The Muse

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Collab between @The Muse and @c3p-0h
_{Location: The Jail}

Part X

---

Flynn’s jaw was tight, his green eyes darkened, locked onto the man behind bars. He didn’t blink as Halcyon spoke, not even as the man drifted from one subject to the next with maddening ease. Each word laced with the same smug undertone Flynn had come to loathe.

Despite it, he’d been relatively steady. Until he felt Amaya’s fingers stiffen in his. Her body went utterly still beside him, rigid at the mention of the attack. Of her mother and her grandmother. Flynn didn’t need to look to know. He felt the shift in her from his fingertips down to his core.

Part of him, the impulsive part, thought of leaving Halcyon to rot in this cell for the rest of eternity.

Instead, Flynn breathed slowly through his nose, grasping for whatever restraint he still had left. Reining the impulse back.

Halcyon reminded him too much of the men who sometimes slithered around his father’s court—clever-tongued, always smiling, talking people in circles. Their words honeyed but laced with venom. Whispering advice that sounded like wisdom, until you realized too late it only served their own serpentine ambitions. Halcyon had that same way about him, veiled beneath layers of riddles and smirking provocations.

And when the man gave that final smirk—when he turned to Amaya and dropped that last so-called truth—Flynn felt something snap.

A gentle voice drifted through the jail, heedless of the growing ozone in the air.

Amaya’s eyes flicked away from Halcyon for the first time as the guard shifted in her periphery.

The Lunarian sigil over her armor, the sheathed sword at her hip, seemed to grow larger the longer Amaya stared at them. She fought the urge to shift closer to Flynn as she looked the guard over – tall, unsure, deferential but unpolished. There was none of the hostility in her eyes that the other Lunarians had shown when they addressed Flynn – none of the dismissal that they’d shown when they addressed her.

Flynn barely heard the Lunarian guard’s voice as she tentatively asked for direction. Reluctantly, he pulled his gaze from Halcyon. “Nothing. For now,” he said, holding onto the edges of restraint. “Until we weigh the measure of his life.”

The words sank into Amaya like a stone, pulling her down. Flynn’s eyes found Halcyon again, narrowing.

“You are no brother of mine,” Flynn said, his voice cold as steel. “And do not speak of Amaya or her family again. You're here to speak to me.”

Restrained fury slipped through his words as he recalled the way Amaya had frozen solid in his hand, despite her lack of magic. How, even now, she still hadn’t moved.

Motionless beside him, expression blank, Amaya watched Halcyon with quick, sharp eyes as she held back every flinch and reaction. She fought against the urge to slip behind Flynn and shrink into his shadow, where this smiling man could no longer see her. The world was a dizzying, distracting mess – the torrent of Halcyon’s words and the confusion and fear and rage they elicited, the hollow emptiness where her magic should’ve been that she couldn’t help but reach for, Flynn... Amaya felt his anger, his coiled intensity slipping through their clasped hands like ice as it chilled her.

“The only thing I wonder about,” Flynn continued, “is if you knew about the attack, then why did you say nothing to the guards? Why, instead, did I find you loitering at the temple—only offering me a cryptic warning?”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze sharp and unwavering.

“Had I not gone to the temple—had you not seen me—would you have alerted anyone at all?”

His voice remained even, but there was no mistaking the anger burning beneath it. Amaya’s fingers tightened around his in warning, her eyes still focused on Halcyon – a provocateur trying to overwhelm and disorient. He was looking for a reaction she realized, throwing out as much as he could to see what would catch their attention first. Something coiled tightly around Amaya’s heart, the empty space in her core filling with a tingling, anxious warmth. Halcyon had found a wound to pick at: her.

“I asked for none of your advice, nor your opinions. This is not a council meeting. You’re under arrest for suspected treason.” Despite feeling Amaya’s warning, Flynn’s voice grew colder, his protective instincts for his family overpowering her reasoning. “What makes you think you’ve earned the right to offer counsel? What makes you think you're qualified to decide anything for this city?”

Flynn's eyes searched the Halcyon’s, utter distrust etched into his expression.

“You sit behind bars for threats against my father’s life, and still, you speak as though you’re owed trust.”

He drew in a breath and let it out slowly.

“Please enlighten me on why I should trust a single word from your mouth.”

---

_{Interactions: Gadez @Dezuel, Daphne @PrinceAlexus}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Collab between @The Muse and @c3p-0h
_{Location: The Royal Residence}

Part VIII

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Upstairs, in the cold hush of his darkened room, Flynn crossed to where his sword leaned against a wall—the dark scabbard worn from years of use. With practiced movements, he fastened the belt around his waist. It was another ritual now, muscle memory.

The Lunarians might have claimed peace, but their actions betrayed them, and did little to make him feel safe in their presence. But beyond that—he hadn’t conducted a blight-born interview unarmed since the day he’d started harboring them. Most of the time, Orion had been there too—made into a weapon himself. But if Orion wasn’t there… Well, the blade at least gave him a tangible sense of defense.

Belt secured, sword in place, he made his way back downstairs. He slowed as he reached the bottom, careful to keep his steps light.

At the threshold again, he stopped for a second time.

Amaya hadn’t moved.

He leaned into the frame, one shoulder braced against the wood, arms crossed. And for a while, he just stood there—watching her, letting the fire fill the silence.

There was no need to wake her. The guards would need time to deliver the summons to every new blight-born they could find and ready their horses. She could sleep. They had time.

Flynn’s eyes lingered on her face, tracing the soft curve of her lips.

That quiet, stubborn ache in his chest burrowed deeper the longer he looked. Louder. Wilder. Pulling at him like a restless tide, begging him to go to her.

He wanted to. He wanted to slip off her shoes, shed his own. Slide behind her and wrap an arm around her waist. Let her lean into him. Let sleep take them both.

But the thought stopped him cold.

That was what he wanted.
And he’d wanted—and received—enough for a lifetime, hadn’t he?

So instead, Flynn let his head fall gently against the frame. His eyes slid shut as he drew in a slow breath, steadying himself against the ache twisting jaggedly around his heart.

He’d wait like this, quiet and still, and let her rest.

He could give her that. She deserved that much, at least.

It was several minutes that – of soft breathing, and only the crackle of fire crossing the distance between them. Of Amaya, peaceful but alone. Of Flynn, standing quiet sentinel in the doorway.

The fire snapped loudly, a crack of sound that commanded the room.

Amaya’s eyes shot open, muscles tensing as adrenaline shot through her veins like foreign blood. Her gaze darted around the room as she searched for a threat and fought through the fog to reorient herself. Home. The couch. The fire.

Flynn.

His eyes were open too. He’d straightened where he’d slouched against the doorframe, watching quietly as she gathered herself.

Amaya closed her eyes again, trying to steady herself as fear slowly ebbed away and embarrassment took its place. Her heart still pounded in her chest, and her breath was still too quick, but she could slow them. She just… she needed time.

When her eyes opened again, they found him first – too far away. Too close to hide from.

Her fingers curled, testing the stiffness of her muscles. She pulled her gaze away from him to take in the ceiling and walls, as had become routine whenever she woke up now.

“How long was I asleep for?” she finally asked when she looked to him again. She glanced over him – at the sword on his hip. He hadn’t worn it this morning. Something new and unpleasant swirled in her mind – the thought that perhaps he’d gone without her, after all.

“Not long. Maybe…” Flynn glanced toward the window, trying to count the minutes he’d also lost in the depths of his own mind. “Fifteen minutes, or so.”

She let out a small breath, some of the tension leaving her. Looking back at the fire and its lively embers, Amaya spent another moment trying to calm her body – to remind herself that danger lurked, yes, but not here.

Not right now.

She glanced back at Flynn, tall, and commanding, and distant. The silence stretched to fill the space between them. Amaya was still curled on the couch like a child.

It took another moment to convince herself to move. Looking down, Amaya slowly righted herself on the couch, slipping the blanket off of her shoulders and beginning to fold it, if only for something to do – some tangible way to put herself together. The loss of the blanket meant the warmth left her body a little quicker, but Amaya wasn’t frozen anymore, at least. The fire and fabric had done their job and returned her to a more tolerable, familiar cold.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she worked, eyes trained on the fabric – how ridiculous that now was when those words finally managed to dislodge from her throat. “If you were waiting for me.” Far away. Across the room. Out of reach.

Flynn’s brows pulled together, a flicker of confusion in his expression. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said, eyes settling on her again. “We have some time. I thought I’d let you rest while you could, is all.”

After a brief pause, he finally willed his feet to move and pushed off the doorway to cross the distance between them. “Besides, you looked beautifully peaceful there—again.” The faintest smile touched his lips, recalling the way she’d looked tucked against his chest. Her hands stilled for just a moment, the corner of the blanket slipping out of her fingers as she tried to align it with its partner. Her cheeks darkened the slightest bit as she kept her eyes focused on the blanket and continued folding. All the while, he commanded her attention as he grew ever closer. “Far be it from me to take that from you.”

As he reached her side, Flynn extended a hand to help her up. "The guards should have the horses out front any minute. Figured we’ve walked across town enough for one day."

Amaya finally looked up at him, and the gentle expression on his face. He’d done most of the work – moved to her, reached for her. All she had to do was cross the little distance that was left. Hardly anything, really. The fire cast half his face in a warm glow, turned towards her as he was. Amaya glanced at the fireplace, the embers still dancing merrily as they bathed her in their light.

Blanket folded, Amaya draped it back over the edge of the couch – like she’d never disturbed it at all. Her fingers drifted over the fabric, hesitating a moment. Then she slipped her hand in Flynn’s and felt the warmth of him, his calluses, the familiar grip, as he helped her to her feet.

Standing together, the space between their bodies suddenly felt too narrow. His scent and warmth washed over her as she tilted her head to look up at him. He was close in a way that brought heat to the surface of her skin instead of ice, her pulse quickening with something that wasn’t quite fear. They’d been touching in some form or another for most of the morning, but somehow, standing together alone in this room, his hand curled around hers, patient and careful as he waited for her…

She was learning to recognize this feeling, she realized. She’d felt it this morning, when she’d woken to find him sitting over her. Last night, as he’d offered her more than she’d ever dreamed and she’d pushed herself towards him like the tide. Yesterday, when he’d called her his, just before he’d kissed her for the first time. She knew how to put a stop to the feeling that danced through her – how to create the safety of distance again.

Amaya didn’t pull her hand away.

“Perhaps the next town you build could be smaller,” she said, trying to distract herself – distract him, before he could look too closely at her and measure the effect he had. Amaya was quite pleased that her voice was steady, even if it was soft as the crackling fire.

Part of her, the part that wasn’t focused on the feel of his hand or the green of his eyes, tried to think when the last time she’d ridden a horse was. Hopefully muscle memory would kick in.

“Or have smoother roads.”

Flynn’s smile grew at her suggestions, a quiet breath of laughter escaping as he held her hand. The small space between them felt too charged. That familiar ache stirred again, taut inside his chest. The urge to pull her into him, to silence her with his mouth on hers, burned hot beneath his skin.

“Oh? Not to your liking, Princess?” he asked instead, lifting a brow as he looked down at her, eyes gleaming. His full attention had narrowed to her—the rest of the world falling away. Her chin raised slightly, proud and proper as she held his gaze. All the while she felt the weight of his keen focus, holding her in place and singing through her nerves.

“My deepest apologies.” He stepped back just enough to give her space, though he didn’t let go of her hand. With theatrical flair, he dipped into a low, overly formal and exaggerated bow. There was a soft, startled huff, almost a laugh, as she raised her free hand to hide her smile with her knuckles. But there was an amused glint in her eye, her eyebrow lifting – a dark tinge to her cheeks.

“Perhaps next time I’ll carry you.” He teased as he rose to his full height again. “Spare you the rough roads I’ve so carelessly built.” He stayed close enough to feel her warmth, but didn’t quite close the distance. “Just say the word.”

Something sparked in her at his words – another offer, as he watched and waited for her. The distance between them was a tangible thing, more intolerable with each passing breath.

“A horse will do for now, thank you,” she said primly as her hand lowered. She’d schooled her expression quickly, though that look in her eye remained. “Clearly we cause enough of a scene as it is.” But her voice was soft and light, despite the memory of the Moon Temple it conjured. It would’ve surprised Amaya, if she weren’t so distracted by that word – we.

Her heart fluttered in her chest as she felt that pull, that tension, the flurry of nerves under her skin that demanded action, a storm waiting to be unleashed. Looking up at Flynn, his eyes dark and deep as he looked back, she thought that perhaps this storm… it wouldn’t be awful to let this one swallow her whole.

Her lips parted slightly but she didn’t have anything to say. All the words had been chased from her mind. He was so close – she’d barely have to move at all. And he was warm. Warmer than any blanket. Even without him wrapped around her, Amaya could feel it, pulling her in.

Distance was an illusion. He already had her.

“You’re far too tall.” It was a thoughtless, whispered observation as she looked up at him, gaze flickering over his face – his eyes – his lips. Her hand slid more securely around his, tying her to him, as she found herself pulled by his gravity.

Flynn huffed a soft laugh, his eyes drifting inevitably to her lips.

He was too tall. And she was too short for him to move without thought. Reaching her would take deliberate intention, and he’d have to push past the hesitation he was barely holding at bay.

Bit by bit, the desperate grip he’d held on restraint slipped as she remained in place. He’d expected her to retreat by now. To meet him with cold dismissal and place distance between them. Not this… playful banter. Soft and close, light and warm.

She was far too near. And still too far away.

Despite everything he’d told himself, his own selfish, traitorous heart only wanted.
And wanted.
And wanted.

“I could kneel, if it’d help.” he smirked, his voice low, the look in his eyes anything but casual. Amaya’s gaze sharpened as he teased her, something bright and challenging rising to meet him. He didn’t move, but the urge to close the final inches between them clawed just beneath the surface.

He kept his hand in hers like a tether, an anchor to stop himself from reaching. Lest his hands go searching in all the places he wanted. Lest they find the curve of her waist, lift her against him, feel her legs wrap around his hips and bring her mouth to his instead.

“You could —”

A loud knock at the door cut her off.

Amaya startled, the world snapping back into place as she stepped back with wide eyes, her cheeks warm and her breath quick. Flynn’s eyes closed for a brief second, a flicker of frustration tightening his features, as if the world had just torn something precious from his hands. His jaw flexed with the effort not to curse.

“Your Highness,” called a guard, muffled from behind their front door, “the horses are ready.”

When Flynn opened his eyes again, they found hers immediately. He didn’t glance toward the door. The rest of the world could wait. His attention was wholly hers—not quite willing to let the moment die just yet.

She’d stepped back, but it didn’t matter. Her hand was still in his, and the heated tension of the thread that bound him to her hadn't gone anywhere.

Before she could find the clarity to create more distance, he drew her back to him. His free hand slid around her waist, guiding her in until her body rested lightly against his. She was quiet, but for the soft gasp that escaped her – still, except how he moved her. He leaned in until his lips hovered just above hers—close enough to kiss her. But he stopped short. Didn’t move. Holding fast to the last shred of restraint he had left. Her breath drifted over his skin, faint and warm.

“I could do a lot of things,” he said, voice low and rough, like they still had all the time in the world. Her eyes fluttered closed, the shallow rise and fall of her chest stuttering out of tempo. He let the words hang between them for a beat, his mouth hovered above hers as he weighed whether or not he should close the distance. It felt almost painful not to.

But somewhere in the haze of his mind, he reminded himself of all his endless wants.

He could feel something between them, could see it in the way she’d looked at him. But how much of it was his own delusion, built solely from his own desires. And were they too loud to truly feel hers?

A faint, rueful smile pulled at his lips as he murmured, “But hold that thought. I want to hear your ideas, too.”

Slowly, he eased back just enough to meet her gaze more clearly. “We should probably go.”

It was like he’d taken all the air in her lungs with him. Blinking rapidly, Amaya tried to reorient herself in the world – the one not made up entirely of Flynn, his voice threading through her, his touch and scent surrounding her, his lips close enough that Amaya could feel the memory of them against her own, her hands, her neck –

And in memories not yet made, Amaya could feel those lips on all the places they hadn’t been.

The air was cold around her. She was too warm.

Wide eyed and breathless (despite the fact that, frustratingly – thankfully? – nothing had happened) Amaya refocused on Flynn. Her hand, the one not wrapped up in his, had found the side of his shoulder at some point to keep herself steady. His arm looped around her waist to keep her close – but he held her so lightly. He was solid against her back, encircling her, but his grip was gentle and undemanding. Amaya could’ve stepped away from him.

Except she couldn’t.

His eyes were dark and fathomless as they looked down at her, keeping her in place more surely than any touch. There was hunger there as he took in the sight of her, too unguarded – and smugness. Amaya tried to remember why that mattered. She tried to grasp at anything at all, to anchor her scattered, frantic, dizzy mind. But there was only Flynn.

“When we return,” she breathed out, almost to herself. She tried to swallow before continuing, soft and unsteady, “Perhaps I’ll have better ideas.”

Because it seemed like right now, wrapped up in him, she only had bad ones.

Flynn smirked, his gaze still locked on hers. “One can only hope,” he murmured, voice dipped low, purring with quiet confidence.

For a moment, he entertained the thought of not leaving. His fingers shifted along her waist, slipping lower, a promise forming in his posture as he—

Another knock.
A muffled, hesitant voice through the door. “Sire?”

Flynn’s hand stilled as he finally peeled his gaze away from her, up toward the ceiling. The world came back too fast. His endless, relentless list of obligations. Duty snapped back into focus.

Reluctantly, he stepped back, the hand at her waist falling away. But the one laced in hers remained. He didn’t speak. Just gave her one last look—a glance that held everything he was choosing not to act on. Her eyes were wide and bright, and just as charged.

The chill in the air met him like a wall, biting against the place she’d been pressed to him. An empty space now, already missed, but he quietly guided them toward the front door regardless.

As they neared, it opened before they could reach it. The guard froze in the doorframe, blinking in surprise. “Oh—” he faltered, brown eyes bouncing between the Prince and Princess. “Apologies. I wasn’t sure you’d heard me.” He dipped his head, then stepped aside to hold the door open. “The horses are ready for you.”

“Thank you,” Flynn said simply, giving him a small nod.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Collab between @The Muse and @c3p-0h
_{Location: Seluna Temple}

Part VI

---

She’d said it so softly.

“My husband.”

Flynn’s breath stilled the moment it left her lips. He didn’t let his gaze leave the Priestess, not yet, but the sound of Amaya’s voice rang through him all the same, warm where landed in his chest.

It shouldn’t have been so surprising to hear, but it was the first time he’d heard her claim him in any verbal sort of way. And she’d chosen to do it here—in public, standing in the face of two Lunarian’s who made their disdain perfectly clear.

He should have been pleased—he was. But Flynn knew Amaya well enough now not to mistake her words for sentiment. He knew she wielded words like weapons. Knew that she had chosen her words precisely—and it hadn’t been meant for him. It had been for them.

He felt the shift it created. A side chosen—a line blurred where the Priestess and Royal Guard had drawn it.

He could feel how the word tethered her more tightly to him, how it made her more vulnerable to these proud Lunarian nationalists and their ire. How it made her more his. And him—hers.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement—fabric gathering, metal glinting in candlelight. The Lunarian Royal Guard had risen. His gaze swept over her tall frame, noting the house emblem stitched into her cloak. He’d seen it once before, marked across Lord Coswain’s armor.

So there were two of them in Dawnhaven. And neither seemed content to be silent.

Flynn said nothing as she turned to leave, but his gaze followed her, just as the two Aurelian guards did too. They watched her posture, her sword, and the way she carried herself out of the room.

All the while, ice crept thread by thread along the fabric of Flynn’s sleeve, the cold quietly stretching out, out, out.

Only after she passed through the doors did Flynn return his attention to the Priestess, who had begun to speak. He held her stare as she turned her attention back on him, his green eyes sharp.

He knew defiance when he saw it.

The Priestess hadn’t softened at Amaya’s request—the peace offering she’d laid out to bridge the divide. Her expression, drained of warmth, held nothing resembling compromise.

Flynn had preferred her yesterday, when she could barely stand on her own two feet.

As she continued, trying her best to establish some sense of authority, Flynn’s eyes narrowed. The way she spoke of Amaya’s protection needled something in him. As though she alone could offer safety.

As if trained guards hadn’t failed Amaya just yesterday—under Lunarian watch.

Some small voice in his mind urged restraint. Let the Priestess keep her sense of control. Let her believe the temple was hers to command.

But another voice, louder, hotter, told him to take a step forward. Make her feel the weight of his presence. Put her defiance to the test. Let her act on it.

“I’m sure your confidence is well-earned, Priestess,” Flynn said, his voice edged. “But so is my caution.” His gaze didn’t waver. The ember in his chest stirred, slow-burning. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t wager the Princess’ life in unfamiliar hands.”

Amaya’s frozen voice suddenly wanted to snap at Flynn – what was Dawnhaven, if not a wager? After a scant two months, how familiar was Flynn?

But she couldn’t pull away from him — just as she couldn’t bring herself to reveal the ice along her fingers, the fractures in her control that betrayed her.

She was contained chaos, a storm hidden behind an empty sky. Thoughts and uncontrollable emotions had been kicked up, up, up, with each new development in the scene Amaya was part of, but apparently powerless to influence. She’d dared to step forward, to make herself real and solid — only to be casually dismissed, as though she hadn’t said a word, had never been real at all. Her own voice wasn’t enough to give herself shape. It was only through Flynn, that the others saw her. Only his voice made her tangible — made her something unpleasant and offensive.

Because that’s what she was to them. To the guard – her father’s royal guard, with his authority and ice and shadow – and her cold departure, without so much as a glance at Amaya. To the Priestess, and her acquiescence as if she were indulging a child, (and infuriatingly, had offered more empty words about grief as if she too had tasted the iron in the air) before turning her full attention back on Flynn and continuing on as though he held all the authority amongst their party.

She’d warned that she wouldn’t dilute their practices – but had Amaya requested that? Had she insinuated in some way that Lunarians – her people – should alter their practices?

Or was the Priestess’ comment yet another mark against Amaya – her dilution? After Amaya’s feeble attempt at asserting herself, reminding them all that she had Lunarian blood, that this was her temple as much as it was theirs… still, Amaya was small and cast out, made foreign where it should’ve been familiar. She’d dared to tie herself to Flynn so blatantly, and instead of it being a mark in Flynn’s favor, it was a stain against Amaya.

But… what if there had been another meaning behind the Priestess’ words?

Had the Priestess recognized her Shivanti ritual for what it was? Amaya suddenly felt foolish and reckless – worse, shameful – for having performed it. Shivanta was Lunarian territory, by law and magic. But culturally, socially, it had always been tied more to its Aurelian neighbor, Sundavar, than to the Lunarian mainland. The two islands had evolved together, isolated from both of their capitals – and both of their populations had originally come from the deserts of Aurelia, generations ago.

Whispers of Amaya’s heritage, her inadequately Lunarian blood, had followed her for her entire life – the inescapable tie to an island Amaya had never seen, and yet another excuse to discount her. Queen Anjali had been embraced despite it all – her birthplace, her customs, her very body, and how starkly it stood out amongst the people of the capital.

But Amaya was not her mother.

Her expression never shifted as her fingers froze in a painful grip against Flynn’s sleeve. Cold pierced her skin, her joints, her very bones, with frigid needles. Each one had a different name. Shame. Fear. Rage. Rejection. Grief. They each commanded a different thrashing wind in her body, wrenching ice against the confines of her control. Amaya felt small – she wanted to be small, to fold herself away as tightly as possible, so that no one might notice her, and they could all forget her as they’d always done for her entire life. She wanted to lose herself in her own storm, let it swallow her whole and hide her away.

Ice crept up past her fingers, over her knuckles and onto her palm as she stared blankly at the Priestess. Amaya’s eyes unfocused as she tried to concentrate on her breathing. Her control. Her expression. The scene began to shift as the shapes grew indistinct – the shadows on the wall lengthened. Their echoing voices – both the Priestess’ and Flynn’s – grew sharper, tension building like ozone in the air. Amaya tasted iron with each breath. And all the while, she fought to press in on herself more and more, her magic growing wild against her tightening grip, frantic and untamed as if to spite every reaction she managed to conceal.

The ice crept higher. Her breathing grew shallow. The black fabric that covered the corpses seemed to grow ever darker behind the Priestess who’d been assigned as her killer – and if her dagger never pierced Amaya’s heart? If Flynn’s wager paid off?

Flynn, with his solid frame and strong voice – Flynn, who’d never known anything except for his own right to live.

Velvet midnight stained with fresh, pooling blood as her father’s inescapable hands –

Amaya was too numb to register the pain of her frozen skin pulling away from the fabric of Flynn’s sleeve. Her fingers slipped down to lightly brush against his palm.

Flynn’s hand twitched at the sudden bite of cold against his skin, his eyes sliding toward Amaya at his side. In an instant, he realized that the cold he’d felt seeping into his bones hadn’t been from the open-air of the temple. It was her.

Suddenly all too aware of the damage she was capable of unleashing here, the request she’d made of him came to the forefront of his mind: “remove me.”

He pulled his attention back to the Priestess, careful not to draw more attention to the magic slowly unraveling along Amaya’s fingertips.

“It seems the temple’s endured enough strain for one day,” he said, voice composed but edged with finality. “I've no intention of adding to your discomfort, Priestess. You’ve made your position clear. We’ll find another way to honor these souls, if teaching pains you so.”

He let the words hang between them, unmoved by the polite curve of her mouth, offering no false smile in return. “Though, if you intend to remain in Dawnhaven, I’d suggest taking the time to understand all who call it home. And learning to see its people as more than a burden to simply tolerate.”

He let his gaze shift to Amaya then, the steel in his tone softening. “I could use some air,” he murmured, slipping his hand into hers with deliberate care, pressing his warmth over the ice spreading across her palm. “Walk with me?”

Amaya forced her breath to be slow and even, the burn of Flynn’s hand sinking into her, thawing through the numbness. The pain of it refocused her. Her fingers twitched, but her muscles were still too frozen. Only the weight of the Priestess’ eyes kept Amaya from flinching.

And behind the Priestess, on the other side of the table, against that shadowed wall — the Aurelian guard was looking at her again. Thoughtful brown eyes flicked between Amaya and Flynn, expression shifting subtly as he weighed their movements and words — both of them.

A hard lump of ice froze in Amaya’s throat. She wanted him to stop looking at her. She wanted to lean into Flynn and his warmth, let him hide her from sight. She wanted to be formless and silent, so they’d all forget her entirely.

She wanted to scream until they heard her.

Flynn’s hand, callused and familiar, was achingly gentle around hers as he answered her silent plea. Amaya considered pulling away. Her gaze found Flynn’s.

And the ocean held her in its current.

Her other hand slipped loosely around his arm, tucking against his side. Amaya took a tiny step closer to him — let him chase away the chill. She nodded in answer, as though his words hadn’t been an excuse for her sake. As though he wasn’t shielding her from view even now, with her many fractures and broken pieces. There was something resentful about it, that she needed his words to make her will real. But the bitterness was buried under a growing layer of warmth.

Ice formed faster than Flynn could melt it, crawling along the hands she’d hidden against him. Amaya should’ve offered more words, she knew, to soften the harshness of Flynn’s tone, but…

Amaya looked at the Priestess and couldn’t find anything to say. Anything that she might hear, if it was said in Amaya’s voice. She held the Priestess’ gaze, sharp as ever, but cold as steel now.

What was Amaya to her? Had she ever been more than an empty, lifeless doll? Or had that fragile connection, formed only through silent looks and piercing reminders, been the delusions of a lonely child?

It felt like another loss, somehow. Another shame that made her want to disappear. Another grief. For a moment Amaya imagined letting go — releasing the storm she was fighting so hard to contain, and forcing them all to see her as she could be. Undeniable and vengeful.

Why did grief always feel so much like rage?

“Priestess,” she managed with a small nod of her head to the woman — the blade who’d once been a girl. Amaya cursed herself when she saw the tiny wisp of fog that escaped her with the word.

Needles danced along her skin as her fingers thawed enough to curl painfully around Flynn’s. The motion was weak. Her hands shook from the cold as her grip on her wild magic wavered.

Without a word, Flynn gently turned them toward the door and guided them forward. The guards responded in unison—one falling in step behind them, and the other moving ahead to open the door. All the while, Amaya felt the press of eyes on her, keeping her tenuous control in place.

As they passed the threshold, the two guards stationed outside turned sharply, then fell into line with the others. Four now, moving as a unit, they drifted back a few paces, giving Flynn and Amaya their respectful distance of privacy once more.

At first, Flynn didn’t speak as he led them back into snow-dusted streets. His free hand slipped over hers where it clutched his arm, enclosing her trembling fingers beneath his. The cold of her skin stung, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he gently curled his fingers under hers, trying to coax life back into them.

His pace slowed as they moved further from the temple, not wanting to rush her—giving her the space to stop, to speak, to breathe.

After a few quiet strides, he broke the silence with a low voice, tinged with regret. “I suppose I should’ve known better,” he started, then sighed. “I’m sorry.”

He glanced over his shoulder briefly, at the guards in their shining silver and gold armor. Perhaps it was time for Dawnhaven to wear something different. Something that didn’t draw a clear line of division.

“If you want to go back in, I can wait outside,” he offered, hesitant to pull her away from the closure she hadn’t received simply due to Aurelian presence. Her trembling hands flinched against him. “We can find Lunarian guards to accompany you instead, if you wish.”

The thought of it twisted a knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. The Priestess and the Royal Guard had all but dismissed their Princess and offered little in terms of reassurance. But it would be Amaya’s choice—he wouldn’t take it from her.

Her slender hands curled tighter around Flynn bit by bit as painful feeling returned to them.

Amaya never wanted to set foot in a Moon Temple again. She wanted to coat it all in ice and freeze the damned moon pool solid.

Agitated snowflakes fluttered around her feet with every step and she tried to tell herself she wasn’t fleeing. She moved automatically, all of her attention focused on her magic, her walls — Flynn.

Somehow, she managed to shake her head in response. It was a wonder she could do it at all, with how desperately she wanted to hide herself and deny any useless thought or opinion she had.

Amaya pressed herself closer into Flynn and his warmth, as magic slipped out of the ever-growing cracks in her composure. They were still in public, still viewable, but it wasn’t enough. The streets were too empty. There weren’t enough strangers anymore to keep Amaya from falling apart.

“The guards mattered because I don’t.” It was a soft, emotionless whisper. Flynn tensed. Fog billowed past her lips with every bitter word. “I’m not truly welcome, either.” As had been the case for Amaya’s entire life. “A different escort won’t change that. It’ll just make me more palatable.”

She heard the guard scolding her along with Flynn for bringing incorrect guards into the temple. She saw each time the Priestess offered her an empty platitude before returning her steely gaze to Flynn — where the real authority lied. She —

She felt her heart break all over again as Elara fled the main chamber of the temple the moment Amaya set foot inside.

Magic, harsh and uncontrollable, lashed out, stopping Amaya in her tracks as she flinched. Ice created a jagged scar against her wrist — an echo of the wound that had been carved into her the day before.

Flynn halted, his gaze snapping to her hand. Ice laced its way across both their fingers now—cold biting into his skin like a thousand invisible needles. He turned to face her fully, keeping her hands cradled gently in his before she could try to pull away.

“No,” he said, quiet but firm.

His eyes met hers as he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss against her knuckles. “They don’t get to decide your place anymore,” he murmured against her skin, holding her gaze. “You do.”

As the words left him, he could see the hesitation flicker in her eyes—the doubt that clung tighter than the frost as she glanced at her hand in his. She didn’t believe him—couldn’t believe him.

Just because he believed it didn’t make it real for her. Not yet.
But he’d make it reality, or die trying.

Gently, he lowered her hand and offered his arm to her again, ignoring the numbness in his own fingers.

“They’ll see,” he said softly, a note of quiet conviction in his voice. “They’ll see what I see. In time.”

He had to believe it. For both of them.

It took a long moment for Amaya to convince herself to move again. Standing beneath the falling snow, her pale eyes were shadowed as she looked down at their hands — at the ice that spilled out of her and crept over his hand. She knew it was painful. Just as she knew Flynn wouldn’t let go if she tried to withdraw.

She looked up again, arguments and denials cluttering her throat. But when she met his eyes…

Amaya found that she didn’t want to fight. Not now. Not when she was suddenly so exhausted from the morning. Her defiance, her hard-edged words, the cruel realities that Flynn was too optimistic to face… she tucked them away again, just as she tucked her other hand into the crook of his arm, nestling into the warmth of him.

The cold would always be there. She didn’t want to welcome it back just yet.

---

_{Interactions: Kat @SpicyMeatball}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Location: Outside Eye of the Beholder

Nyla’s smile faltered just slightly as the dog at Thalia's side growled, as if it could understand each layer hidden between her words. Or, perhaps, it could sense that something inhuman hid beneath a veil of magic, wrapped around her like a second skin.

Still, it seemed she'd struck a tender spot. As intended.
Thalia had reacted. And Nyla committed the bruise to memory.

Thalia’s bite was practiced and precise, the sort of verbal blade honed by years spent in the upper echelons of society. But Nyla had danced through sharper rooms with kinder smiles and colder knives. If Thalia was trying to draw blood, she’d have to cut deeper.

But the insinuation that Flynn had ever sought out the company of courtesans nearly made her burst into laughter. Silly thing—did Thalia even know him at all?

Once, Nyla had taken him to a brothel—one of the more elegant ones, tucked discreetly in the eastern quarter of the Capital, far from the noise and prying eyes of the main streets. It had been on a whim. To show him the layers of the world he’d never been made to walk. Under a starlit sky, alcohol on their lips, laughing as they stumbled through the doors with the rest of their friends in tow. He’d been to one once before, he’d admitted—long before she’d known him. But that night, with her, he hadn’t known where to look. Not at the soft, reaching hands. Not at the painted smiles. Uncertain, but amused, those fathomless green eyes kept finding their way back to her.

She let the memory fade, schooling her expression back into serene, unaffected charm.

“You mistake me, Lady Evercrest…” Nyla’s voice floated, light and silken, her head tilting just enough to seem wounded by Thalia’s pointed words. “I was no ‘present,’ as you say… I danced and sang for a few royal events, yes. But I am simply that. A performer.”

_{And perform, she had.}

“That’s why I recognized you,” She said softly. Not a lie. Not the whole truth, either. “I’m not sure what you take me for, but…” She offered a faint shrug, “Not all of us can be so fortunate as you.”

Then, with a warm smile and mock humility, she added, “And truly, I wouldn’t dare compete. You always did look the part.”

As she said it, her gaze slid past Thalia and landed on the Priestess from earlier. She glided past them with a small, polite smile. Relief flickered in Nyla’s eyes as she briefly met the woman's gaze. The brute hadn’t returned to the temple to harass her after all. Good.

But—
She glanced down at the basket of cookies in her hands.

If the Priestess had made it all the way here already—how much time had passed? And where in the world was Ass? How long did it take for him to redress himself?

Her gaze returned to Thalia, her mind regrettably lingering on one of the woman's last jabs —that she could be a footnote in someone else’s story. It clung to her, heavier than it should have. She tried to brush the thought aside. She was no such thing.

Nonetheless, she’d gotten what she’d been looking for. Watched a hairline crack form beneath that polished Evercrest veneer. No sense in dragging it out further. Not when the real skill was knowing when to smile, when to disarm.

“I didn’t mean to offend, Lady Evercrest,” she lied, the words sugar-coated, “if I did.”

She let the words hang a moment, then lifted the basket slightly, offering it with a graceful gesture of her free hand.

“Care for a cookie?” she asked, tone warm and just a touch amused—like the conversation hadn’t been barbed at all. “A peace offering?”

---

_{Interactions: Thalia @Qia}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Location: Outside Eye of the Beholder

“Oh—no,” Nyla said, her smile soft, almost sympathetic, though it never reached her eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to remember me.”

She glanced at the dog at Thalia’s side, offering it a gentler smile than the one she’d given to the ex-noblewoman, then let her gaze climb back to study Thalia’s face. She’d only ever seen her from afar, always at a distance, always out of reach. Now, Nyla let herself partake in the privilege she’d been denied for years—absorbing the beauty that Flynn had so often laid his eyes upon.

Thalia was even more beautiful up close. Auburn waves framed her face with effortless grace—delicate feminine features, pale skin, and hazel eyes that offered a soft, unspoken invitation. She looked like someone who belonged in a portrait.

So different from Nyla. So opposite, it had felt cruel each time Flynn flashed that charming smile Thalia's way.

It wasn’t hard to see why Flynn had almost chosen her. All that soft grace, those courtly features—she belonged in places Nyla never could. Despite the jealousy that had flared in her at the time, Flynn had made it clear of what was expected of him from the start of their relationship. But with every ball he was required to attend, and each dance he’d offered to Thalia first, the envy burned behind her ribs. Even now, a flicker of it sparked to life again.

“You were…” she began, letting the pause stretch just long enough to be pointed, “...almost engaged to the Prince, weren’t you?” A brow arched with feigned innocence. “What brings you to Dawnhaven?” she asked, tilting her head, her voice honeyed with genuine curiosity this time. “Surely, a Lady such as yourself has better places to be than here?”

“Still hoping to win the Prince’s favor?" Nyla laughed, light and effortless. As if the “joke” hadn’t been designed to cut—like there wasn’t something venomous coiled beneath her words.

“It’s too bad what happened,” she continued, letting the forced smile fall from her lips. Her tone shifted, softer, threaded with true compassion—though, not for Thalia. “...with the prophecy.”

Everyone in the capital had known who Thalia had almost been. “The One” for Flynn, they’d said. Endorsed by the Queen herself. A perfect match made for public eyes.

But the prophecy had rewritten all their stories—Thalia’s, Flynn’s, Amaya’s, Nyla’s.

She let a beat pass, just long enough to seem thoughtful, then added, more casually than she felt, “I suppose it's good that he and the Princess seem to be getting along well now…”

The words tasted like ash in her mouth, but she said them anyway. Offered them like bait. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on Thalia’s face, watching. Waiting. Searching for a crack beneath the surface. The tiniest reaction, the slightest shift.

Had she seen the royal couple together? Was she actually here for Flynn? What did she know? What was she willing to reveal?

---

_{Interactions: Thalia @Qia}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Location: Eye of the Beholder

Kira held Ivor’s gaze as he spoke, her own expression unreadable. Slipping into an old, familiar habit, she assessed each emotion that flickered behind his eyes—the subtle mingling of grief and endearment, sorrow and happiness—watching how they passed like clouds across his violet eyes.

She wondered, briefly, what it felt like to leave behind someone you’d loved.

Was Aleksi still alive somewhere? Or had he been taken by the world long before Ivor ever became blight-born? Was the grief in Ivor’s gaze for the life he had to abandon... or for the people he could never return to?

She could no longer remember her birth family's faces. Couldn’t recall their voices. Couldn’t summon the feeling of loving and being loved by them—or if they had ever loved her at all.

The memory had long been burned out of every corner of her mind. Only painful scarring remained. The awareness that something had once been there, but it had been forcefully ripped out and shredded beyond recognition.

She respected that Ivor hadn’t given Aleksi’s story away. And yet, somehow, he had still painted a portrait with enough shape and color for her to understand. Aleksi sounded like someone she could’ve sympathized with. Someone who’d forged armor over a wound and learned to live inside it. An iron heart weighed heavy in her chest, too.

“Though it took much, much longer for him to call me brother as well,”

A faint smile tugged at her lips then, quick and involuntary.

But when his tone shifted—when his gentle words turned directly toward her again—her smile fell away. Unable to meet his gaze, her eyes dropped back to the small bottle still resting between her fingertips.

“Ivor hope that one day you see the people here as home and as family, as Ivor sees you, Sister.”

Kira was quiet for a long moment.

She still couldn't look at him—not at first. Her eyes stayed on the table, watching the way her bottle of liquor caught the firelight. Her fingers didn’t move. She made no attempt to shift or speak, no witty remark offered to deflect what Ivor had said. His words had sunk too deep, wrapping around her heart like a vice.

Sister.

The word struck something raw. Like a stone dropped into water, it rippled through her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She wasn’t sure what she had expected when she’d asked about Aleksi. Perhaps a simple name, a profession, a place—a meaningless distraction. But not the warmth of a bond that bled through Ivor’s words. Not the kind of loyalty that didn’t waver even when wrapped in pain. Not the ache of remembering someone in the space they'd left behind, however obscure.

And she certainly hadn’t expected him to look at her that way. As if she belonged somewhere—to someone. As if she hadn’t spent most of her life slipping through places like a shadow. As if she hadn’t built her survival on not being known.

What had she done to earn Ivor’s kindness? Part of her wondered if it came with a hidden price.

Slowly, her gaze lifted to meet his.

“I think Aleksi was lucky to have you.”

She studied Ivor again, as though she were trying to map out the shape of his heart and piece together how it hadn’t closed up like hers. The mere sight of him—three hundred pounds of optimism—felt like something she didn’t quite know what to do with. All that kindness. All that openness. How had he held onto it so tightly? Had she ever even possessed it?

Something softer moved behind her eyes. A minor shift in her expression.

“Where is Ale—”

"Gud mornin' everbuddeh! Who wants a hug?”

Kira’s eyes narrowed at the loud disturbance crashing into the tavern, the voice grating against her ears. Her gaze snapped toward the source. Another blight-born, lanky, adorned with four arms, and grinning like a lunatic.
And worse—he spoke with an accent she hadn’t heard in over a decade. One she never wanted to hear again.

Luckily, Sya was on him within seconds. If the serpent woman couldn’t keep peace within her own heart, at least she tried to keep it in this tavern.

Kira’s eyes flicked back to Ivor. Every instinct screamed at her to leave.

It was time, wasn’t it?

The tavern was too full. Too many sounds, too many scents, too many bodies crowding in with their heat and noise and pulsing hearts. It pressed against her skin and crawled into her lungs. Suffocating.

But she forced herself to stay. To be present, if only to return the kindness he’d shown her. It wasn’t much, but it was all she felt capable of.

She held Ivor’s gaze, using the warmth in his eyes to anchor herself in the moment. It was still there—etched into every line of his face. Open. Friendly. Welcoming. Completely unfazed by the noise and chaos around them.

How had he managed not to forge his heart into iron too? How had Sya?

Kira drew in a quiet breath, steadying herself as she reached for her coffee and lifted it to her lips. “Where is Aleski now?” she asked, her voice carefully measured. She took a sip, eyes locked on Ivor.

But even as she tried to stay with him—be here—something reverberated down her spine.

A worry. A flicker of hesitation that didn’t belong to her.

Unbidden, a flash of an image entered her mind: A dark haired Lunarian guard, peering into a crate.

Kira gripped the ceramic mug tighter.

She hated this part of the bond. The nameless guard—the poor fool—didn’t know what he was broadcasting to her. She shoved his emotion and the vision away, trying to block out his ties to her.

Bastard.

She’d need to end this bond—sooner rather than later.

---

_{Interactions: Ivor @Beard Dad
Mentions: Sya @PrinceAlexus, Claret @Dezuel, Aliseth @Dark Light}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Location: Alchemy Chambers

Knee-deep in snow, Zeph muttered a curse under his breath, each step a slog through the frozen drifts.

When he’d reached the nobles' neighborhood, he’d veered wide into the forest. The front of the Alchemy Chambers was a fool’s bet—too many patrols, too much torchlight. So Zeph had stuck to the shadows, hidden deeper within the forest. Not the wisest move—not with a killer blight-born still unaccounted for—but stealth came first. No way the blighter was still hanging around with every guard in Dawnhaven on high alert… probably?

Either way, the forest gave him what he needed: silence, and a clean shot at the back of the Alchemy Chambers. He crept deep among the trees until the back wall came into view—dark, unwatched. Light flickered faintly in one of the upper floor windows.

The Sage was home.

“Lovely,” Zeph muttered under his breath.

He studied the treeline, then kept low and crossed to the back wall. Quietly, he ran his bare fingers along the stone, feeling for any handholds. The stone was flush—too smooth for easy climbing. Of course it was. Elio never laid a stone out of place. But worse, it was coated in a thin sheen of ice.

Still, Zeph wasn’t ready to give up.

He stepped closer to the wall, withdrawing a slender dagger from his belt. One glance over his shoulder, then he jammed the blade into the seam between two stone blocks and tried to haul himself up. His boots scraped for purchase, his free hand blindly feeling for anything solid to grip onto. For a second, it held.

Then—
crack

The dagger slipped. One of the stones split with a sharp snap and Zeph lost his grip.

The fall wasn’t far, but he hit the ground hard enough to stumble back a step. Jaw clenched, he glared up at the wall like it had betrayed him. A sliver of stone had sheared clean off where he’d driven the blade—an ugly scar in Elio’s perfect work.

‘That’ll piss him off’ Zeph thought with a smirk, retrieving his dagger from where it had tumbled into the snow.

Then he heard it—boots, armor, light conversation.

He froze, crouching against the base of the wall, holding his breath as a patrol passed around the front of the Alchemy Chambers. He didn’t move until their steps faded into the distance.

Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. That’s all the time he had before they would circle back. He’d need to make this quick.

His eyes swept the area, landing on a snow-laden pine. Tall, its upper branches brushing close to a high balcony on the second floor. He had no idea what that balcony led to. Lab? Library? Bedroom? It didn’t matter. It was a way in.

He didn’t stop to second guess it.

Zeph hurried to the pine, light on his feet. He tested the lower branches with a firm tug, then began hoisting himself up. The bark was rough, familiar. He’d climbed trees all his life—though it’d been a while.

Each branch was tested before he committed his weight. But as he climbed higher, one cracked loudly, sending his heart into his throat as it snapped beneath him. He hugged the trunk of the tree tightly, heart thundering. Once he found sturdier footing, he paused, then laughed—quiet and breathless.

When the balcony came to eye level, he studied it for a moment. It was just out of reach. Regrettably, it had looked closer from the ground. He’d never reach it from here.

So he climbed higher, with a new plan in mind.

As the branches that could support him began to thin, he glanced down. He was twelve feet up now, at least. The balcony sat slightly below him—maybe close enough to drop into. But a roof overhang was closer.

No turning back now.

Gripping a thick branch, he dangled from it and slowly inched his way out, edging closer to the balcony below. Near the branch’s end, he paused, breath misting the air as he eyed the roof overhang.

He drew in a steady breath and let it out slowly.

Then, swinging his feet for momentum, he whispered a phrase from his father’s people—“Varo keth'kai.”—and leapt.

Arms out. Breath held.

His hands skated across slick shingles—no grip.

“Shi—!”

He fell, but instinct took over. Fingers clawed for something, anything—then caught on a wooden beam beneath the eaves. Splinters tore at his skin as he caught himself with one arm.

Hanging there, in front of a window with its curtains drawn, he let out a slow breath.

Hauling his other arm up, he adjusted his grip, and scanned left. The balcony was still too far to reach outright. He cursed softly and began to swing, legs kicking. With a silent prayer to Seluna, he launched himself toward the next beam—and caught it. Barely.

Then, he carefully shimmied toward the balcony. One more swing, one final lunge. He landed hard in a puff of snow on the balcony, the snow dampening the sound just slightly.

He froze, listening for a few heartbeats. Still, no sounds from within. No clatter of armor coming up the path just yet.

Fingers aching with splinters, breath fogging, he crouched at the door and tried the handle. Locked.

Who the hell locks their balcony?

He looked around. A small window above the door—too small for his broad frame. Other windows: sealed, curtains drawn. No way in but through.

He pulled a silver hairpin from his pants pocket—an old fling’s, long repurposed—and a small pocketknife from his belt. He’d picked a hundred locks with worse. Tools in hand, he set to work. The cold made it harder, but the motion was muscle memory by now. Tension. Turn. Pressure. A soft click.

The latch gave.

Zeph paused, listening again. Then, carefully, he pushed the door open with a shove of his fingertips.

Darkness.

He stepped in, trailing snow. The air inside smelled of parchment, dried herbs and ink. He squinted as his eyes adjusted, taking in the scrolls and tomes stacked high along the walls. Across from him, an archway led into another room, and he slowly approached.

Floorboards creaked underfoot. He grimaced.

Somewhere down a distant hall, voices drifted from deeper inside—quiet, indistinct. He couldn’t make them out, but a glow of firelight flickered just around the corner.

He leaned against the edge of the archway, listening. They didn’t sound too close, so his eyes darted around the room beyond.

A bedroom.

He grinned. Thank the stars. The large bed was a mess, surrounded by nightstands on either side. One held a journal. Another had a stack of papers and open books.

He slowly crept to the nightstand and reached into his coat, pulling free the gemstone and parchment. One last look at the stone, his thumb traced its cut edges. Then, gently, he laid the parchment atop the journal and the gemstone onto the paper.

An anonymous gift delivered.

He turned to begin his retreat.

Then—

Floorboards groaned in the hallway.

He froze. A shadow moved. A soft gasp from down the hall.

Zeph didn’t wait. He bolted back to the study. Slipped out the door, swung it shut behind him. His eyes locked on the drop below.

No time to plan.

He vaulted over the railing, turning his body to reach for the steel supports and—

His grip slipped.

He fell.

Ten feet down, the snow below broke his fall but not by much. He hit hard, wrist-first, a sharp crack shooting through his arm. Pain flashed white-hot, but he bit down a shout and rolled to his feet. Adrenaline carried him forward toward the forest, snow clinging to his coat, breath ragged.

Only when he reached the edge of the noble district did he slow and return to the cobblestone path, trying to steady his breathing.

Glancing down at his left wrist—swollen, throbbing—he pulled it close, his fingers lightly prodding. Sharp pain shot through the joint.

“Damn it,” he hissed. It didn’t seem broken, but something wasn’t right.

He glanced over his shoulder, back towards the Alchemy Chambers. He wasn’t being followed. He looked forward again, thinking of returning to the Aurelian temple. He’d need to see a healer but—

No. He already owed Tia too much.

His pace slowed. The Sage knew healing too. And it would be less conspicuous if he showed up there at the front door now… right?

He corrected course and returned, in torchlight, toward the Alchemy Chambers.

By the time he reached the door, his breathing had steadied and he’d dusted all the snow off himself. He gave a nod to a passing guard—no sign of suspicion yet—then rapped hard on the front door with his right hand.

---

_{Interactions: Charlotte @SpicyMeatball, Eris}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Collab between @The Muse and @c3p-0h
_{Location: Seluna Temple}

Part IV

---

Hand in hand, Flynn followed Amaya into the temple, letting her set the pace and guide their path forward. Conscious of each gaze that turned their way, his expression settled into a familiar mask of quiet certainty—an instinct honed after decades beneath the weight of watchful eyes. Back straight, shoulders squared, chin high, he carried himself like the Prince they expected to see.

But his focus was divided.

Even as his gaze slowly surveyed the dim chamber, cataloging each familiar and unfamiliar face, he was acutely aware of the storm he’d laced between his fingers. He attuned himself entirely to her—noting her every breath, every shift in grip, every ounce of restraint in her stride.

Behind them, two Aurelian guards followed, while the remaining pair shut the heavy temple doors with a thud and took up position outside.

The air inside was cold, scarcely warmer than the snow-covered streets they’d left behind. At the opposite end of the round chamber, snowflakes drifted silently through the hole in the roof, only to vanish into the moon pool or melt as soon as they reached the stone flooring.

Beside the pool stood the High Priestess—the same blonde he’d seen yesterday, crumpled on the ground, kneeling beside the blood that spilled from Sir Abel. She looked stronger now, on her feet, the tremors gone from her limbs, and the sickly pallor faded from her skin.

To their left, shadowed along the curve of the wall, two still bodies laid beneath dark cloth on a stone slab. Those who had lost their lives in yesterday's attack—a fate Amaya and Elara had narrowly escaped. Flynn’s chest tightened at the sight, and he forced his eyes forward again.

As they walked further in, Flynn’s eyes moved over the quiet figures. First, a Lunarian royal guard and a man he didn't recognize. Along the wall, he noted one of their servants who bowed low at the base of a shrine, her forehead pressed against the floor, whispering some quiet prayer to herself. And then—

A shimmer of pale white hair, caught in the light.

Elara.

Only a glimpse. But unmistakable as she slipped around a corner to the right. No look in their direction. No greeting. Just silence, and her disappearance into the shadows.

Flynn’s gaze flicked to Amaya. She’d stopped walking.

Her hand was suddenly limp in his, fingers loosening unconsciously. Her chin was high. Her back was straight. Her breath was so shallow and light that it barely seemed to move her chest.

And something fractured in her eyes.

Amaya could still see Elara’s phantom, the last wisps of her presence as she’d…

She’d fled.

Elara had…

_Elara…

Was Amaya that cruel? Was her presence so hateful?

I can’t be what you need me to be, Amaya. Not anymore.

It was her damning rejection all over again. Numbness wasn’t supposed to be painful. A doll couldn’t cry. A painting couldn’t bleed. If Amaya didn’t flinch then no one could say she was hurt. No one could see the ice creeping its way over her heart, claiming, hardening, piercing, shattering –

Heat so stark against her skin that it burned.

The breath she took in was small and silent, but she felt it crash through her chest like a tidal wave. She blinked, eyes – they weren’t wet, they weren’t shattered and hurt – refocusing to see the shadowed corridor. It was empty. Amaya hadn’t realized that she’d begun to step towards it.

And suspended in the narrow space between her body and Flynn’s, were their intertwined hands. Hers was still limp, too cold for the delicate muscles to work properly – and he’d wrapped his warmth more firmly around it, grip tightening as he kept her anchored.

She looked up to find his eyes, and they stilled her. There was no ice to cut herself against, no heat to burn her away, just… patience. Sadness. A vastness and depth that would swallow Amaya up, if she let it. There was a question in his gaze, gentle and worried (he shouldn’t have known to ask, he shouldn’t have seen) as his thumb glided over the back of her palm.

Amaya thought she might drown in his —

Eyes. There were eyes on her skin. Amaya could feel them pressing against her, pushing against walls that threatened to shatter from the inside out. She couldn’t look away from Flynn – but still, she could feel the tracks that foreign gazes traced across her body, her face, her crown that she’d never wear. Her mask didn’t slip – it couldn’t. Not when the weight of strangers bore down on her, trapping every careful defense in place.

Strangers… except two. Two who saw too much.

Her fingers curled back around Flynn’s searing heat – it was what would’ve been expected by anyone who didn’t know her.

…What would those two have expected?

Like a practiced dancer, Amaya followed her choreography. With smooth, measured steps, and too shallow breath, she walked with Flynn towards the table along the shadowed wall – away from the corridor Elara had hidden herself in. Hidden from her.

The silence echoed with every step. She felt every gaze she didn’t meet. And through it all, Flynn’s presence at her side, in her hand, was immutable. Amaya kept her eyes focused on the table as they walked, her heart only growing more frantic beneath her calm exterior. Her mind pulled in a dozen different directions – Flynn, Elara, the bodies, the attack, the temple –

There were steps in the choreography that Amaya had missed. She hadn’t offered her deference at the temple’s entrance. She hadn’t properly greeted the Priestess – hadn’t even looked at her, really. Amaya’s faith had always been something nebulous and quiet – it was hard to concern herself with Goddesses when her father had been the only higher power that mattered. But temples were just another stage to be navigated.

Sometimes, they were almost a relief – the roles were clear and impersonal, the rituals were rote, and while there was always the festering threat of the moon pool dominating the space, the anxiety it caused was… tolerable. Amaya was almost never expected to partake, and the few times it’d been unavoidable, she’d had enough forewarning to prepare herself.

But now, Amaya felt like a foreigner in a space that was expected to be hers. Or worse – like she was exposing something personal that she hadn’t even realized was a part of her. Verdant and vibrant, Flynn shined like the sun beside her. The cold, the quiet, the dark, the familiar scents and colors that had defined her life – how disorienting to realize they were hers, if only because they were not his.

Amaya had always thought very little was hers.

Her feet stopped moving. Flynn stopped beside her.

They stood before the table. Atop it lay two forms, sickeningly misshapen beneath a midnight cloth. Two bodies. Two people.

Hers.

---

_{Mentions: Kat @SpicyMeatball, Ramona @enmuni, Elara @Qia, Desmond @Theyra, Persephone @PrinceAlexus}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Location: Outside Eye of the Beholder

Alone again.

Nyla wasn’t sure if she was starting to enjoy the solitude that had begun to plague her around every corner, or if it had just become her new normal. She’d never been good at being alone. She’d grown up in a tight-knit community. Together, they travelled from town to town, performed for countless nameless faces, and bonded with the public over shared drinks and stories. She’d always felt comfortable in that space—surrounded by noise, touch, and human connection.

Being alone meant being separated from your chosen family. Being alone meant certain death.

But the walk back to the tavern had been… oddly peaceful. A relief from the crushing weight of that stranger's presence. She told herself she was glad for it, despite the way she kept remembering the slow, deliberate way his dark eyes had assessed her from bottom to top.

Some traitorous part of her actually wanted him to follow.

Focusing her eyes ahead, Nyla repetitively forced each and every thought down. She had other things to be concerned with.

Like…. Why did she still have this basket of cookies?

Like… Where was Flynn?

_{… Where was Flynn?}

_{… Where was Flynn?}

Her grip tightened on the basket, the wood bending and creaking as she fought the urge to tear the handle in half.

And then, as if summoned by some cruel twist of fate, a familiar redheaded woman exited the tavern.

Nyla’s steps faltered, her gaze locked onto the woman and the sheepdog who walked beside her. It was the woman Nyla had seen Aldrick dancing with the night before, she realized. But now, closer up…

Nyla knew that face.

Her lips curved into a surprised smile before she could stop them, her gaze sweeping over the woman’s familiar features. “Ah—Aren’t you Lady Evercrest?”

Formally, she should have said. Lady no longer befit her.

“Thalia, yes?”

She tilted her head, feigning mild confusion, as if she might be unsure of the woman's first name. But she knew. She’d seen this woman multiple times on multiple occasions—always from afar. She’d seen the way those hazel eyes had looked up at Flynn—like he could offer her the entire universe in just one breath.

“Oh,” she forced herself to faintly laugh, “you probably don’t remember me. I used to perform in the capital, but I remember you. I’m surprised to see you here.”

---

_{Interactions: Thalia @Qia}

Realms of Sun & Shadow

Location: Zeph's Home (Northeastern Neighborhood)

Hands buried in his coat pockets, Zeph absently turned the gemstone over in his fingers. The cold night air nipped at his face, the warmth of the Sun temple fading faster than he would’ve liked, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts were too loud. Too vivid.

So when another guard passed him on the road—an Aurelian archer he didn’t recognize—Zeph only half-registered him. Briefly, somewhere between bites of his cookie, he considered stopping him. Asking who this “Hawthorne” person was. But the urge fizzled out just as quickly as it came. His new trainee had been waiting this long, she couldn’t wait longer.

His mind circled elsewhere now.

On Tia.

He could still see the wide-eyed, confused look she’d given him. So caught in whatever inner storm she carried that she’d hadn’t even noticed him in her space. The memory made him grin to himself, just a little.

But she’d looked so exhausted, too.

He’d seen it. The way she moved. The wince when she stepped. The blood at the edges of her robes. He should’ve asked about it. Maybe—hopefully—the blood was someone else’s. She was a healer, wasn’t she? Probably nothing, right? Probably...

Yet the memory of her straining to get to her feet stuck with him more than it should’ve. It unsettled him more than he would’ve admitted. And he wondered just how much she had drained herself in the effort to save Ivor and himself from bleeding out. Healers had their limits—especially Aurelian ones, these days.

Still… she was a High Priestess. You didn’t get to that position out of luck. She was far from helpless and could take care of herself. So he shoved the thought down.

Besides, she’d given him a task. Something exciting, secret, and maybe even a little bit important. And that, Zeph could handle.

Under the cover of perpetual night, slipping unnoticed through Dawnhaven’s streets wasn’t exactly difficult. He’d been sneakier under worse circumstances. He just needed the right approach. The right timing. The right lie, maybe.

But first, he turned north.

Home wasn’t far. He pushed through the front door into stillness, struck a match, and lit a few candles lined up along the kitchen table. Their flickering glow filled the room as he dropped into a chair, the wood creaking beneath him.

From his pockets, he emptied everything out onto the table. The prayer book, the gemstone, the folded parchment, and the small silver bell he’d swiped from the temple.

Carefully, he unfolded the letter and began to reread it. Slower this time. Without Firefly there to distract him—hovering just outside the space between his legs, pink-cheeked and watching him with dark eyes full of wonder and worry.

Idly, he turned the little bell between his fingers as he read, his brows slowly drawing together as he took her words in more thoughtfully.

Not a nightmare—a vision.

Of course, he’d heard about the Aurelian Priest who’d delivered the so-called prophecy—the whole reason Dawnhaven existed now, as the Sun Prince’s dying wish. But… was Tia like him? Some kind of seer? Or just another fraud? But what reason would she have to lie?

Maybe she was crazy.
He always did like the crazy ones best.

But he’d seen how strongly she reacted when she touched the gemstone. As if the thing had actually spoken to her. The stone had felt completely ordinary in his hands, but she didn't seem to be lying. He was inclined to believe her… he supposed.

Or at least suspend disbelief long enough to see where it led.

Setting the letter aside, he picked up the gemstone and held it up to the candlelight. Faint light bled through, splitting into pale purple lines across the walls that shifted when he moved. It reminded him of the crystals they’d seen in that cavern. But this one wasn’t raw. It had been shaped. Cut by someone. Crafted with care. Made for something.

But what?

He leaned back in his chair, hazel eyes shifting from gem to parchment.

Tia had trusted him with this. Trusted him. And she didn’t even know him. Didn’t know what he might do with her words.

He smiled, slow and thoughtful.

If this was as important as she seemed to believe, then yes—she was probably crazy.
Which was... fun.

Nonetheless, he owed her a debt. And he wasn’t in the habit of disappointing pretty, doe-eyed Priestesses—especially not ones who looked at him like that. Not right away, anyway. The disappointment would come later. It always did.

For now, he had planning to do.

He knew the Sage—Hightower. Had met her plenty of times. Played watchdog while they held their blight-born interviews. He’d even been invited inside, warming himself by her fire. He knew the ground floor layout well enough. Knew that her living quarters were on the upper levels—though he’d never seen them for himself.

Hightower was kind, in a distant sort of way. She was often so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she’d rarely offered much in the way of conversion, but she’d always been nice enough to take pity on a poor, cold guard—offering him and his watch partners a warm drink or a break beside the fire.

Still, it wouldn’t be easy to enter unnoticed. Too many of the other Sages passed through. Too many people that might find the parchment, or recognize him. Too much risk.

And if he intended to keep Tia’s message a secret…

There was only one other way in.

Up.