as though she'd bitten into something unexpectedly sour before smoothing out again. "I most certainly wouldn't connect the possible existence of actual magic with the likes of someone like J.K. Rowling," she huffed, sounding weirdly offended by it despite herself. "I was raised being told by my family with clear emphasis that magic was never, and never would be real. So excuse me for being a little skeptical."

Sable had expected the anger, but that did not help it settle any softer in her chest. She did not blame Arabella for her lack of knowledge or the offense that flashed sharp behind her eyes, she blamed Lenora and her descendants. Magic was a gift, yes, but also a responsibility. One by one the other lines dwindled or vanished, and as the Circle grew smaller the weight grew heavier upon Sable’s shoulders. It was not fair to her, or to her girls. It used to be nine lineages strong and now it was three, four if she counted the reluctant woman across from her… And knowing that knowledge was withheld sat almost as uneasily as the truth did for Arabella.

"You were raised to believe a lie," Sable corrected gently like a mother would to an upset child. Her words were soft and gentle, like an olive branch of understanding.

The words landed harder than they should have. Arabella felt the impact of them low in her chest, sudden and strange, like stepping down a staircase and finding one step missing. Her shoulders tightened instinctively and she flinched before she could stop herself, the movement small enough that most people might have missed it if they had not been looking closely. She said nothing, because for one horrible, fleeting moment, some small frightened part of her had wondered what if the woman was right.

The irritation faded almost as quickly as it came. Something heavier settled in its place. Arabella looked down toward the card resting between them and suddenly felt very, very tired. She had come here for help. Not answers necessarily, not certainty, not miracles, but help. Some quiet selfish part of her had walked into this strange little shop and sat across from this woman believing that perhaps, finally, someone would look at the mess in her hands and tell her she wasn't chasing shadows. Instead she felt gently pushed back toward the door, toward libraries and police stations and practical things she'd already exhausted herself on months ago. The feeling slipped beneath her ribs with surprising ease. A lost cause. The thought sat there before she could stop it. Not dramatic. Just quiet. Familiar.

Arabella swallowed hard and set her cup down carefully onto the tablecloth before reaching forward to gather the books against her chest. The leather covers felt heavier now than they had minutes ago. "Right," she said softly, the stiffness in her voice working harder than she was. "Sorry for bothering you." She never reached for the card with directions. She had memorized the town map before arriving, memorized roads and names and landmarks because she had needed to feel prepared for something. Anything. Rising too quickly from her chair, she held the books tightly against herself instead of placing them back inside the satchel. Moisture burned sharply at the corners of her eyes and she took a slow breath through her nose, blinking hard once before the feeling could spill over. All she wanted was her mom back. "Thank you for the tea."

Sable did not rise from her seat, nor did she try to stop her. Heavy revelations took time to process. She understood that and wasn’t going to demand recognition. Her head nodded just once toward the books clutched tight against the girl’s chest. "It is a grimoire, a book of witchcraft." Long slender fingers laced together and rested against the edge of the table with a patience learned from over two centuries of life. "I understand, and I can sympathize with your anger. I do not fault you for directing it at me." A heavy sigh fell from her burgundy tinted lips as her gaze fell to the porcelain before her and the tea that had run cold.

She did not stand up, did not attempt to stop the young woman or convince her to stay. The crystals that dangled from thin silver chains at her hip vibrated to life once more, glowing faintly beneath the hem of her coat. On the opposite side of the shop the deadbolt unlocked and the sign that hung from the door flipped to ‘open.’ "When you’re ready… My door is always open." Sable didn’t look up, and even with her face half hidden behind loose black curls, she still looked weary with the sort of exhaustion that came from lifetimes of knowledge and loneliness. It was odd, the way it clung to her features, misplaced for someone who was apparently so young. But beneath it, a sad smile persisted, patient and calm in its understanding. Then without another word, her finger curled around the handle of her cup, and she lifted it to her lips, drinking the tepid remains of her tea… because unlike Lenora Crowe, she was not wasteful.

^{interactions ....|.... sable ............... mentions ....|.... noah, nelthea, willow ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir}

Sleepy's Dream Vault

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W H A T . L I E S . B E L O W.....

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Pine Ridge was once the kind of town people swore could survive anything.

Born during the height of the Black Hills gold rush in South Dakota, it began as a rough frontier settlement carved into the shadow of the mountain itself; a place of prospectors, saloons, churches, and shallow graves. When the gold dried up, Pine Ridge endured by turning deeper into the earth, transforming into a thriving mining town fueled by coal, iron, quarry stone, and the sprawling tunnel systems beneath the mountain. Families stayed for generations. Neighbors left their doors unlocked. The mine became the heartbeat of the town, humming day and night beneath the streets like something alive.

Then, in the winter of 1987, the mountain swallowed nearly half of Pine Ridge. One of the deepest mining shafts collapsed without warning, triggering a chain reaction beneath the town that tore entire streets apart. Homes, businesses, churches, and whole neighborhoods vanished into the earth beneath thousands of tons of stone and debris. Rescue crews claimed they heard voices echoing from tunnels long after anyone trapped below should have died. Some survivors stumbled back to the surface days later, burnt, delirious, and whispering about tunnels that did not exist on any map and things moving in the dark beyond the reach of their lantern light.

Within a year, much of Pine Ridge was abandoned and condemned. The surviving half of town was rebuilt farther from the mountain. Modern Pine Ridge grew along the outskirts, where ranch homes, diners, gas stations, and newer neighborhoods now stretch beneath endless South Dakota skies.

The official story blamed unstable tunnels and decades of reckless excavation beneath the town. The truth was buried much deeper. Long before prospectors arrived, the mountain already belonged to older things. Vampires lived hidden beneath Pine Ridge for generations, eventually building an entire underground settlement within the forgotten mining network beneath the newer half of town. Entire streets, chambers, and hidden halls exist below the surface, untouched by sunlight and unknown to most humans above. The werewolves guarded the forests and plains surrounding the Black Hills, keeping whatever lived deeper in the wilderness from wandering too close to civilization. And the witches, hidden among Pine Ridge’s oldest bloodlines, maintained ancient seals buried beneath the mountain to imprison something far worse below.

Now, nearly forty years later, Pine Ridge is beginning to thrive again. Wealthy investors have transformed the condemned half of town into a restored ghost town attraction built around old western folklore, abandoned streets, and guided quarry tours through the surviving mine shafts. Roads have been repaired. Businesses are reopening. New families, drifters, thrill-seekers, and descendants of former residents have started returning to the valley, drawn by cheap land and the strange charm of a town frozen in time. For the first time in decades, Pine Ridge feels alive again. But the town does not want to be disturbed.

The deeper tunnels beneath the mountain have started opening on their own. Mine elevators descend at impossible hours despite having no power connected to them. People vanish along quarry trails without tracks. Livestock are found drained of blood beyond ranch fences, while strange symbols appear carved into trees around the valley overnight. Worse still, the witches responsible for maintaining the ancient seals are dying one by one under increasingly unnatural circumstances.

The fragile balance that once kept Pine Ridge alive is beginning to fracture. Vampires hidden beneath the town grow restless as their underground sanctuary becomes threatened by expanding excavation. Werewolf packs become increasingly territorial as something in the wilderness drives them toward violence. Human residents begin noticing too much; strange noises, figures watching from the treeline at night, lantern lights drifting through the condemned streets long after closing hours. Rumors spread faster than the truth ever can, and fear settles over Pine Ridge like another layer of mountain fog.

Because something beneath the mountain is waking up. Older than the vampires. Older than the witches. Older, perhaps, than Pine Ridge itself. Whatever survived inside the collapsed mine in 1987 did not remain trapped there alone, and now the prison beneath the mountain is beginning to fail.

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F A C T I O N S.....

................................................................. ....T H E . C I T I Z E N S.....

. . S H E R I F F : ... name .. | .. open .. | .. writer M E M B E R S : ... human residents of pine ridge Most of Pine Ridge’s human population remains entirely unaware of the supernatural existence hidden beneath the town. To the average resident, the disappearances, strange animal attacks, and old ghost stories surrounding the mountain are nothing more than local folklore. Only a select few humans know the truth, and those individuals almost always belong to Pine Ridge’s oldest families. In most cases, that knowledge was not freely given. It was earned through usefulness, inherited through generations, or forced upon them through circumstance. The humans trusted with supernatural knowledge typically occupy important positions within the town itself; doctors, morticians, the sheriff, or local politicians. Their roles make them valuable enough to keep alive, but that protection comes with strict conditions. Most are heavily monitored, manipulated, blackmailed, or outright threatened into silence by one or more supernatural factions. Knowledge in Pine Ridge is treated as both privilege and liability. A small number of humans also serve as vampire thralls. Through repeated exposure to vampire blood, thralls gain heightened senses, faster reflexes, and extended lifespans. However, the bond is addictive and they are under the vampire's control. Without regular access to their sire’s blood, thralls experience severe physical and psychological withdrawal, making true independence nearly impossible.

................................................................. .......T H E . C I R C L E.....

. . H I G H . P R I E S T E S S : ... sable pritchard .. | .. taken .. | .. @Mjolnir M E M B E R S : ... order of witches The witches of Pine Ridge practice a traditional form of magic rooted heavily in ritual work, natural elements, and spiritual balance. Their abilities are often enhanced through crystals, stones, herbs, and ancient spells, with different materials amplifying different forms of magic. Smaller spells, such as protection charms, minor healing, tracking, glamour magic, or minor emotional influence, can typically be performed with little preparation, especially if a witch carries enchanted crystals or talismans on their person. Larger workings, however, require preparation and ritual. Powerful spells often involve ritual circles, spoken incantations, candles, fires, sacrifices, or cauldrons depending on the nature of the magic being performed. Witches are considered the most unified and loyal faction within Pine Ridge. Their circle operates with strong internal structure, and betrayal among witches is extremely rare. Because of the usefulness of their magic, witches also hold significant influence over the supernatural balance within the town. They are capable of crafting enchanted jewelry that allows vampires protection from sunlight, as well as charms and talismans that help werewolves better regulate shifts, aggression, and emotional instability. As a result, witches often act as the political middle ground between factions. Their opinions carry considerable weight throughout Pine Ridge, and while they are deeply respected, many resent how much influence they hold over the town as a whole.

................................................................. .........T H E . P A C K.....

. . A L P H A : ... warren boone .. | .. taken .. | .. @Sleepy Tani M E M B E R S : ... den of werewolves Werewolves in Pine Ridge are not solely bound to the full moon. While lunar cycles strengthen their instincts and make shifting easier, transformations can also be triggered by emotional instability. Strong negative emotions such as rage, grief, fear, or severe pain increase the likelihood of losing control, while positive emotions like love, joy, and calmness help stabilize both the wolf and the person carrying it. Emotional control is considered one of the most important skills within a pack. Unlike witches, werewolves can either be born or turned. Humans bitten must survive the painful first transformation and become part of the pack themselves. Many wolves believe their instincts naturally push them to protect, expand, and strengthen the pack through loyalty and connection. In wolf form, werewolves resemble massive direwolf-like creatures. While shifted, pack members share a telepathic link that functions similarly to a mental radio connection. Wolves can mute the bond themselves, though the Alpha can forcibly reopen the connection and exert limited control through it when necessary. Even unshifted, werewolves possess enhanced strength, speed, senses, durability, and slightly extended lifespans. Most packs function as close-knit families, with loyalty to the pack valued above almost everything else.

................................................................. ........T H E . C O V E N.....

. . S I R E . / . M A T R I A R C H : ... name .. | .. open .. | .. writer M E M B E R S : ... clan of vampires Humans can be turned into vampires through a two-step process: first consuming vampire blood, then being completely drained of their own blood afterward. Once turned, vampires possess enhanced strength, speed, reflexes, senses, and durability far beyond human capability. They are also capable of using compulsion, a form of mental influence triggered through direct eye contact that allows them to manipulate memories, emotions, and behavior. Most vampires use compulsion while feeding, forcing humans to forget the encounter afterward. Werewolves are naturally immune to compulsion, while witches can create enchanted jewelry that protects the wearer from its effects. A vampire’s greatest weakness is sunlight. Direct exposure does not kill them instantly, but it causes severe burns, smoking skin, and painful welts that worsen over time and can only properly heal through feeding. A limited number of vampires possess enchanted jewelry crafted by the Circle that protects them from sunlight. Vampires also lack reflections and cannot enter private homes without first being invited inside. Garlic, however, is entirely myth. Some vampires keep human Thralls, though most consider the maintenance and dependency involved more trouble than it is worth. Of all the factions, vampires are the least loyal to one another and are often divided by ambition, status, and personal alliances.

R U L E S.....

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• Please DM @Sleepy Tani to discuss and apply for your character, and please include any subplots you have regarding your characters, before posting in the character section. Characters will be marked as reserved until the character sheet is uploaded.
• Strong, literate writers capable of consistently writing detailed posts around 500+ words minimum. Writers are required to maintain activity with at least one post per character every three weeks. Allowances are, of course, made for collab posts and IRL emergencies. Communication is key, just DM we can we can work stuff out. Your families, mental and physical health always come first. Again, we're looking for writers who are both reactive and proactive with plot development, character dynamics, and world interaction.
• We have a zero ghosting policy. If you are MIA and miss the posting deadline, I'll first reach out to you, but without a response in a given window of time, you could be removed from the RP. However, if you tell me you need to take a break and communicate, allowances within reason will always be made.
• We're looking for our writers to play multiple of different species and genders to keep the story as balanced as possible. I don't expect anyone to write as many characters as I or MJ do, frankly we're a little insane, but it is encouraged to have at least two characters. You don't have to make them all at once, ideas come and go.
• On that note, key roles like Alpha, Sire, Sherriff, and The Priestess, can expand. We have four placeholders, and we're looking for two other writers to fill the two open ones, but if they all fill up and people are looking to play more plot central and important roles, feel free to pitch your idea to me with your character application, or DM me to brainstorm.
• We will have a discord, I'll share the link as needed.
• This RP will be focused on heavy and mature settings, please understand your characters, especially the human characters, are not safe. Death can happen, and the possible for a human to be turned into a thrall, werewolf, or vampire could happen. These will always be cleared with the writer first, but so long as it makes sense to the story, it is a possibility.

small town urban fantasy; vampires, witches, werewolves.

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W H A T . L I E S . B E L O W

A rural gothic urban fantasy with heavy horror elements, set in a modern South Dakota mining town built over ancient secrets.

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______________________________________________________________________________________________
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Pine Ridge was once the kind of town people swore could survive anything.

Born during the height of the Black Hills gold rush in South Dakota, it began as a rough frontier settlement carved into the shadow of the mountain itself; a place of prospectors, saloons, churches, and shallow graves. When the gold dried up, Pine Ridge endured by turning deeper into the earth, transforming into a thriving mining town fueled by coal, iron, quarry stone, and the sprawling tunnel systems beneath the mountain. Families stayed for generations. Neighbors left their doors unlocked. The mine became the heartbeat of the town, humming day and night beneath the streets like something alive.

Then, in the winter of 1987, the mountain swallowed nearly half of Pine Ridge. One of the deepest mining shafts collapsed without warning, triggering a chain reaction beneath the town that tore entire streets apart. Homes, businesses, churches, and whole neighborhoods vanished into the earth beneath thousands of tons of stone and debris. Rescue crews claimed they heard voices echoing from tunnels long after anyone trapped below should have died. Some survivors stumbled back to the surface days later, burnt, delirious, and whispering about tunnels that did not exist on any map and things moving in the dark beyond the reach of their lantern light.

Within a year, much of Pine Ridge was abandoned and condemned. The surviving half of town was rebuilt farther from the mountain. Modern Pine Ridge grew along the outskirts, where ranch homes, diners, gas stations, and newer neighborhoods now stretch beneath endless South Dakota skies.

The official story blamed unstable tunnels and decades of reckless excavation beneath the town. The truth was buried much deeper. Long before prospectors arrived, the mountain already belonged to older things. Vampires lived hidden beneath Pine Ridge for generations, eventually building an entire underground settlement within the forgotten mining network beneath the newer half of town. Entire streets, chambers, and hidden halls exist below the surface, untouched by sunlight and unknown to most humans above. The werewolves guarded the forests and plains surrounding the Black Hills, keeping whatever lived deeper in the wilderness from wandering too close to civilization. And the witches, hidden among Pine Ridge’s oldest bloodlines, maintained ancient seals buried beneath the mountain to imprison something far worse below.

Now, nearly forty years later, Pine Ridge is beginning to thrive again. Wealthy investors have transformed the condemned half of town into a restored ghost town attraction built around old western folklore, abandoned streets, and guided quarry tours through the surviving mine shafts. Roads have been repaired. Businesses are reopening. New families, drifters, thrill-seekers, and descendants of former residents have started returning to the valley, drawn by cheap land and the strange charm of a town frozen in time. For the first time in decades, Pine Ridge feels alive again. But the town does not want to be disturbed.

The deeper tunnels beneath the mountain have started opening on their own. Mine elevators descend at impossible hours despite having no power connected to them. People vanish along quarry trails without tracks. Livestock are found drained of blood beyond ranch fences, while strange symbols appear carved into trees around the valley overnight. Worse still, the witches responsible for maintaining the ancient seals are dying one by one under increasingly unnatural circumstances.

The fragile balance that once kept Pine Ridge alive is beginning to fracture. Vampires hidden beneath the town grow restless as their underground sanctuary becomes threatened by expanding excavation. Werewolf packs become increasingly territorial as something in the wilderness drives them toward violence. Human residents begin noticing too much; strange noises, figures watching from the treeline at night, lantern lights drifting through the condemned streets long after closing hours. Rumors spread faster than the truth ever can, and fear settles over Pine Ridge like another layer of mountain fog.

Because something beneath the mountain is waking up. Older than the vampires. Older than the witches. Older, perhaps, than Pine Ridge itself. Whatever survived inside the collapsed mine in 1987 did not remain trapped there alone, and now the prison beneath the mountain is beginning to fail.

____________________________________________________________________________

^{R E Q U I R E M E N T S}
Thank you so much for taking the time to read what we have so far! I'm hoping for this to be a small to moderate sized group of writers, with 4-5 minimum! @Mjolnir has helped with a lot with coming up with this concept, and will be writing in the RP as well. I'm happy to welcome anyone I currently write with, anyone I've written with in the past, or anyone new. I'm excited to hear any ideas anyone may have.

• Literacy - Strong, literate writers capable of consistently writing detailed posts around 500+ words minimum
• Commitment - Writers looking for a long-term roleplay with active participation and communication; please do not join if you tend to ghost.
• Variety - Preference for writers comfortable playing multiple characters with a variety of personalities, and genders. We will be using realistic face-claims for this RP.
• Activity - Ability to maintain activity with at least one post per character every three weeks. Allowances are, of course, made for collab posts and IRL emergencies. Just communicate :)
• Engagement - Players interested in taking on important faction roles (pack leaders, coven heads, vampire leadership, monster hunters, etc.) are especially encouraged; these roles will be limited and selectively assigned. Alongside this, we're looking for writers who are both reactive and proactive with plot development, character dynamics, and world interaction. There will be an application process for all character submissions.
• Collaboration - Interest in collaborative storytelling, faction politics, supernatural mystery, horror elements, and character-driven plots.
• Tone Comfortable with darker themes, tension, violence, and slow-burn supernatural horror atmosphere. 18+ writers only.
• Immersion Willingness to contribute to a living, evolving setting. Writers will be strongly encouraged to create their own subplots that can run alongside the main plot.

Black Lily

I'm the perpetual barnacle to MJ's writing, so don't mind me lurking and reading along... but that was an amazing opening line. Really enjoying the concept and world-building so far!

Beneath a Black Sun

^{#be9650 ....|..... outfit .....|..... Kingdom of Moonreach}

She dreamed of her own funeral long before she understood she would never have one.

The sky in the dream was wide and unbroken, a living expanse of gold that poured itself over the valley in long, gentle rays. Sunlight moved like something living, settling across stone and skin, warming the air until even breath felt softened by it. It touched everything without hesitation, the worn paths between homes, the carved pillars of her people’s shrines, the quiet slope where the pyres were raised, and it gave freely, as if it had never known scarcity. She stood within it, though she did not feel it then as she once had. The memory of warmth lingered like an echo pressed against her skin, close enough to ache, distant enough to be unreachable.

They had laid her body with care, white cloth wrapped her form, simple and unadorned, marked only by thin bands of gold thread that caught the light and held it. Her hair had been braided with steady hands, each strand woven the way her mother had taught her, tight enough to endure flame, gentle enough to honor what it had once been. Flowers rested at her sides, pale and deliberate, chosen not for beauty but for meaning. The pyre itself was built from cedar and old wood, its structure balanced and precise, each piece placed with intention so that it would burn clean, burn true, carry her upward without resistance.

They gathered in silence at first, then the hymn began. It rose low and steady, voices joining one by one until the sound filled the valley, ancient and resonant, shaped by generations that had sung the same words into the same light. The language carried weight, each syllable measured, deliberate, shaped not just to be heard but to be offered. It was not grief that filled it, but rather it was reverence. A recognition of completion, of a life brought to its proper end and given back with purpose. She knew the words like she knew her own heartbeat. In the dream, they slipped through her grasp, leaving only the rhythm behind, a cadence that pressed into her chest and settled there like something echoing in the body rather than the mind.

This was how her people believed freedom was earned. Not in living, but in the moment one's life ended. The elders had taught it beside the fires, their voices steady as they spoke of those who had gone before, of warriors who stood when they could have fled, of healers who remained when the sickness spread, of quiet souls who found meaning in the final breath rather than the first. Death was not an end to be feared. It was a shaping, a final act that gave the rest of a life its meaning. She had listened, younger then, turning those words over in quiet moments, imagining what her own ending might be. She had wanted it to matter. She had wanted to meet it without hesitation, to feel the world receive her as something close to a hero. That was what their Goddess wanted of them, the one thing she asked of her people, for them to be heroes.

The flames took slowly, they curled along the edges of the wood, catching first at the oil soaked kindling, then rising in careful, deliberate tongues that grew brighter with each passing breath. Heat gathered, thick and immediate, carrying with it the scent of cedar, montwood, and ash, a fragrance that settled into the lungs and stayed. The light shifted as the fire rose, gold deepening into a richer hue, something that moved with its own rhythm now, separate from the sun above. She watched as it reached her body, as cloth darkened, as form began to blur beneath the growing brightness.

In the dream, she stepped forward, or rather she tried to. The ground resisted her, soft at first, as though the earth itself wished to hold her in place. Then it hardened, turned to stone around her feet, unyielding. She pressed against it without understanding why, her body answering a pull she could not name. Someone spoke her name, but it didn't reach her as sound. It struck against her chest instead, a distant pressure that could not cross whatever space now lay between her and the moment unfolding before her.

The hymn continued, the fire climbed higher. There was no fear in it, only completion, only release. She felt something within her reach toward it, a quiet certainty that she belonged there, that this moment was meant to close around her and carry her into something beyond breath and bone. It was a pull deeper than thought, older than memory. And beneath it, something else held fast, a resistance that didn't come from her will but from somewhere further in, something already changed.

The light did not dim, not right away, but when it did the eclipse came like a wound across the sky. It hadn't fallen with violence at first, but with a slow, terrible certainty, a shadow that stretched across the sun and swallowed it piece by piece. The gold thinned, fractured, and then was gone, replaced by a dim, ashen glow that held no warmth. The hymn faltered, and voices broke, not in panic, but in something closer to disbelief. They looked upward, toward a sky that had always answered them, and found it silent.

Her people were the first to die. The light had been part of them, as constant as breath, as present as the ground beneath their feet. When it vanished, something within them followed. One by one, their voices stilled, bodies lowered, the hymn unraveled into silence that spread across the valley like frost. The pyre still burned, but the meaning within it had already been taken.

She watched them fall, she could not reach them no matter how hard she tried, how she cried and begged and screamed, and she woke before the ashes settled.

The chamber was cold, though the air trembled with a vast and unseen presence. Six figures stood around her, not as bodies, each one a weight in the world that bent toward her. Their hands rested against her, touching something deeper than skin or bone, something within her that felt like it was being opened and rewritten. She couldn't find her breath. It left her, fast and fluttering, as though her body understood before her mind what was being asked of it. She thought, distantly, of the sun as it had felt on her skin, warmth that had once belonged to everyone, and the memory sharpened as everything else began to slip.

The moment stretched, then closed, the memory of her last moments with the Sixfold blurring at the edges until she couldn't hold it fully. Something within her went still, not quiet, not empty, but finished in a way that did not belong to the living. Time loosened its hold, slipping from her like water through open fingers, and in its place came something unyielding. She felt the shape of herself shift, not outwardly, but in the way a boundary dissolved and could not be remade. The Sixfold did not speak as they left her, not that she could recall. She felt each of them slipping away, one after another, their presence thinning until it was only her remaining. Each loss landed heavy, a hollowing that didn't bleed but deepened into the root of her being.

Only later did she understand what was taken alongside what was given. She was the last of her people who still remembered the warmth of the sun, the last who carried the quiet faith of a Goddess who promised that endings meant freedom. The last voice of the Sixfold, the last echo of a world where magic answered and life moved toward something final. She was not simply living beyond them, she was what remained when everything else had been allowed to end.

It was not her life that was taken, but her ending.

Rain had already begun by the time she reached the outer wall. It rose from the earth, a sheer expanse of stone veined through with moonlite that glowed faintly beneath the falling dark. The first gate stood open beneath a reinforced arch, guards posted in quiet vigilance as they watched the far perimeter more than those who passed through it. Beyond the wall stretched the farmland, a wide, necessary ring of survival pressed into the shadowed world. Rows of hardy crops bent beneath the weight of cold rain, their leaves silvered faintly where moonlite dust had been worked into the soil. The air there felt different, more exposed, less protected, like the dark leaned closer, testing the edges of what the kingdom could hold.

She passed through without pause, boots sinking slightly into the softened ground as she moved along the worn path cutting through the fields. Watchtowers rose at intervals along the perimeter, tall and narrow, their upper platforms lit by steady lantern fire and strips of moonlite set into the railings. Figures stood within them, still and watchful, silhouettes against the dim glow as they scanned the horizon beyond the crops. When the horns sounded, and they would often, without warning, the response came from below.

She saw them before she reached the second wall, the Scarecrows moved along the edges of the fields in loose patrols, their cloaks long and ragged at the hems, weighted to break their outline against the shifting dark. Polearms rested easy in their hands, moonlite edges catching what little light there was, their movements measured and deliberate. They didn't speak as they passed one another, only shifted direction, adjusting to something unseen. It was a safer post, she remembered hearing once. Close enough to danger to matter, far enough from the walls to keep it from becoming something deadly. They guarded what fed the city, and at the end of the day, they were the lucky few who returned home.

The second wall rose ahead, smaller but no less fortified, marking the boundary between survival and structure.
Inside, the city opened around her. Rain settled into stone, turning streets into glistening veins that reflected the steady glow of moonlite threaded through every surface. Buildings rose tightly together, their foundations laid deep into what had once been a silver mine, long before the eclipse had carved the world into something unrecognizable. It hadn't been design that saved Moonreach, it had been circumstance. Where other cities fell within the first months, their lack of silver leaving them defenseless, Moonreach endured. The mine had become its bones, and those bones had been shaped into something that could withstand the dark.

Work didn't stop for rain, not anymore. Blacksmiths stood beneath covered forges, hammer striking moonlite with steady rhythm, sparks hissing out into the damp air. Masons moved along the inner walls, checking seams where silver met stone, hands running across the surface with practiced familiarity. Seamstresses worked near open doorways, mending heavy cloaks and lining garments with insulating layers meant to hold warmth against a world that no longer gave it freely, adding charms of moonlite when someone paid enough to warrant it. The scent of food drifted from narrow kitchens, broth, roasted roots, whatever could be stretched into something sustaining. Life here was constant maintenance, every role mattered, every failure carried consequence by the entire community.

There were shrines, though not many. Cathedrals of moonlite rose in quiet prominence, their interiors lit with soft, reverent glow. Figures of Vaelune, a minor Moon Deity, said to be the daughter of Vaelion the God of the Moon, were carved into the walls, her form slender and serene, hands outstretched as if still offering light to the world below. Silver leaf traced her features, catching the ambient glow so that she seemed always half present, a reflection rather than a body. Offerings lay at her feet, small, practical things more than ornate. The people believed she had given them this place, that Moonreach was not just a refuge, but a gift. The King spoke of her often, she had heard, as though his rule extended from her will.

Rain gathered in barrels set along the streets, their surfaces crusted with a thin layer of ice. A woman stood beside one, raising a carved wooden ladle and bringing it down with a sharp crack that split the surface. She worked steadily, breaking through the ice, dipping beneath, lifting water into a basin her son held with both hands. The boy’s gaze lifted as Caelrele passed, catching on the mask, the cloak, the shape of her cutting through the dim light provided by the eclipsed sun and moonlite. His grip faltered, and some water sloshed over the edge.

“Ash Monk,” the woman said, her tone gentle but edged with quiet correction. “Don’t stare, and take mind not to spill.” The boy lowered his eyes at once, though the curiosity lingered in the way his shoulders remained tense. The woman did not look up again. She did not need to.

By the time she reached the third gate, the crowd had thickened. Travelers pressed inward beneath the final archway, their numbers swelling beyond what the guards were willing to accept without question. The line moved slowly, halting as each person was weighed, examined, dismissed or allowed through with little explanation. Moonlite ran thicker through the stone here, its glow sharper, more concentrated, casting long, pale shadows across the gathered bodies.

She joined the line without drawing notice at first, it moved in uneven breaths, advancing a few paces only to stall again, each person pulled forward, questioned, weighed, and either admitted or dismissed with quiet finality. The rain softened the edges of sound, but it couldn't dull the tension that threaded through those waiting. Ahead of her stood a dwarf, broad and compact, his shoulders set like stone beneath a travel worn cloak. His beard, a bright and vibrant shade of red, was braided tightly against his chest, each cord bound with small metal rings that caught the moonlite in dull flashes, and his expression held a scowl that seemed to be permanently set into his face. He shifted often, impatience rolling through him in small movements, fingers flexing, boots grinding against the slick stone, while the crowd around him kept its distance, their attention drawn despite themselves.

It was the kind of attention that didn't linger comfortably, eyes slid toward him, caught, and then snapped away too quickly, as though recognition came with consequence. Dwarves were rarely seen this far from whatever lay beneath the mountains now, their absence turned into rumor, then into something half believed as existence and not myth. He felt it, Caelrele could see it in the way his posture held firm, in the way he refused to shrink from the space he occupied. When his turn came, the shift in the line was immediate.

The guard looked up... then down. It was the first time she had seen it happen since she had joined the queue. The man’s gaze sharpened, interest breaking through the dull repetition that had marked his earlier questioning. There was no delay, no measured pause to assess, no careful ticking of boxes in the ledger before him. A few curt questions passed between them, name, origin, purpose, and whatever answers the dwarf gave were enough. The guard nodded once, quick and decisive, and stepped aside. The gate opened without further ceremony.

The line behind him stirred, not resentment, not quite, something closer to unease. The dwarf didn't look back as he passed through, but the tension he left behind lingered, settling into the space he had occupied. It hinted of something unspoken, of rarity mistaken for value, of attention granted not out of trust, but out of something harder to define.

When it was her turn, she stepped forward into the space he had left, and the guard didn't look up again. His gaze remained fixed on the ledger before him, quill scratching steadily across the page as he spoke, voice worn flat by repetition. “Ill?” he asked, the word clipped, followed quickly by more, as if she were very simple and needed the question explained further. “Are you ill, or have you been within the last moon cycle?”

“No,” she answered, her voice softened and slightly muffled beneath the mask.

“Afflicted?” he asked next, still writing, still not lifting his head. “Blood or descent?”

“No.” There was a drop of humor in her tone now.

The quill paused, and a breath passed between one moment and the next, thin and deliberate. Then, slowly, the guard looked up. The change was immediate. Indifference slipped, replaced by something sharper, something more aware as his eyes took in the mask, the fall of her cloak, the stillness she carried within it. Surprise crossed his face, brief but unmistakable, followed by the quick adjustment of someone recalibrating what they thought they understood. He straightened slightly, clearing his throat as his tone shifted.

“Oh— I didn’t realize.” The words came more carefully now, measured. “Go right in. Apologies.”

She inclined her head once and stepped past him without hesitation. There were certain privileges she had learned to wear as easily as the cloak on her shoulders. The mask, the silence, the posture of someone set apart from the rabble, people filled the gaps with their own assumptions, and those assumptions worked in her favor more often than not. As a monk, or something close enough to be mistaken for one, she was afforded a kind of distance that required no explanation. Ash monks very rarely left their temples, and when they did it was never for anything good. Identifying as one parted crowds, it quieted questions before they could form. It made her presence something acknowledged, but not challenged.

Beyond the gate, the city shifted again. Sound softened as she moved closer to the castle, the noise of the crowd folding inward beneath the weight of stone. Moonlite ran so much thicker through the walls here, its pale glow more concentrated, threading through the rain in clean, unbroken lines. It reflected off the ground beneath her feet, catching in the edges of her vision, constant and unwavering. She felt it as she passed, a low hum beneath her skin, familiar in shape... magic.

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The Last Will of Olympus

^{clover .....|..... outfit .......... evander .....|..... outfit .......... the strawberry fields}

The sun was warm against Clover’s shoulders where they peeked out from beneath her large straw hat. Her wicker basket, which was weighed down by dozens of strawberries, left a woven imprint in her skin as she let the handle rest in the crook of her arm while her other hand kept her hat from fluttering away in the wind. Her smile was unguarded and bright as she watched the children run and laugh through the rows of crops without a care in the world, weightless with the freedom only a child could possess.

At one point when they ran circles around her, she reached down, scooping the wrapped sucker from Elliot’s hand, quickly lifting it out of reach before he could jump and snatch it back. "Hey!" he whined, flailing his arms and jumping dramatically. "That’s for Harper!"

"And she can have it," Clover mused as she tucked the small treat into the pocket of her overalls. "After you both stop running around like little hellions." She laughed fondly, giving her pocket a gentle pat of reassurance. "I’ll guard it with my life." After giving him a playful salute, she shooed them both off to continue running and playing or whatever other nonsense they wanted to get up to.

Clover slowly walked through the lines of strawberries looking for only the ripest and reddest berries to harvest. It wasn’t necessarily picking, not for her. Whenever she walked past a berry that was just right it always fell from the stem and rolled just into view. The Demeter kids loathed working the fields alongside her. No matter how hard they worked, knees and elbows caked in mud, she always returned with a more plentiful basket without a speck of dirt beneath her nails. That day was no different. Her basket was nearly overflowing and berries continued to present themselves like rubies before her.

She had stopped when a strawberry nearly the size of a tangerine rolled into the pathway between the rows of bushes. Clover leaned over to pick it up, contemplating if she should give into temptation and eat that one herself when a loud squeal startled her. The basket that had been dangling from her arm, slipped from the grove it made and fell to the ground, spilling half of its contents across the packed earth. She stood up abruptly, heart racing as she frantically searched for the source, frightened that children had gotten hurt in the handful of seconds she looked away. But when her gaze settled on Harper, the girl was nothing short of elated as she bounced up and down. "I knew it would work!"

Clover pressed her hand to her chest, catching her breath as she turned her attention toward the culprit of such excitement. Her cheeks immediately flushed to a red that rivaled her hair as she noticed the two unfamiliar lovebirds caught in the middle of a kiss that looked like it was seconds from getting much worse. She wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but she was thankful for Harper’s outburst if only to save herself from awkwardly having to interrupt and remind them they were quite literally in the middle of camp. Still… She was a romantic. She couldn’t help the airy giggle that slipped out along with the bashful smile that curled at the corners of her mouth as she turned away.

"Go on," she instructed them quietly, while shooing them with a gentle push to both of their backs. "It’s time you go clean up for dinner anyway."

"Clover!" Harper and Elliot both whined in unison. They threw their heads back, groaning and stamping their little feet dangerously close to the lost bundle of berries.

"If you smash my strawberries, I’ll get you," Clover playfully teased them, reaching out to tickle both of their sides and scare them back a few feet from the mess. They both giggled and swatted away her hands, unable to remain grumpy while tickled. Classic. She then reached into her pocket, pulled out the sucker and slipped it into Harper’s pocket. "After dinner," she warned with a small wag of her finger. "Alright, now go!" Harper and Elliot quickly ran off, their laughter immediately returning as they chased and ran circles around each other in the general direction of the cabins.

With no one else remaining in the fields, Clover slowly lowered herself with a soft sigh. Her bare knees pressed down into the dirt as she turned her basket upright and set it aside, before she set to collecting all of her runaway berries.

The day had split open and poured gold over everything.

Evander returned to camp with salt still clinging to his skin and the ghost of the sea breeze caught in the soft fall of his hair, the shoreline lingering on him like a blessing he had not asked for but accepted all the same. His walk beyond the camp’s edge had been meant to clear his head, nothing more than habit, the ritual of a man who carried too many thoughts and preferred to set them in motion rather than let them rot. But somewhere along the beach, with waves lapping at the sand in steady, ancient rhythm, his phone had buzzed in his hand and the world had shifted beneath his feet.

Athena’s Scholarship—his scholarship, the program he had fought tooth and nail to build, to pitch, to defend, to make real in a world that too often left bright minds behind if they were born in the wrong zip code or with the wrong last name, had been approved. Not just approved. It had gone live that morning. Applications were already coming in from young men and women he would likely never meet, and somehow that made it all the more sacred. For the first time in years, joy did not feel like something fragile or borrowed. It felt earned.

He had dressed without much thought that morning, but by the time he crossed back through the valley it felt as though even the gods themselves had conspired to make him look more put together than he had any right to. A muted taupe knit polo clung softly to his frame, textured and refined in a way that made it look effortless despite the quiet luxury of it, the collar resting open at his throat where the first button had been left undone.

His sleeves had been pushed up to his forearms, exposing warm skin kissed by the sun, a silver watch gleaming at his wrist with every swing of his hand. Black trousers sat clean and sharp at his waist, held in place by a simple leather belt, and there was something unfairly polished about the whole of him, like he had stepped out of a magazine spread and accidentally wandered into a strawberry field instead of a private lounge in Manhattan. Even he knew it was a bit much for camp. But today, with triumph buzzing bright and electric beneath his ribs, he found he didn’t care.

That was how he ended up in the fields, on a whim, with celebration still fizzing through his bloodstream like champagne. He’d told himself he’d only stop for a minute. Maybe pick a handful of strawberries. Maybe let himself have something sweet while the news settled into something real instead of dreamlike. A few ripe berries had already found their way into his palm, gathered with the absent indulgence of someone too pleased with life to care whether it was proper to snack before dinner, and in his other hand rested one ridiculous monstrosity of a strawberry—nearly the size of a tangerine, glossy and red as spilled lacquer. He had just bitten into it, juice bright against his tongue and sweet enough to make him laugh under his breath, when he rounded the row and found her.

He stopped so abruptly it was a wonder he didn’t choke.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, he simply blinked down at Clover where she knelt in the dirt like some pastoral vision dragged from an old painting and dropped carelessly into the middle of camp. The straw hat shadowed her face in soft, honeyed angles, but not enough to hide the flush still lingering in her cheeks or the tumble of red hair that seemed to burn brighter in the late afternoon light. Her overalls, the strawberries scattered around her, her bare knees pressed into the earth, the wicker basket tipped beside her like a little disaster, it should have been messy. Mundane.

Instead, it looked almost mythic. Like the field itself had decided it needed a patron saint and shaped one from sunlight, freckles, and a laugh too gentle for a world like theirs. There was dirt on the ground, berries rolling out of reach, children’s laughter fading into the distance, and still the sight of her caught him square in the chest with enough force to leave him momentarily stupid.

He swallowed the bite of strawberry and stepped forward, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a way that was looser, warmer, and far less guarded than he typically allowed. Joy had already softened him today, perhaps that was why the offer came so easily, why his voice carried no teasing edge, no carefully curated distance, only something unexpectedly open. He crouched just enough to gather one of the escaped berries near his shoe, the oversized strawberry still in his hand, bitten and gleaming, as he looked at her with the peculiar sort of gentleness that only surfaced when he forgot to protect himself from it.

"Need help?" he asked after a beat, rich and low and touched by the kind of uncharacteristic charity that came from a man who had just been handed proof that maybe, just maybe, the world could still be changed by stubborn people who refused to stop trying. And with the sun warming the back of his neck, sweetness on his tongue, and Clover kneeling in the middle of the berries like something out of a half-remembered dream, Evander thought, absurdly, unexpectedly, that perhaps this day had not yet reached its peak.

Clover didn’t notice the approaching steps, the soft sound lost beneath the fading laughs of children and her own shuffling along the dirt. It was shoes far too nice to belong in a field of strawberries that came into her peripheries first. Then a familiar voice came warm and soft in a way that was foreign to the point she could not believe it until she saw it with her own eyes. Her hand gently held her straw hat in place against her head as her gaze trailed along the crouched form in front of her. Dark pants led to a neutral shirt before her squinted eyes settled upon wire glasses and a face she knew well, although the happiness behind it felt bright and unguarded in a way that caught her by surprise.

Her smile widened and bloomed, curling unabashedly into her sunkissed and freckled cheeks. "Evan?" His name fell from her lips in soft disbelief. Out of everyone who happened to wander into the fields, he was the last person she would have imagined running into, let alone offering her help. Clover took in his appearance better, noticing the subtle way he looked more put together than anyone in a summer camp had a right to. He always dressed nice, like he was expected to give a TED talk or tutor students who attend Harvard. She imagined his shirt cost more than her entire wardrobe of secondhand and thrifted clothes. But he didn’t wear it arrogantly or like he expected people to take notice. It was just… unapologetically Evander.

"You look nice today," she beamed up at him. Compliments and kindness came easily to Clover like breathing, it wasn’t a choice or decision as much as it was just part of who she was at her core. She ran her hands along the pants of her overalls, attempting to remove as much dirt as possible before she reached out to take the strawberry from him. The tips of her fingers gently brushed along his palm, half wrapping around the berry when she noticed the bite taken out of it. Her cheeks flushed beneath her freckles, quickly withdrawing her hand with a quiet laugh. "Stealing my prized strawberry?" she teased him gently before gathering up a handful of run away berries. "I appreciate the offer, but I’d feel terrible if you got dirty because of my clumsiness," she admitted with a soft honesty as she placed her handful of strawberries back into her basket.

The sound of his name in her mouth did something strange to him.

Evander had been called many things over the years, some respectful, some dismissive, some sharpened into weapons by envy or expectation, but Evan fell from Clover’s lips like something warm enough to soften bone. It was simple, harmless even, and yet it landed somewhere embarrassingly tender beneath his ribs, brushing past the polished layers he wore as carefully as his clothes. Maybe it was the sunlight. Maybe it was the absurd buoyancy of the day itself, the way the world had finally chosen to tilt in his favor after years of him shoving against it with bleeding hands and gritted teeth. Or maybe it was just her, kneeling in the dirt with freckles across her cheeks, smiling at him like he was not difficult, not sharp-edged, not exhausting to understand, but simply someone she was glad to see.

He grinned back before he could think better of it, the expression easy and bright in a way that felt almost foreign on his face. Not the usual dry, knowing tilt of his mouth. Not the carefully curated version of amusement he used like armor. This one was lighter, boyish in some dangerous, unguarded way, as if the news from the beach had stripped him down to a version of himself he rarely let anyone witness. He let himself sink lower into the dirt without a second thought, his expensive trousers meeting the earth in a way that would have horrified him on any other day, and reached for another runaway berry with the hand not occupied by the monstrous half eaten strawberry he’d scooped off the ground before he’d seen her.

"I couldn’t help it, I’ve never seen a strawberry so big before…I don’t mind," he said lightly, placing the other berries he’d gathered gently into the basket as though he had all the time in the world and nowhere more important to be. "If I can survive ancient monsters, I think I can survive a little dirt." Besides, it was the best day he’d ever had.

The thought pulsed through him, bright and golden and almost too big to keep contained. Athena’s Scholarship had gone live. Applications were already arriving. Somewhere out there, brilliant kids with futures too often overlooked were opening a door because he had forced one into existence. And tonight, tonight, surely, surely, his mother would see it. The proof of him. The evidence he had always known he carried in his chest but had never been able to offer in a form the gods respected. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones with the same certainty as the tide; he would be claimed properly, and he would leave the limbo he had occupied for far too long. He would move into the cabin that should have been his from the beginning, and the idea of that made his whole body hum with the kind of joy that left him almost reckless in his softness.

"It’s a great day, don’t you think?" he asked, glancing up at her with that same impossible grin still lingering as he reached for another berry near her knee, careful not to brush her by accident even though some part of him noticed the nearness with inconvenient precision.

Clover’s brows creased, tugging upward in curious confusion at the brightness that seemed to radiate off of Evan. While she never considered him to be a particularly angry or grumpy person, he was never happy, not like this. Something about it caught her off guard, but in a pleasant sort of way, like when the tide crept up the beach just high enough to brush her feet with a surprising warmth. "Is it?" she mused, studying the light behind his eyes and the soft dips in his cheeks from where his smile curved so wide that his face had to concede to make room for it. "I suppose everyday is great in its own way," she replied with a soft smile as she gathered more berries into her palm. She couldn’t recall her day being anything beyond ordinary: strawberry picking and clumsiness. But she wasn’t going to be the raincloud that dampened his sunshine either.

He set another strawberry into the basket, then rolled the absurdly large one in his hand like he was considering whether or not to offer her a bite before deciding he quite liked having an excuse to keep holding it. His shoulders were looser than usual, the line of his posture no less elegant but somehow less rigid, less braced for impact. The sea still lingered in him, the salt in the air, the rush of wind along the shore, the way the horizon had looked endless when his phone rang and his life changed by degrees he was still trying to comprehend.

"Have you ever taken a walk outside of camp, along the beach?" he asked, his tone drifting almost dreamy with the memory of it. His air was still tousled from the sea-breeze, he was certain he smelled faintly of the ocean. "It’s my new favorite spot. Quiet enough to think, loud enough that the ocean drowns out the parts of your brain that should probably shut up for once, and there’s cell signal."

She lifted her head after placing more berries back into her basket. Her green eyes studied him with a delighted sort of curiosity, trying to find the cause of his happiness without drawing attention to it. Clover could ask, but she didn’t want to dampen it, content to sit in its radiance while it lasted. "I haven’t," she responded while wiping the dirt from her palms against the denim of her overalls. "I always loved going to the beach back home but…" Her voice trailed off, brows furrowing softly as she brushed some windblown hair back behind her ear. "I don’t know," she sighed softly as her smile wavered, "I try not to wander outside of camp alone. I’m not much of a fighter and I’m scared of what sort of monsters could be lying in wait just beyond the borders."

Something in Evander’s expression gentled at that, the bright, buoyant edge of his happiness softening into something quieter and warmer as he glanced up at her through the golden slant of afternoon light. Fear looked out of place on Clover, not because it made her lesser, but because there was something so inherently sunlit about her that the idea of her having to live in cautious half-steps felt unfair in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. He reached for another strawberry near the hem of her overalls, dropping it carefully into the basket as though the motion gave him something to do with the strange little pull in his chest.

"I could take you sometime, if you want," he offered, making a show of sounding casual about it, just a light shrug of one shoulder, like the words were no heavier than the berries in his hand, even though he found himself oddly aware of how they landed between them. "It’s not too bad, usually. Not too many of them seem to like getting close to the ocean, and I don’t wander too far." He shrugged again, easier this time, his smile never quite fading as old memories flickered through him—salt air, laughter, and younger versions of himself and the Hermes boys slipping past the camp borders like they were stealing something sacred just for the thrill of it, all scraped knees and reckless grins and the kind of boyhood daring that made danger feel smaller than it was.

Clover stilled as her fingers curled around a berry beside her knee. Her gaze slowly lifted between red lashes and the brim of her hat to look over at him with a soft sort of confusion that creased her brows. The offer was simple, friendly, given as easily as he had when he dropped to his knees in the dirt with her. There was no subtext or ulterior motive… yet something about it and the silent weight that hovered between them when neither of them spoke felt… different. Had they ever really spent time together… alone? Aside from gathering the scattered remains of a small strawberry explosion, she didn’t think so. There was something about the thought of them walking barefoot along the beach, side by side with their toes in the sand that made a strange sort of fluttering take root in her chest.

"That sounds nice," she responded before logic or thought had a chance to settle. Clover would be lying if she said she didn’t yearn to visit the ocean. It might be on the opposite side of the country, but something about the steady rush of the tide and salt in the air made her feel closer to her dad. She finally picked up the berry held between her fingers and dropped it into her basket. "I’ve never been to an East Coast beach," she admitted with a sheepish sort of smile that only curled upward on one side. "I like collecting sea glass and sea shells, like buckets full… to make jewelry." A quiet laugh hummed to life behind her smile as she gathered more strawberries by dragging both of her hands along the ground, scooping up several into her palms, then discarding them into the basket. "So I’d be insufferable," she concluded while raising dirt covered fingers to sweep a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

Something in Evander’s expression softened again, the sharp cleverness that so often lived in his face giving way to a quieter sort of fondness as he listened to her talk. There was something almost disarming about the way Clover admitted things, unguarded and earnest, as if she had never learned to make her wants smaller just to keep from burdening anyone with them. He could picture it too easily, her barefoot in the surf, skirts or overalls damp at the hem, crouching every few feet to scoop up bits of worn glass and shells with the same reverence she gave strawberries in the field.

The image settled somewhere annoyingly warm in his chest, and instead of resisting it, he let himself smile. "Sea glass is pretty," he said simply, like it was obvious, like she was obvious. His fingers absently dropped another berry into the basket as he glanced at her dirt-smudged hands and the loose strand of hair she’d tucked back with them. "I don’t think I’d mind if you were insufferable about it," he added, the teasing in his voice so light it barely counted, gentled by a warmth he didn’t bother to hide.

Her brows rose like a silent admission of surprise as she looked across the small strawberry scattered space between them to meet his gaze. Clover had accepted that her excitement over small things like collecting sea glass and sea shells or wishing on shooting stars might have frustrated others, but hearing that he wouldn’t mind it was something else entirely. She couldn’t fight the unbidden smile that bloomed across her face at the thought of someone just letting her be insufferable without impatience or annoyance. "I’d only make you carry my bucket if it got really heavy," she amended as her nose scrunched at the playful comment. "And I could make you something if you find a piece of glass or something you like," she added, turning a berry over between her fingers before setting it in the basket. "I don’t think anything I make would really match your wardrobe, but…" Her voice trailed off, punctuated with a small shrug of her shoulders.

A small laugh slipped from Evander then, soft and unexpectedly genuine, the sound almost foreign coming from him in such an unguarded way. He reached for two more runaway strawberries and placed them carefully into Clover’s basket, each one set down with a precision that made the simple task seem almost ceremonious. The field smelled of crushed green leaves and warm sweetness, the late sun spilling honey over the rows and catching in the loosened strands of her red hair beneath the brim of her hat. He glanced at her as she spoke, at the scrunch of her nose, the easy brightness in her smile, the dirt smudged against her overalls, and something in his chest gave that same strange, warm pull it had been suffering from all afternoon. For once, he didn’t feel the urge to hide behind wit sharp enough to cut the moment apart before it could settle.

"I wouldn’t mind carrying the bucket," he said lightly, the words threaded with teasing but lacking any real complaint, as if the idea of following her down the shoreline while she filled it piece by precious piece sounded far more tolerable than it should have. His mouth curved a little wider at one corner, a smile touched with a fondness he likely would have denied if called on it.

"Especially if it’s the price of not having to listen to you mourn every shell or shard you had to leave behind." There was a quiet warmth to the remark, a gentleness that made it clear he wasn’t mocking her for the admission, but meeting it exactly where she offered it, earnestness for earnestness, even if his still came dressed in dry humor. The thought of Clover with a bucket bumping against her leg, sunburnt shoulders and sea wind in her hair, stooping every few feet to rescue some tiny forgotten treasure from the sand, lodged itself in his mind with alarming ease.

His gaze dropped briefly to the berry in her fingers, then rose again to her face as she offered to make him something, and the lightness in his expression softened into something quieter. The idea should have struck him as impractical—he was too particular, too polished, too inclined toward clean lines and expensive neutrals for handmade jewelry scavenged from the tide. And yet, sitting there in the dirt with strawberries at their knees and Clover smiling at him like that, it felt absurd to pretend he cared more about aesthetics than the thought of her making something with him in mind. "I think I’d like something made from sea glass," he admitted, voice lower now, honest in a way that seemed to surprise even him. His eyes lingered on her for a second too long, bright behind the lenses she had just straightened for him, before his attention dipped back to the basket between them. "You know," he added, that small smile returning, "I’m starting to think these fields might be just as good as the beach."

Clover’s head perked up, smile brightening, as she looked around hopeful that she might find the cause of his happiness. Her eyes scanned the fields finding them devoid of anything spectacular or anyone. It looked no different than it had any other day, empty not long before evening as campers hurried back to their cabins to clean up or rest before dinner. Her shoulders sagged, just a fraction, deflated at the thought of his meaning slipping through her fingers. It was only when her attention settled back on Evan that she noticed the way his gaze still remained on her, like an answer she had been too stupid to understand because it couldn’t have been… her? It was never her.

Still… Her cheeks flushed as her entire face warmed like it was kissed by summer, from her wild wind-tousled hair, to her rich freckles and rosy lips, all bright and red in the amber glow of the setting sun. Clover froze for a moment, her hand hovering over a large berry, as she tried to decipher his unspoken meaning. "The fields are quite pretty in the evening," she responded, dazed, stupid, and unbelievably naive. Before anything equally ridiculous could leave her mouth, a large gust of wind swept across the valley, rustling the strawberry bushes, and knocking her straw hat off her head. "Oh no," she gasped, reaching up to try and catch it. Her hands waved frantically, fingers brushed along the brim, but she only fumbled, then tumbled over as the breeze sent the hat bouncing and fluttering away along the dirt.

Evander had to bite back a grin when her answer came, sweetly earnest and so gloriously oblivious that it almost made him laugh outright. Of course Clover would hear what hovered beneath his words and still reach for the safest, most literal interpretation, as if the universe itself had handed her an easy answer and she’d politely chosen the scenic route instead. But he didn’t mind, couldn’t, not today, not when joy sat so full and bright in his chest it made everything feel touched by gold. This was the best day of his life, he was almost sure of it, and the lightness of it made even her adorable misunderstanding feel like something he would tuck away and remember later with embarrassing fondness. So when the wind tore through the field and stole her hat from her head, and she lunged for it only to topple backward into the dirt in a flurry of startled limbs and freckled panic, he moved before he even thought about it.

His arm shot out, longer reach catching the brim just before the hat could tumble any farther down the row, fingers curling around it with a victorious little snap of motion. The momentum pulled him forward with it, and suddenly he was bracing himself over her, one hand planted in the dirt beside where she’d fallen, the other holding her runaway hat aloft like some ridiculous knight returning a stolen treasure. He grinned down at her, unguarded and bright, the last of the evening sun caught in his brown hair until it glimmered almost golden, and for one stupid, inconvenient heartbeat all he could think was that she was unfairly pretty like this too, flushed and rumpled and sprawled in the dirt like the field itself had tried to keep her.

He shoved the thought away as quickly as it came, dusted off the hand he’d braced with, and leaned back enough to offer it to her, her hat still safe in his other grasp. "You okay?" he asked lightly, warmth threaded through the words like it was the easiest thing in the world, like catching her before the wind could steal something from her had somehow become the most natural part of his day.

A small, startled gasp escaped Clover’s parted lips as Evan moved faster than she thought capable, becoming a monolith above her, blocking the setting sun as he snatched her run away hat… or so she assumed. Her eyes, wide and stunned, never once looked behind her to see if he was successful, but were locked on his face. His tousled brunette hair was haloed in golden light, smile never once faltering, as he looked down at her over the top of his glasses that had slid halfway down his nose. Her cheeks burned bright, redder than her hair or the sunburn that teased along her pale skin or the strawberries splayed around them like a clumsy frame of disorder. Time seemed to slow as they were frozen in that startling, compromising predicament, hidden in the rows of bushes.

Clover’s hand lifted on its own, absent thought or reason as the tip of her index finger lightly pressed against the bridge of his glasses, slowly pushing them back up onto his face. She tried, with a severe sort of focus, not to touch him, but as she pulled away there was the faintest brush of her skin along the bridge of his nose. She swallowed and only then did she manage to look away, having no clue what came over her or why she did that. "You have fast reflexes," she commented with a frayed, nervous laugh as she tried to fill the silence and cut through the tension.

Her attention flicked back to him, finding her breaths had steadied at the small bit of space he made between them. She hesitated for a second or two as her green eyes slowly trailed down to his extended hand. It was a simple kind gesture, but something about… well everything felt like it was charged with meanings she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around. But, it’d be rude not to accept his help and—before she could rationalize one way or another, the same hand that adjusted his glasses slipped into Evan’s palm. Her fingers slowly slid across his soft skin until they curved around the back of his hand and tightened their grip for support. With his help and a bashful smile, Clover managed to lift herself back onto her knees.

"Yeah, I’m fine," she reassured him with a gentle squeeze against his hand before letting her fingers slip from his grasp and returned to gathering berries as if the sudden and heart racing detour didn’t just happen. "I’m clumsy," Clover clarified as if that rectified the incident or downplayed each and every time she fell down. "Thank you." Her gratitude came out little more than a whisper, soft as the breeze that stole her hat as she slowly reached out to take it from him. Her smile widened, warm and faintly uncertain as she took the straw hat and placed it securely back on top of her wild ginger hair.

For one impossible, suspended heartbeat, Evander forgot how to breathe.

He had meant only to catch the hat. That was all. A simple reflex, a quick reach, a harmless act of assistance made easier by longer limbs and a good day. But then Clover looked up at him from the dirt with those wide green eyes, sunlit and startled, and the world narrowed in a way that was frankly inconvenient. When her hand lifted, slowly, carefully, like she was handling something fragile, and the tip of her finger pressed to the bridge of his glasses, sliding them back into place with that severe little concentration of hers, heat rose up the back of his neck so abruptly it nearly made him resent his own bloodstream.

The faintest brush of her skin against the bridge of his nose was nothing, less than nothing, barely contact at all, and yet it struck him with the absurd force of something intimate. He became suddenly, acutely aware of everything, the warmth of the evening, the smell of crushed strawberries and green leaves, the way freckles scattered themselves across her face like sun-kissed constellations, and the humiliating fact that she was somehow even prettier flustered.

He swallowed, harder than necessary, and when she took his hand to let him help her up, the soft slide of her fingers into his palm sent another ridiculous flicker of awareness through him. Her hand was warm. Smaller than his. Dirt smudged and sweet in a way that made his brain unhelpfully offer him the image of her barefoot on the beach again, sea glass glittering in her pockets. By the time she was upright and slipping away from his grasp, he had just enough sense left to school his expression into something passably composed—though there was still the faintest flush at the tips of his ears if one knew where to look.

He exhaled softly through his nose as if he could breathe the moment away, then looked at her with a gentleness that surprised even him. "You’re welcome," he said, quieter now, the words settling between them like something warm and sincere.

He dusted a bit more dirt from his hand, though his attention never strayed far from her as she settled her hat back onto her hair and returned to gathering berries with that same earnest little focus. The sight of her trying to downplay the whole thing with I’m clumsy, as if that somehow erased the way his heart had briefly forgotten its rhythm, made the corner of his mouth tilt upward. There was no edge to the smile, no dry wit sharpened into a shield. Just fondness, light and unguarded and still buoyed by the kind of happiness that had made him softer than usual. "It wasn’t a hassle," he reassured her, reaching for another runaway berry and dropping it carefully into the basket beside her knee. "I’m just glad you’re okay."

His gaze flicked to the brim of the hat, now secured once more atop her wild red hair, and his smile widened just a fraction as he tipped his head. "Really, this was the wind’s fault," he added, voice threaded with gentle amusement, like he was willing to blame the entire Atlantic coastline personally if it meant easing the uncertainty in her expression. "Clearly it got ambitious and tried to steal your hat." He glanced up toward the strawberry rows swaying softly in the evening breeze, then back to her, still annoyingly aware of how lovely she looked with pink in her cheeks and dirt on her knees.

Clover’s laugh was warm and unguarded, without a care for being too loud or too effervescent as it carried across the fields by the wind that nearly stole her hat not a moment earlier. Her smile widened, toothy and bright, at his small jest like he had just told the best joke she had heard all day. She continued to grab the last remaining stragglers as a soft chuckle still clung to her words. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I have bad luck," she confessed between weightless giggles. "You know, if it wasn’t for the weird way bad things always work out in my favor." She spared him a quick sidelong glance from beneath her long lashes. "Like dropping all my strawberries or nearly losing my hat," she continued as she slowly dropped the last runaway berries back into the basket. "I’m sure there’s some good that’ll come from it… I just don’t know what yet…"

Her words trailed off as a realization slowly settled in her chest like the tide, warm and steady, but with a current that rose and fell, leaving strange fluttering in its wake. She could see the pieces forming slowly, often too slow and a beat behind everyone else, as she often did. The spilled berries and wind swept hat all came back to Evan, to the dirt that caked his expensive pants and that impossible smile that she never recalled seeing before. Sure, it could have been because of her, but Clover had been around him countless times… and he never smiled at her like that. Was he obvious and she oblivious? Or was she missing something? Perhaps she was in denial or that felt more logical than any other conclusion she could possibly reach.

Clover slowly set her basket aside, but rather than standing up, she shifted off of her knees, sitting on the ground without a care as she crossed her legs beneath her. She wiped the dirt from her palms along the denim of her overalls while she tried to organize her thoughts and words. "Can I ask you something without upsetting you?" she asked quietly, finally forcing her gaze to meet his, even as a blush burned warm across her cheeks. "What’s made you so happy?" Her hands rose quickly, dirt stained fingers splayed innocently in mock surrender. "Don’t get me wrong, I… like this side of you." The admission fell clumsily from her mouth as her hands slowly lowered to rest in her lap. "I’m just… not used to it."

Another gust of wind swept through the valley, rustling the bushes around them and the trees that circled the field. The brim of her hat wavered, but before it could attempt flying away a second time, Clover reached up and pulled it off. Shoulder length crimson hair blew wild and free in the soft breeze as she tucked her straw hat securely beneath the edge of her basket. When she looked back up, her face was no longer hidden beneath a shadow, but illuminated by the golden glow of the setting sun warm against her rosy, speckled skin. Her smile still persisted even beneath her uncertain curiosity. Her fingers slipped back through her hair, attempting to tame it and keep it out of her face as she looked back over at him. "Happiness looks good on you," she added with an honest and sincere warmth behind her eyes.

For once, Evander did not reach for a deflection. The question landed softly, but it struck somewhere far deeper than most things ever did, and for a brief moment he simply looked at her. Really looked. Clover sat there in the dirt as if it were a throne built just for her, legs folded beneath her, hat tucked aside, red hair set loose by the wind until it framed her face in wild copper fire. Without the brim shadowing her, the last light of evening touched every freckle, every rosy inch of her skin, and when she told him happiness looked good on him, something in his chest gave a slow, startled pull that made him forget every practiced, polished answer he might have offered anyone else. His instinct was to be private. To make a joke. To say something clever and safe. But today had already made him softer than he knew how to hide, and Clover, earnest, sun warm Clover, had asked him so gently that it felt almost cruel to deny her the truth.

He hesitated only a second, gaze dropping to the strawberries between them as if the answer might be hidden there among the red and the dirt. His fingers turned the absurdly oversized berry in his hand, now half-eaten and sticky with juice, before he exhaled through his nose and let the weight of it go. "I got a call while I was out walking the beach," he said at last, quieter than before, the teasing warmth gone from his voice and replaced by something steadier. "The scholarship program I’ve been building… it was approved. It went live this morning. Applications are already coming in." Even now, saying it aloud made the words feel unreal, like they belonged to someone else, someone luckier, someone less stubbornly accustomed to fighting for every inch of ground. But the joy was there all the same, bright and impossible to contain, threading through the edges of every syllable despite his attempt at composure.

He shifted then, lowering himself more fully into the dirt across from her rather than hovering half-crouched, as if the confession deserved the dignity of being spoken properly. His trousers were already ruined, after all. The thought almost made him smile again. "Athena’s Scholarship," he continued, the name leaving his mouth with the careful reverence of something he had carved from himself by hand. "I’ve been working on it for years. Planning it, rewriting it, finding donors who wouldn’t pull out the second they realized I wasn’t making them a profit. I poured more of my own money into it than was probably wise." His mouth curved faintly at that, though there was no regret in it, only the weary amusement of someone who had long ago accepted that worthwhile things were rarely cheap. "I built the whole thing to honor my mother."

The admission sat heavier between them than the rest.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the horizon, toward the line where the strawberry rows gave way to the broader valley and all the cabins beyond, where the camp still hummed with the quiet rhythms of evening. For years he had carried that ache like a live coal beneath his ribs, Athena’s son in every way that mattered, and yet unclaimed, sleeping in Hermes with all the others who had nowhere else to go, telling himself it didn’t matter while every part of him knew it did.

"Or… that’s what I told everyone. What I told myself, too." His fingers tightened slightly around the berry, enough that juice threatened at the edges, and he let out a slow breath. "Part of me wanted her to see it and finally think I was worth claiming. Worth acknowledging. Like if I built something impressive enough, useful enough, undeniable enough… she’d have to." There was no bitterness in his tone, not exactly. Just an old exhaustion, long familiar and too deeply rooted to be ashamed of anymore.

But when he looked back at Clover, the harder edge of that confession softened, worn smooth by the simple fact of her listening. He did not often say these things aloud. He certainly did not say them to people who looked at him like he was not ridiculous for feeling them.

"The truth is…" He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed—lower, gentler, more honest than perhaps he had ever intended to be. "It stopped being about that a long time ago." His gaze drifted to the basket, to the strawberries she had so carefully saved, to the dirt beneath their knees, to all the ordinary little things that somehow made the moment feel sacred. "I know what it’s like to be brilliant and still have to fight twice as hard just to be taken seriously. To have doors closed before you even reach them because you don’t have the right connections, or money, or name." His throat tightened slightly, but he pushed through it. "There are kids out there who are smarter than half the people sitting in Ivy League lecture halls, and they’ll never get the chance to prove it unless someone gives them one. I wanted to be that someone."

A small silence followed, filled only by the rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of camp preparing for dinner. The wind caught in Clover’s loose hair again, sending another copper strand dancing across her cheek, and Evander found himself absurdly grateful that she had asked. That she had noticed. That she had cared enough to want to know.

His smile returned then, smaller than before but deeper somehow, no less bright for being gentler.

"So yes," he said, a little self-conscious now that the whole truth had been laid bare between them, "I’m happy. I think… for the first time in a while, I actually feel like I did something right." Then his gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than necessary, taking in the gold of the sunset on her freckles, the softness in her expression, the way she sat in the dirt like she belonged to the earth itself, and the warmth in his chest shifted into something quieter and far more dangerous.

Clover remained silent, her gaze intent on his as he spoke, taking in every word with an attentive patience and understanding. Her expression was radiant and beaming with a smile so wide her face could barely contain it. Accomplishments were always something to celebrate and be proud of. Evan had every right to be ecstatic about what he achieved. She couldn’t even imagine accomplishing something like that in her wildest dreams. He had the right to brag, even just a little… just to her. She wouldn’t dull his shine or tell him to be more humble. She’d let him burn bright and unapologetically because victories deserved to be cherished.

"That’s amazing, Evan! Congratulations!" Clover practically sang as she leaned forward to rest her hand gently on top of his. Her fingers slowly curled around the side of his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She lingered there for a second or two longer than necessary before slowly pulling away and settling back against the dirt across from him.

For some reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on, Clover was a little surprised to hear about the lengths he went through—money, time, and sheer willpower—to create something that… didn’t benefit him at all. She had known he came from money. It was obvious between his clothes and just the way he carried himself. She never thought he was spoiled or selfish per se, but she didn’t realize how much he truly wanted to help other people. It reminded her of her father. While her dad might have lived more modestly than Evan, he put so much of his time and effort into helping those less fortunate than him, because life was a gift and everyone had the right to live it without struggling for shelter or food.

Clover shared the same pull to help others like her father, and seeing a similar drive in Evander made something warm stir to life just beneath her ribs. Her smile softened, head tilting to the side slightly while her fingers toyed with a tear in her denim along the knee. "I didn’t realize you were so… charitable," she commented quietly, her words tinged with a gentle and unfamiliar fondness.

She lingered in that comfortable silence for a long moment until her thoughts slowly wandered their way back to his other admissions about his mom and originally pursuing his scholarship for her. Something about that struck Clover like a cold breeze on a hot day: sharp, startling, and didn’t quite belong. Before she could keep them at bay, her thoughts fell free, words tumbling out one after the other. "I’m glad you stopped doing it for your mom. Because it’s not… Or, at least, it shouldn’t be." She inhaled softly, raising her calloused fingers to sweep wild locks out of her face. "It’s for the people you’re trying to help. It’s for you. Don’t cheapen your success by giving it to her—" She slowly shook her head while holding his gaze. "—It’s yours. You earned it."

While she wasn’t the type of girl who often blasphemed. The Gods deserved respect for no other reason than they were powerful and could destroy them without lifting a finger. But she had also spent countless years at camp watching bright, starry eyed faces wander through the border with hopes of finding themselves and a parent they never knew, only for the Gods to show their children little more attention than they did before coming here. Some waited years before they were claimed. And some, like Evander, waited longer and still heard nothing. Clover was lucky. She knew who her mother was before setting foot in camp and was claimed the second she did. But she couldn’t ignore the plights of her fellow demigods just because the struggles didn’t apply to her.

"It’s not easy being a demigod," Clover commented with a soft understanding of someone who shouldered countless burdens and watched countless others struggle beneath the weight of their own struggles. "So many people here are desperate to be noticed by their parents. It isn’t fair. We’ve been raised to believe that love is conditional. We didn’t choose to be born, especially not to a God. We shouldn’t have to prove ourselves worthy of our parents’ love… It should be freely given." Her words, while tender and offered like the comforting warmth of the setting sun, hit with a powerful conviction that couldn’t be ignored. Her thoughts weren’t clumsy or tripping over one another, but clear and concise as if they had festered in her mind for far longer than she let on.

Clover looked across the space between them, holding his gaze unwaveringly, earnest and unyielding as her next words carried a heaviness that contrasted the weightless lilt of her airy voice. "If your mother needs some grand accomplishment to notice you or deem that you are worthy of her attention…" She leaned forward, closing some of the distance between them as her voice dropped to little more than a whisper like she was sharing a secret only for his ears. "Then she isn’t worth your time. That is her loss… Not yours." Her shoulders rose and fell in a gentle shrug, openly unapologetic in the way she so casually talked down upon the Gods. Clover might have lacked courage in many aspects, but she never once stood down from her convictions or what she thought was right, regardless of whomever it upset in the process.

"The people who matter are the ones who were there for you before you made a name for yourself. Your friends and your family… They’ll be so proud of you when they hear about what you’ve done," she added, the warmth seeping into her words as her smile slowly returned, bright and honest like it had never left. "And…" she went to continue, but her voice trailed off before she finished, brows creasing in thought. Clover didn’t know if she was someone Evander would consider a friend. To the best of her knowledge this might have been the longest conversation they had ever had outside of training or whatever other camp functions put them in close proximity to each other. But still, she felt the need to say it, not for her… but for him. "Well, I mean… I’m proud of you, for what that’s worth." It might have been weird coming from her, but someone needed to tell him, someone who wouldn’t dim his light.

Evander listened like a man caught in the pull of a tide he had not realized he’d stepped too far into until it was already around his knees.

Every word Clover spoke landed with a quiet, devastating precision, not because she sharpened them into something cruel, but because she offered them with such unguarded sincerity that there was nowhere for him to hide from them. He had expected congratulations, perhaps a little teasing, perhaps that warm, sunny sort of encouragement that seemed to spill from her as naturally as breath. He had not expected her hand settling over his—light, gentle, and lingering just long enough to make his pulse jump so hard it startled him. The squeeze of her fingers sent a ridiculous rush through his body, warm and bright and deeply inconvenient, his stomach tightening with a swarm of nervous butterflies so boyish it nearly offended him. By the time she finished, with her voice soft but unwavering as she told him his success was his, that it belonged to him and not some absent goddess who had not yet bothered to claim him, Evander found himself sitting there in the dirt feeling a little breathless, like she had somehow reached into his chest and loosened a knot he had forgotten how to untangle.

He stared at her for a second too long.

Clover sat there in the strawberry field like she belonged to the earth itself, red hair wild from the wind, cheeks warm and freckled and lit gold by the sinking sun, and she looked at him as though none of what she had said was particularly extraordinary. As if it were simply the truth, and the truth should be spoken plainly. Something in him gave way all at once, a sudden yielding so instinctive and so utterly free of calculation that it happened before his sharper mind could intervene.

One moment he was looking at her, heart hammering hard enough to make him feel off balance in his own skin, and the next he was moving. His arms curled around her shoulders and drew her in, one hand settling at her waist as if his body had made the choice on its own, as if it had known before he did that he needed closer. The hug was warm and immediate and wholly unlike him, and for one suspended heartbeat all he could register was the soft give of her against him, the clean sweetness of strawberries clinging to her skin and clothes, the sun baked scent of summer and dirt and clover green things, and the humiliating fact that holding her felt so startlingly right it nearly stole the rest of his breath.

Then, just as quickly, awareness crashed back into him. Evander pulled away as though he’d remembered gravity all at once, every inch of him going hot with embarrassment so abrupt it left his face burning. Heat climbed from the collar of his shirt all the way to the tips of his ears, and his hands, gods, his hands, were suddenly very aware of where they had just been. He blinked at her, looking for all the world like someone who had just watched himself make a catastrophic social decision from outside his own body and could do nothing to stop it.

His mouth opened, shut, then opened again, words catching awkwardly in his throat in a way that would have been funny if he weren’t currently dying inside. "I—sorry. Gods, I’m sorry, I just…" He dragged a hand through his hair, glasses slipping slightly down his nose again as his composure disintegrated in real time. "That was probably—too much. I didn’t mean to—well, I did, obviously, but—"

He stopped, visibly horrified by himself, and then let out a quiet breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and surrender. For all his polish, for all his intelligence, for all the carefully curated edges he usually wore like armor, Clover had somehow reduced him to a flustered idiot in a strawberry field. And maybe that should have annoyed him more than it did. But beneath the embarrassment, beneath the stammering and the flush and the desperate attempt to recover his dignity, there was still that same warmth blooming low in his chest, deeper now, steadier, frighteningly real.

Clover’s eyes widened as he drew closer, unsure of what exactly it was that he was doing, but not moving either. Then his arms curled around her, pulling a quiet, stunned gasp from her parted lips. She could have gone rigid or pulled away, but her body reacted on instinct like a young woman who used hugs, comfort, and closeness as currency freely given, not earned. Her arms slipped around his torso, rough hands running along the fabric of his shirt that was far softer than her skin before settling against the plane of his back. Evan had always carried himself so poised and chiseled like cold marble, that feeling his warmth beneath her fingers was… unexpected, like finding out that beneath his projected perfection he was human, just like her.

There was a second, maybe two where she was able to sink into the embrace. Her head slowly dipped and her chin lowered dangerously close to resting on his shoulder, and then it was all torn away like a breeze whipping in through an open door in the middle of winter, cold and startling where warmth had settled. Clover’s hands sort of just… hovered in the air as he withdrew, fingers curling slowly into her palms as if she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them. She swallowed and blinked, watching the color flood his face and tinge his pale skin pink as she felt a similar tingling rush pour over her, blooming just as bright and unavoidable along her own cheeks.

"It’s ok," she finally responded, quieter and a bit more apprehensive than she had before, like she was talking to a frightened rabbit and trying desperately not to scare it away. Clover’s bottom lip curled between her teeth as her hands slowly lowered until they rested in her lap, a little awkward, and still a bit unsure what to exactly do with them. "You don’t have to apologize… or ask," she gently reassured him, dipping her head slightly so that she could meet his gaze while her smile slowly returned, faintly tight-lipped, and curling more on one side, but still her. "I like hugs," she confessed with a tiny, innocent shrug.

He looked at her again, softer this time, eyes bright behind the lenses she had pushed back into place for him earlier, and whatever else he might have said dissolved into something simpler. "Thank you," he said at last, the words low and earnest and stripped of all performance. "For what you said. No one’s ever… no one’s ever said it like that before."

He swallowed, then gave a small, helpless sort of smile, uneven and a little shy in a way that felt entirely foreign on his face.

"And for what it’s worth," he added, quieter still, gaze dipping briefly before returning to hers, "I think hearing you say you’re proud of me might be the best part of today."

Clover’s lips parted, preparing to respond to his first comment with something gentle and playful in a way that could have maybe eased some of the anxiety she could see creeping along his shoulders, or how he stumbled for words when he was normally well spoken and intentional. But he filled the silence before she could, and his confession stole whatever words were sitting on the tip of her tongue. Her mouth slowly snapped shut, green eyes widening with slow recognition before quickly falling to the dirt that stretched between them. The flush that dusted her cheeks deepened violently to a red that was so warm it was impossible to miss. The tips of her thumbs lightly tapped together before her hands raised to brush wild hair back behind her ears, only for the wind to decide they belonged in front of her face instead.

She drew in a soft breath that was a little unsteady, mirroring the erratic flutter of her heart as if she had just ran or laughed a little too hard. Her hands ran along the dirt-stained denim of her overalls, unable to sit still like she had a moment earlier. Clover didn’t know what to say. There were multiple times her lips parted as a thought bloomed, then her jaw snapped shut, and words vanished just a quickly. "I…" she started, voice croaking slightly before pushing past it. "I’m sure you’ll forget all about it once your friends and family start showering you with praise." The words, for something so soft, landed a little heavier than her normal brightness, like she wasn’t able to let herself be the best part of someone’s day… Or perhaps, never had been before and struggled to accept it. But even in her uncertainty, there was a faint phantom of a smile that lingered persistently in the gentle arc that curved at the corner of her mouth.

Evander looked, for perhaps the first time in his life, almost boyishly bashful. The heat still lingered high in his cheeks, softened now into something quieter as he watched her fidget with the edge of herself, watching the way she tried to tuck her own worth somewhere smaller and easier to overlook. It did something inconvenient to his chest, made that strange warmth there deepen into something more tender than he was used to carrying. He let a beat pass before answering, fingers absently brushing dirt from his palms as his gaze dropped briefly to the strawberries between them, then returned to her face with a softness he didn’t bother to hide. "I didn’t really tell anyone I was working on it," he admitted at last, one shoulder lifting in a small, almost sheepish shrug. "There’s some things that are fun to brag about, I suppose, but this was… personal." The word sat heavier than the rest, honest in a way that made him feel oddly exposed, but not enough to regret it.

He shook his head once, like he could dismiss the whole notion of forgetting her as impossible on principle, then pushed himself to his feet in one smooth motion despite the dirt clinging stubbornly to his expensive clothes. The sun caught in his hair again, turning the brown faintly golden, and when he looked down at her there was that same unguarded brightness in his expression, gentle, and so wholly sincere it almost made the moment ache. He extended his hand toward her, palm open, invitation simple and steady. "Besides," he said, his smile curving softer, deeper, "How could anyone forget you?" And the way he said it made it clear he did not mean it lightly, nor as flirtation alone, but as if the very idea of Clover being forgettable was so absurd it barely deserved consideration at all.

The fact that Clover had been the only person he told rested somewhere deep inside her, like an anchor that had sunk into her soul and hooked beneath something unmoveable. She was rarely the type of person left speechless. Actually, she was quite the opposite, often told she talked too much or didn’t know how to enjoy the peace of silence… But that small truth that Evan shared stole her words before they ever formed. She simply sat there, brows creased and raised as her wide green eyes looked across the small expanse of dirt, studying him with a curious sort of bewilderment. A part of her wanted to ask why, but he had already answered that. It was personal. But more importantly, she wanted to ask why her? Why share something that was too personal to share with his friends and family with her of all people? Her curiosity often won out, but in this singular moment she didn’t ask… Like something deep inside of her knew the answer, even if her mind struggled to catch up.

She watched him stand, half expecting him to continue about whatever it was he was doing before her clumsiness became his problem. But then Evan’s hand lowered toward her in a quiet offering, punctuated with a question that fluttered around her chest with all the other words he set free and gave flight within her ribcage. His question was rhetorical… she thought. If it wasn’t, she didn’t have the faintest idea how to respond. But that still left his hand… outstretched, unguarded, and dusted with earth like the chaos of her didn’t know how to let go, clinging to his skin and clothes like dirt. Clover cleared her throat, gaze falling to the basket of strawberries on the ground between them. She gently tugged her straw hat from where it was pinned beneath the knotted wicker and placed it securely back on top of her head, taming her wild crimson hair while shielding her for a moment as she tried to temper the wave of emotions that were often displayed plainly across face.

After drawing in a small breath that wavered around the edges, her left hand curled around the handle of the basket. Then slowly, with a rising cadence in her chest that she couldn’t calm, Clover lifted her head, the brim of her hat rising until her gaze met his. Intentional or not, she smiled, uncertain and anxiously hesitant, but still bright and warm. Her right arm rose until the tips of her fingers found the edge of Evan’s palm. They lingered there for a second trying to come to terms with this new and uncertain existence between them where they hugged and shared secrets and… touched hands. It was like trying to find solid footing in sand. There was enough stability to trust herself and take a step forward, but it was still uneven and shifted beneath too much pressure. She blinked, then slowly curled her fingers around his hand. His skin was surprisingly soft beneath her callouses as if the world needed to remind them of another difference that could be added to the pile of stark contrasts.

The moment her fingers finally closed around his hand, something in Evander steadied. He tightened his grip just enough to be useful, grounding his weight as he drew her carefully up from the dirt, slow and deliberate like the moment deserved gentleness instead of haste. Her hand was warm in his, rougher than his own from real work and sun, and the feel of it sent a quiet, disorienting pulse through him that settled low in his chest. Once she was standing, close enough now that he could catch the faint sweetness of crushed strawberries and wind damp earth clinging to her, he gave her hand a small squeeze. He could not have said if it was meant to reassure her or himself, only that he needed the brief pressure of it, needed one more second before he let his fingers loosen and slip carefully from hers.

The space between them shifted after that, no longer accidental, no longer easy to dismiss, and Evander felt it like warmth under his skin. He brushed the last of the dirt from his palm against his trousers, though there was no real point to it, then looked at her beneath the brim of her hat with that same softened brightness that had not left him all afternoon. "Do you need to do anything before dinner?" he asked, voice polite in theory and far too gentle in practice, already knowing he had no intention of leaving her to do it alone. His gaze dipped briefly to the basket in her hand, then returned to her face, patient and open, as though whatever answer she gave would simply become the next place he followed.

Clover was surprised at how easily he helped pull her up off of the dirt. Then, because the world was never one to be kind to her for too long, the earth felt like it shifted under foot, or perhaps it was simply the pins and needles that pricked along her legs from kneeling for too long. But her clumsiness found its way back, like it always did, like a curse she was never quite rid of, just happened to avoid from time to time. She wobbled, only for a second or two, as if the wind was a little too strong and caught her off guard, or her knees had forgotten how to work. There was a fraction of a second where her chest brushed against Evan’s, their hands pinned gently between them before her heels found solid ground and her body remembered how to exist upright.

"Sorry," she muttered so quietly that the breeze that swept between them stole it. Clover’s gaze fell to their hands, to where his fingers curled a little tighter around hers before he let her go. Her hand hovered frozen in the space between them, the tips of her fingers rubbing together absentmindedly at the absence of his warmth against her skin… like she had forgotten what to do with her hand now that it was empty.

His question, a gentle godsend, snapped her from her daze. Clover’s hand fell listlessly to her side as her gaze lifted to meet his, finding the warmth and openness that still lingered there like a door that had been left open that he refused to close. The knotted wicker of the basket creaked as her grip tightened around the handle. For someone who talked as much as she did, words were becoming incredibly more difficult to find, let alone form sentences. Her thoughts were flooded with small, stupid, little things like… how she could feel the ghost of Evan’s hand still lingering in her palm, the way he looked bathed in sunlight over her after saving her runaway hat, or how he still hadn’t left, still stood so close that she could feel his warmth like sunlight along her skin on a cloudless day. It was all terribly confusing and made her stomach knot in ways she wasn’t used to.

It took more willpower than she’d ever admit to focus. Clover blinked slowly, pushing past the haze to try and catch words like fluttering butterflies. She cleared her throat and pried her gaze away for a second to finally speak. "Oh um… Just drop these off with the Demeter kids." She lifted the basket slightly as she spoke while her persistent smile never once faded, despite it all. "And probably wash my hands," she added more like a guilty confession, her words laced with a quiet chuckle as she rubbed the tips of her fingers together, feeling the dirt that still clung to her skin.

Evander caught the wobble before he quite realized he was doing it. His hand tightened instinctively around hers for that brief, breath-held second, steadying her without thought, his body leaning forward just enough that he could feel the soft press of her against him before she righted herself again. It was over almost as quickly as it happened, but the warmth of it lingered, her closeness, the way their hands had been briefly pinned between them, the quiet, startled rhythm of her breath. He didn’t comment on it, only let his grip ease when she found her footing, though the absence of her hand a moment later felt more noticeable than it should have. His gaze dipped, just for a second, to where her fingers hovered in that uncertain space before he looked back up, something softer settling behind his expression.

When she finally answered, words a little tangled but still bright, still unmistakably her, it drew an easy grin from him, one that felt unforced, light in a way that had come to him far more naturally today than it ever had before. The basket, the mention of dirt-streaked hands, the small, almost bashful honesty of it; it grounded the moment back into something simple and real. He brushed his palms together again out of habit, though there was no real urgency to clean them, and took a half step to fall into place beside her rather than across from her. "Then I’ll walk with you," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, voice warm and easy, touched with that same buoyant joy that hadn’t left him since he’d stepped back into camp. There was no hesitation in it, no second thought, just a quiet certainty that wherever she needed to go next, he’d be there beside her.

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Beneath a Black Sun

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

K I N G . V O R N King Vorn is a ruler forged by survival rather than inheritance, a man whose reign has outlasted those before him in a world that devours the unprepared. To his people, he is a savior king, practical, unwavering, and just enough to be believed in. But there is something else beneath the surface. Vorn sees further than most, weighs more than survival, and asks for obedience in matters he does not explain. His summons is not a plea, but a design already in motion, and those who answer it step into a path he has carefully prepared. .................................................................	.	L E I F . S A L A Leif is a young drow whose confidence arrives before he does, sharp-tongued and quick-eyed, carrying himself with the certainty of someone who has yet to be proven wrong. Apprenticed to the King’s court medic, he possesses a keen mind for anatomy, alchemy, and the subtler mechanics of survival, though he treats most lessons as confirmations of his own brilliance rather than instruction. He will experiment when others hesitate, speak when silence would serve him better, and pry into matters well beyond his station. .................................................................
N O Z U . T O R R Nozu is an aging dwarf carved from stone and stubborn fury, broad as a gate and twice as unyielding. Years in the deep roads have left him scarred, loud, and unrefined, a man who solves most problems with steel, drink, or both. His hatred of the Afflicted burns hottest, though his distrust of the rest of the world follows close behind. Yet for all his bluster, Nozu fights with purpose. Beneath it all is a father desperate to save his daughter, whose illness medic in the deep could mend. The King’s promise of medicine was enough. .................................................................	.	K R U M . P H Y U Krum is a high elf bard whose dreams are far larger than his experience, carrying himself with bright confidence and carefully practiced charm. Raised among fading traditions of song and story, he believes music still holds power, even in a world that has long since turned to steel and moonlite. He has answered the King’s call not for glory in battle, but for a place in Moonreach’s court, convinced that one great deed will earn him the recognition he seeks. Though earnest and well-meaning, Krum is undeniably out of his depth. .................................................................

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Sleepy's Dream Vault

^{#b02545 .....|..... ranger .....|..... outfit ............... #be9650 .....|..... monk .....|..... outfit ............... #cf8057 .....|..... knight .....|..... outfit ............... throne room}

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

Beneath a Black Sun

[Thank you Mjolnir for letting me use your coding, as always you are an angel. 🤍]

Greetings!

Hii! So excited to write with you!