Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing over the dagger mark—Avarice’s mark. He lingered for a moment, pressing his palm against the golden bark as if he could pull something from it, some reassurance, some certainty. But all it told him was what he already knew. Avarice was here.

His gaze lifted toward the canopies, following the rope, the bridges. "You made it all the way down here." His voice was quiet, unreadable.

He hesitated. Just for a second. Then, "I'm sorry."

The words left him before he could stop them. He exhaled sharply, pulling his hand away from the tree and stepping forward, staying beneath the bridges, keeping his path to the ground. He needed to get back.

He needed to keep pushing.

But the moment stretched, thoughts curling inward before he could stop them.

The Harlekin. The one who healed him. The one he struck. His grip tightened on his cane. No.

It was necessary.

Then, a voice.

"For Rathiel, or for yourself?" Mordecai said outloud.

Mordecai froze. His jaw tensed, fingers tightening, his breath coming sharp. He turned his head, but there was no one there.

He had spoken. Hadn’t he?

His free hand lifted, rubbing at his temple. No. No, it was nothing.

Move. Keep moving.

"Avarice’s blood will be on your hands."

His breath hitched. The voice didn’t belong to anyone. Not Rathiel. Not Edrom. Something else poking at him. His body tensed, his grip white-knuckled on the cane.

"Stop."

He shook his head sharply, forcing the thought away, forcing everything away.

Keep walking. Just keep walking.

"Leave me alone." His voice was quieter now, more strained, almost tired. He swung a hand through the air as if swatting away something unseen, but nothing was there. Nothing except the weight pressing in from all sides.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The path ahead was uneven, gnarled roots twisting through the barren earth like veins running through a corpse. The dead forest stretched endlessly, its skeletal trees clawing at the sky, their brittle branches creaking in the still, lifeless air. There was no wind here, no birdsong, no rustle of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush. Only silence—thick, suffocating, unnatural.

But something prickled at the edges of Mordecai's senses, a wrongness that coiled around him, tightening with every step.

Something large lay ahead, obscured by the gnarled remains of a fallen tree. The bark had split, its hollowed form caved in from decay, but what lay beneath it…

The roots weren’t just tangled. They were fused.

The twisted remains of the tree had been overtaken by something smooth, something reflective. The ground itself shimmered faintly where the light caught it, gold pooling in cracks along the forest floor like it had spilled from within. Like something had melted into the earth.

The shimmer solidified as the light hit it directly.

A limb.

---

The bundle of fabric landed in Zoof’s hands with a weight that felt heavier than cloth alone. She caught it without ceremony, fingers pressing into the coarse weave before she unraveled it. The robes were a muted, weathered brown, nothing remarkable—nothing that would draw attention. The kind of thing someone wore when they wanted to disappear into the crowd.

Leviathian watched her as she ran a hand over the fabric. “Not my first choice,” she muttered.

“You want to walk into camp wearing that?” He flicked a glance at her armor, at the blackened hide and wire-wrapped plates that had seen better days. “Be my guest. But don’t expect to make it past the gate.”

Zoof exhaled through her nose but didn’t argue. Instead, she turned slightly, shifting her greatsword from her back with practiced ease before pulling off the layered pieces of her armor. Each strap, each buckle, each reinforced scrap of leather had been secured by her own hands, built for movement, for survival. Now, she peeled it away like a skin she no longer needed. The weight of it left her feeling strangely bare.

The robes hung loose, pooling slightly at her feet. Too long. Of course. She adjusted the fabric, tying the sash at her waist with a quick tug. The material was rough against her fur, the sleeves wide enough to hide her arms, to make her shape less distinct. She ran a hand over her mane, pushing stray strands of red back before pulling the hood over her head.

“Passable,” Leviathian said, tilting his head slightly. “No one will look twice.”

Zoof snorted. “You always this flattering?”

He huffed, a sharp breath of amusement, but the warmth faded quickly. His expression settled into something unreadable again. He turned, motioning with a slight jerk of his head. “Come on. We shouldn’t linger.”

She followed without question, falling into step beside him. Their pace was steady, the path back to Karn’s base familiar beneath Leviathian’s sure-footed strides. Zoof let the silence stretch, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the damp earth and brittle remains of fallen branches.

It wasn’t until they reached a narrow ravine, a stretch of dead trees rising on either side, that she spoke.

“You really did it.” Her voice was low, unreadable. “Worked your way into her army.”

Leviathian didn’t slow. “Wasn’t easy.”

“I don’t imagine it was.”

A pause. He glanced at her, golden eyes catching the dim light. “And you?”

Zoof’s mouth twitched. “I had other things to do.”

Leviathian gave a short, knowing hum. “Like surviving.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her claws flexed beneath the sleeves of her borrowed robes. “Like waiting,” she corrected.

He didn’t argue. He understood.

They walked for a while longer before Leviathian spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “She doesn’t even remember it.”

Zoof’s ears flicked beneath her hood. She didn’t need to ask what it was. The city. Their city.

“She led the invasion,” Leviathian continued, his tone flat. “Dunemire’s forces were unmatched back then. We never had a chance. You remember how it ended.”

Zoof’s jaw tightened. “I remember.”

Karn had given the order, and the city had burned for its defiance. Families that refused to kneel were cut down in the streets. The rivers ran red before they ran dry.

Leviathian exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “And now, after the reset, she builds her own kingdom like none of it ever happened. Like it didn’t mean anything.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai froze, his eyes locking onto the twisted form ahead. A limb—golden, half-consumed by the roots, fused into the earth like something half-forgotten, half-preserved. His breath hitched, his thoughts tangled in the haze of exhaustion, unease.

His mind jumped, sharp and immediate. That better not be—

His legs moved before the thought fully formed. He broke into a run, hooves pounding against the brittle earth, cane forgotten in his grip as he rushed forward.

He dropped to a knee beside it, hands hovering just above the golden surface, his breath coming hard and uneven. He didn’t touch it—not yet. His eyes scanned the shape, tracing the way the metal had melted into the roots, locking it in place.

His stomach twisted, jaw clenching as he forced himself to look, to see. Was it Avarice? Had she done this to him?

His fingers twitched. Then, cautiously, he reached out—just enough to test if it would yield beneath his touch. Investigating.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The golden limb did not yield, nor did it resist—lifeless, inert, trapped in the tangled roots as if the earth itself had tried to claim it. But it was just that.

An arm.

Not a body. Not Avarice.

Gold gave way to raw, uneven flesh—cut cleanly, deliberately. Someone had done this themselves. The transformation hadn’t reached the shoulder. Whoever this had belonged to had still been alive when they made the decision.

And that realization struck him harder than the sight itself.

Clover.

The proportions, the slender fingers still curled in some final, instinctual motion—one that might’ve been prayer, might’ve been hesitation, might’ve been nothing at all. But the cut, the sheer precision of it—it hadn’t been done in a panic. It had been done with purpose.

Clover, who had spoken of patience, of detachment, of the way the wind carried kin where they were meant to go. Clover, who had always been more watcher than participant, the quiet tether to something older, something unspoken.

Clover, who had cut off his own arm rather than let it claim him.

---

The camp loomed ahead, its wooden barricades rising from the dead earth like ribs of some long-forgotten beast. Torches burned at even intervals along the perimeter, their light barely cutting through the thickening dusk. The banners overhead swayed in the still air, their embroidered sigils catching and folding with each lazy shift of the wind. Karn’s mark was everywhere, woven into the very bones of this place.

Zoof pulled her hood lower as she walked beside Leviathian, keeping her stride measured, deliberate—nothing out of place, nothing to notice. She’d spent enough time in places like this to know that people rarely looked at what they expected to see. A stranger in dull robes, walking at the side of one of Karn’s trusted enforcers? No one would question it.

At least, that was the hope.

The guards at the gate barely gave her a second glance. Leviathian’s presence was enough to grant them passage, and as they stepped beneath the archway, Zoof felt the weight of the camp settle around her.

Inside, the outer encampment was alive with the low murmur of conversation, the clang of metal on metal, the rhythmic crackle of fire pits and sharpening stones. Warriors moved in loose clusters, some tending to their weapons, others gathered in half-circle formations, listening to impromptu strategy briefings from their commanders.

The men kept to their designated quarters—closer to the outer walls, where the structures were utilitarian and built for function over comfort. The deeper they moved, the more the landscape shifted. The warrior dens gave way to something more structured, more deliberate—wooden walkways raised above the ground, lanterns hung from carved posts, reflecting in the dark surface of the pond that cut through the heart of the sanctuary.

It smelled of earth and still water, of wax and fire.

Zoof’s fingers twitched beneath her sleeves.

She knew this kind of order. It was the kind built on control, on power sharpened into something unyielding.

Leviathian kept his pace steady, but he angled his path toward the less traveled routes, skirting the edge of the more populated walkways. He was guiding her toward the inner quarter—the part of the base reserved for Karn’s closest warriors, for the ones she trusted to maintain the foundation of her rule.

The ones she trusted to keep order.

Zoof didn’t need to ask why he was leading her there. If she was going to get close enough to strike, close enough to tear down the foundations Karn had built, she needed to be more than a shadow on the fringes. She needed to be in the room when the decisions were made.

Leviathian’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “We’ll say you’re a traveler. Someone I picked up on patrol—useful skills, worth keeping an eye on.”

Zoof smirked slightly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s not a lie.”

Leviathian’s gaze flicked to her. “It won’t hold forever.”

“It won’t need to.”

He grunted in agreement and kept walking.

They moved past a group of warriors huddled near a training post, their low laughter breaking through the quiet tension of the camp. A few glanced up as Leviathian passed, their expressions shifting between deference and mild curiosity. None of them looked at Zoof long enough to question her presence.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s gaze locked onto the golden limb, fingers running over its surface, tracing the delicate joints of the hand frozen in time. The cut was deliberate. Precise. A choice, not an accident.

Clover.

His mind fell into silence. He saw the clean severance, the undeniable will behind it. A hand removed for survival. A sacrifice made with intent.

His breath left him in a slow exhale.

"You cut your arm off," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

---

Flashback
Unity Haven.

The slums beneath the flooded streets reeked of sweat, rust, and decay. A city of survivors, of liars, of people who would sell their own kin for a handful of gold.

And one had.

Mordecai walked through the shadowed alley, his cane tapping lightly against the stone. The voices at the end of the passage stilled. He already knew. The filth of desperation was thick in the air.

He turned the corner. A scrawny possumkin, shaking from some poison he’d fed his veins, chattered nervously with a ratkin. But the moment they saw him, their faces turned to terror.

The ratkin ran. Coward.

The possumkin wasn't so fast. He barely had time to turn before Mordecai swung. The cane struck his temple, sending him sprawling into the filth. He scrambled, reaching for the fence, his fingers clawing at the wood.

Mordecai stepped forward. Slow. Measured. Inevitable.

A thin, wheezing voice. "O-o-oh, Mord-Mor-Mordecai! I mean, Dr. Willowmire!" A nervous, guilty laugh. "F-funny running into you here, yes?"

Mordecai didn’t smile. He simply removed the cap from his cane, letting the bayonet hiss free.

The possumkin shrank back, his trembling hand gripping something in his pocket.

Mordecai saw. And he reacted.

The bayonet plunged down, pinning the creature’s hand to the stone.

A scream, high and ragged. Blood pooled, staining his fur, leaking into the filth beneath him.

Mordecai remained still. Unshaken. Unmoved. He shifted the blade, flicking it lightly, forcing the possumkin’s twitching fingers to release their secret. A small pouch of gold spilled onto the ground.

Blood money.

Mordecai tilted his head slightly, as if weighing something unseen. “So I was right.”

The possumkin gasped, eyes darting wildly, trying to stitch together a lie that would save him.

Mordecai crouched down, his voice steady. Cold. Final.

“A fool,” he murmured. “You thought you could sell my name, gamble my life for a handful of coin?” He sighed, shaking his head. “For what, exactly? Another night of drowning in your own rot?”

The possumkin stuttered. Words formed and died before they could take shape. Excuses. None that mattered.

Mordecai leaned in. The bayonet pressed against the creature’s throat, a breath away from sinking in.

But it didn’t.

Instead, he spoke.

"You used your hands to sign my death warrant.” A pause. Measured. Calculated. His next words landed like a sentence passed.

“Now, you’ll learn to live without them.”

The possumkin barely had time to widen his eyes before the blade struck again.

A flash of steel. A violent scream.

And then— severance.

The arm fell, hitting the ground with a sickening wet slap.

The possumkin collapsed, writhing, his remaining hand clawing at his now empty shoulder. Blood poured, his cries turning to choked, garbled gasps. Shock settling in.

Mordecai watched. Not in anger. Not in regret.

Just ensuring the lesson was learned.

For a long moment, the only sound was the gurgling rasp of a man realizing his mistake too late.

Then, Mordecai stood.

His gaze flickered down to the coins, now soaked in blood.

He turned on his heel, the click of his cane the last thing the possumkin would ever hear.

---

Present
Mordecai exhaled, slow and deliberate, staring at Clover’s severed arm.

The fingers curled in a final, instinctive pull toward something unseen. An instinct made in a moment. A choice.

Like before.

He pushed himself up, staring at the empty space where Clover had once been. There would be no severed body, no corpse to retrieve. Clover had done what he had to.

Mordecai took a step back. He had seen enough. He understood.

It was time to go.

Umbrafane awaited. Ephraim awaited.

And soon—soon, the real planning would begin.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The night air was cool, heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine. The fire at the center of the camp had burned low, its embers pulsing a quiet orange glow, flickering shadows across the rough canvas of Ephraim’s tent. Beyond it, the sounds of the night folded around her—the distant rustle of leaves, the occasional crack of a branch under the weight of some unseen creature.

She sat cross-legged on a flat, uneven stump, her posture loose but focused, staring intently at the makeshift canvas she had propped up in front of her. A scrap of cloth, stretched across a salvaged wooden frame, its surface rough with streaks of color—some of it natural pigments from crushed berries and soil, some mixed with the fine soot from the fire.

Her fingers were stained, smudged with greens and deep reds, streaks of ochre trailing along the backs of her hands. A single brush—a crude thing she’d whittled down from a twig and a bundle of dried grass—rested between her fingers. It wasn’t much, but it worked well enough.

The painting before her was… well. It was supposed to be her.

At least, she thought so.

The shape was there, more or less. The curve of horns, the tilt of golden eyes, the shadowed lines meant to be fur—but something was missing.

She chewed the inside of her cheek, tilting her head as she assessed her own work.

The strokes were too stiff, the expression wasn’t quite right.

Was that her? Or just… the way she thought she looked?

Ephraim sighed through her nose, sitting back on her heels. Her tail gave a single flick, a slow, pensive movement, before settling again.

She hadn’t planned on doing this tonight. She wasn’t a painter. But something had driven her to sit down, gather what she could, and try. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the need to see herself in a way that words couldn't quite manage.

Or maybe—she just wanted to make something that was hers.

She dipped the brush into a mix of berry-stained water, dragging it lightly along the edges of the face. Still wrong. The weight wasn’t there. The reflection didn’t quite match.

A quiet wind stirred the trees.

Somewhere behind her, the fire crackled.

Ephraim wiped her wrist against her forehead, leaving a smear of color behind. Then she set the brush down, exhaling slow.

---

They moved through the heart of the camp, the weight of the sanctuary pressing in around them. The scent of burning oil mixed with damp wood, and Zoof could hear the distant murmur of voices carrying over the water, the measured rhythm of a place that ran on control, on discipline.

Then the air changed.

Leviathian stiffened beside her, just enough for Zoof to notice. His golden eyes flicked forward, sharpening—not with alarm, but with recognition. A silent warning.

Zoof followed his gaze and saw her.

Karn.

She moved like she belonged to the space around her, every step deliberate, every shift of her cloak a statement of authority. The deep red fabric draped over her shoulders like bloodstained feathers, fastened at her collarbone with a simple clasp. Her hooked beak, chipped and weathered from years of battles, caught the light, and her golden wristbands clinked softly as she walked.

She was speaking to one of her lieutenants, her voice low, her tone measured. Zoof couldn't hear the words, but she didn’t need to. Karn was always issuing orders, always moving pieces into place.

And then she turned.

Her sharp eyes landed on them.

Leviathian didn’t hesitate. He slowed just enough to be respectful, dipping his head in acknowledgment. Zoof followed his lead, keeping her hood low, her posture unassuming. A traveler, a stray he’d picked up—nothing worth noticing.

Karn’s gaze swept over Leviathian first, her expression unreadable. Then it flickered to Zoof.

Zoof kept still. She could feel the weight of that stare, the scrutiny. Karn didn’t waste glances. She didn’t look at things that weren’t important.

“This one’s new.” Karn’s voice was smooth, edged with something sharper beneath. She didn’t ask questions—she made observations.

“Found her near the deadwood,” Leviathian answered easily, his tone flat. “Drifting. Good instincts, from what I’ve seen.”

Karn tilted her head slightly, her vulturekin feathers shifting against the line of her cloak. “Drifting,” she echoed, as if testing the word.

Zoof didn't flinch. Didn’t react.

Karn studied her for another long moment before turning away, as if dismissing something unimportant.

“She’ll stay in the lower quarter until I decide if she’s worth keeping.” Karn’s attention was already moving on, returning to her lieutenant, to whatever order she’d been in the middle of giving.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Silvano lounged against the thick trunk of an old tree, stretched across a sturdy branch like a creature born for the wild. His golden eyes, sharp and gleaming in the low light, caught the subtle movement below—a figure slipping through the trees, shoulders heavy, stride measured.

A grin curled at the edges of Silvano’s muzzle.

"My, my… the prodigal son returns." The words left him in a whisper, laced with amusement, a private joke only he would hear. He tilted his head, resting back against the bark, watching.

Mordecai, unaware or simply unbothered, continued forward, stepping past the watchful treeline and into the quiet embrace of Umbrafane.

Eryon stood near the center of the camp, his massive frame unmistakable even in the dim glow of the remaining embers. He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, acknowledging Mordecai’s arrival with a simple nod—a warrior’s greeting, brief but understood.

Mordecai returned it, saying nothing. But his fingers curled slightly tighter around his cane.

His steps slowed as he neared their shared living space, standing just outside for a breath longer than necessary. The night pressed against him—cool, still, expectant. His thoughts churned, restless.

Avarice wasn’t here. That was the first thing he noticed. The Harlekin… his grip twitched against his cane. Edrom, woven into him now, settling into the cracks of his being like it had always been there.

He sighed, a low exhale through his nose, before pressing forward. No more hesitating.

The door pushed open, his cane tapping against the worn wood floor as he stepped inside.

Ephraim was hunched slightly over a rough canvas, her brow furrowed in concentration. The faint scent of crushed berries and soot lingered in the air, mixing with the earthy weight of the night. Mordecai’s gaze flickered to the painting—not judging, just observing.

"Seems like someone picked up a new hobby."

His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual sharp edge.

The exhaustion was there, woven into the lines of his face, into the set of his shoulders. His wounds from Katya were healed, but the weight of others remained.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s ear flicked at the sound of Mordecai’s voice, but she didn’t turn right away. Instead, she let the brush linger against the canvas for a moment longer, dragging a thin, uncertain stroke across the edge of her own painted form. It still wasn’t right. She still wasn’t right.

A small huff left her nose as she finally leaned back, dropping the brush into a bowl of water stained with berry-red streaks.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite as talented as you,” she said, her voice light, but edged with something quieter, something uncertain.

She turned then, golden eyes flickering over him, searching—not for wounds, but for signs of something deeper, something she couldn’t see at a glance. He looked… fine. No fresh bruises, no blood. But exhaustion weighed on him, an invisible thing that settled in the way he stood, the way he spoke.

Her brow furrowed slightly.

“I was worried,” she admitted, rubbing a hand over the smudges of paint on her arm. “I thought I got a message that you were hurt… maybe it was my mind playing tricks.”

Her gaze swept over him again, slower this time. He looked good. Or, at the very least, in one piece.

Then her expression flickered, shifting, her ears angling slightly forward.

“Where is Avarice?”

---

They walked in silence for a while, slipping deeper into the sanctuary’s winding paths. The further they went, the fewer people they passed. The voices of warriors and scholars faded behind them, swallowed by the rhythmic hush of the pond’s slow-moving water.

Zoof kept her stride measured, but her mind was still turning over what had just happened. She dismissed me.

She had expected scrutiny. Had expected something. But Karn had looked at her, looked through her, and moved on without a second thought.

Beside her, Leviathian finally exhaled, a low sound of measured breath. “You noticed it, didn’t you?”

Zoof glanced at him beneath her hood. “That she didn’t recognize me?” Her voice was quiet, edged with something sharper. “Hard to miss.”

Leviathian shook his head slightly. “Not that. The way she looked at you.”

Zoof frowned. “Like I wasn’t worth her time?”

His golden eyes flicked toward her. “Like you were just another stray woman under her domain.” He didn’t slow his pace, but there was something thoughtful in his tone. “If you had been a man, she would’ve questioned it more. Would’ve asked me why I brought another one into her ranks.”

Zoof processed that. She had seen the way the men were treated in the outer camp—the rigid control, the firm hand that kept them in line. But women? Women had moved through the sanctuary with authority, had spoken freely without the same weight of scrutiny.

“She reveres them,” Leviathian continued, keeping his voice low as they moved along the path. “Not as equals—more like… something else. Something above. She doesn’t just rule over them; she sees them as the only ones worthy of rulership.”

Zoof narrowed her eyes. “Then why dismiss me so quickly?”

Leviathian’s jaw flexed. “Because, to her, you’re just another woman seeking refuge in her domain. She assumes you already understand your place here.” He tilted his head slightly. “You weren’t standing beside me as an outsider. You were standing beside me as someone who already belongs.”

Zoof let that settle, her fingers curling beneath the sleeves of her robe. Belonging. That was an odd word to hear here, in a place built from the remains of a woman who had burned her past behind her.

Leviathian kept speaking, his voice quiet but firm. “She doesn’t question women who follow the order she’s built. She doesn’t expect them to be threats, because she doesn’t think they need to fight against her. She believes she’s given them something better.” His expression darkened. “But if you were a man? She would’ve made you prove yourself.”

Zoof absorbed that, rolling it over in her mind like a blade against a whetstone. It made sense now. Karn hadn’t seen a threat because she hadn’t thought to see one. She assumed Zoof had already accepted her rule. Assumed that, like the others, she had come here to stand beneath her banner.

Zoof’s lips curled into something sharp. Good. Let her think that.

“That’s why you’ve lasted so long here,” she mused. “Why she lets you close.”

Leviathian’s gaze flicked forward again, unreadable. “I know my place. Or at least, I let her think I do.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s gaze lingered on her painting, tracing the strokes she seemed dissatisfied with. He could see it in the way her ears angled, in the way her hand hovered near the canvas, like she wanted to fix it but didn’t know how.

"We all interpret and perceive things differently," he said, his voice quieter now, considering. "You’re finding your own way—your own message in this. Maybe for others. Maybe for yourself." There was no judgment in his tone, only an acknowledgment. A discovery, hers to make.

He exhaled, slow and measured. "No, you weren’t wrong. It wasn’t your mind playing tricks."

He lifted his shirt slightly, revealing the scar that ran across his side—a reminder more than a wound now, a mark left behind even after the pain had passed.

Mordecai let the fabric fall back into place as he sat down, rubbing his temple briefly. "I don’t know about Avarice," he admitted. "We didn’t get far. We were on the bridge when a Harlekin attacked. I—" He stopped, just for a second. His mind pulled back to the fight. The speed of it. The way it turned too fast. How quickly he had fallen.

"She hit me hard—first strike. It happened so fast. I went over the edge, blacked out. When I came to—" He hesitated. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes, subtle but there.

"Someone found me. Dragged me to safety. Treated my wounds." His ear twitched slightly, a small flick of movement, restless, like shaking off an unwanted thought. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t linger on it.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers pressing briefly at his temple before letting them drop. "I don’t know where Avarice is now." He exhaled. "We got separated when I fell. I think he got away."

His voice didn’t waver, but there was a weight beneath it. Something unresolved.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim stilled, her brush hovering just above the canvas before she finally set it down. Not carefully, not with the same thoughtful deliberation as before—just put aside, forgotten for now. Her hands found her knees as she sat back, watching him, listening.

Then, simply—

“It’s okay.”

A response so unlike her that even she seemed surprised by it.

Mordecai wasn’t wrong to expect her to panic—to demand answers, to insist that they go find Avarice right now. That was how she should have reacted. That was how she always reacted.

But she didn’t.

She let out a slow breath, ears angling slightly backward, not in distress, but in thought.

"We were attacked by a Harlekin too."

She met his gaze, the weight of that realization settling in between them.

"Maybe it’s something they coordinated when we separated."

It made sense. Too much sense. They had been split, weakened, and their enemies had taken advantage of it.

Her hands curled against the fabric of her pants, her fingers streaked with paint, but not shaking.

"I should have never asked you guys to leave."

Her voice didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of frustration beneath it—directed at herself, at the decision she had made, at the way it had cost them more than she anticipated.

She exhaled through her nose, steady but measured, as if she were forcing herself to process before reacting.

"I thought it had been calm enough for a while, and we could use an edge up. Clearly, that wasn’t the case."

There it was—the regret, the quiet admittance of failure. Not dramatic, not overblown, just a fact that she had to live with.

Her fingers tightened briefly, but then, just as quickly, they relaxed.

"But Avarice will be fine."

Her voice was firm now, like she wasn’t just saying it for Mordecai, but for herself, too.

"He’s not ready to be out on his own, but he’s resilient. And he knows that he can’t do it alone. He’ll find someone to lean on. Are you okay?"

It wasn’t a desperate hope—it was a certainty.

---

The quarters Leviathian led her to were simple, built with function in mind rather than comfort. The wooden structures rose in quiet rows, each one identical to the next, set along the inner edge of the pond where the warriors and lesser-ranked members of Karn’s settlement lived. It was a space meant for those who were valued but not yet fully trusted.

A safe place to keep an eye on things.

Zoof stepped inside the small dwelling Leviathian indicated, taking quick stock of her surroundings. A cot against the far wall, a table with a dim lantern, a trunk for personal belongings—bare essentials. It was no better or worse than she expected.

She let the door close behind them, waiting just long enough to hear the soft click of the latch before turning to Leviathian. “You sure about this?” she asked, pulling her hood back, her crimson mane spilling over her shoulders.

Leviathian gave her a look, exasperated but familiar. “It’s not a matter of being sure. It’s a matter of whether you can keep up the act.”

Zoof snorted and unfastened the sash of her borrowed robes, letting them shift more comfortably over her frame. “You just watched me get dismissed like I was some lost pup. I don’t think she’s going to be looking at me too closely.”

Leviathian leaned against the wooden frame of the door, arms crossed, his gaze sharp despite his relaxed stance. “Don’t get comfortable. Karn might not see you as a threat yet, but she’s not blind. If you start making waves too soon, she will notice.”

Zoof met his gaze evenly. “I know how to wait.”

A silence stretched between them, not tense, but weighted. They both knew how to wait. They had been doing it for years.

Finally, Leviathian exhaled, shifting his weight. “There’s a meeting tomorrow. Karn’s inner circle. I won’t be in it, but I’ll know what’s being decided.”

Zoof raised a brow. “Let me guess—some plan to expand her grip on the region?”

His expression darkened slightly. “Something like that. She’s been pushing to control the Riftkin populations outside the settlement—thinks she can tame them. Or at least, use them.”

Zoof huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s bold, even for her.”

Leviathian’s jaw tightened. “She doesn’t see limits the way others do.”

Zoof let that sit between them for a moment. Then, softer, she asked, “And you? You’ve been in her ranks for a while now. What do you see?”

Leviathian was quiet for a long moment before he finally spoke. “I see a woman who thinks she’s above consequence. Who believes what she’s built here is stronger than the people she’s broken to get it.” His golden eyes flicked to Zoof’s, unreadable but heavy with something deep and old. “She doesn’t remember our city. Doesn’t remember us. Because to her, it was just another step toward power.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched her carefully as she spoke, noting the steadiness in her voice, the certainty in her words. It wasn’t panic—it wasn’t even fear. But there was something else beneath it. Something she wasn’t voicing.

Regret.

He exhaled, leaning forward slightly, reaching out, resting a hand on her shoulder. It was a brief touch, solid and grounding.

"You didn’t know. We didn’t know. It’s okay," he said, meeting her eyes. "These problems—these forces—they crept up on us faster than we expected. I don’t think we could have been prepared. But now we know."

His fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her sleeve before he pulled back, debating his next words. Then, finally, he spoke.

"I killed a Harlekin." The words sat heavy in the air, heavier in his chest. He hadn’t said that aloud before. He hadn’t spoken of killing in a long time. "Not the one that attacked us. Another."

He let the weight of that settle, his gaze flicking downward for just a moment. "Their masks," he continued. "That’s their weakness. When it breaks, they’re gone."

His mind wandered—to the way the body crumpled, to the way the fight had turned, to the moment it had felt… easy. Like slipping into something he had long since buried. He inhaled, pushing it back down.

"We need to get serious. No more guessing, no more running blind. For now, nobody leaves. No splitting up. We need to pull everyone in, lock this place down, get ahead of this before we’re caught off guard again."

His voice had taken on that edge again—sharp, certain, like the decision had already been made.

Then, Avarice.

Mordecai’s mind flickered back to the dagger mark on the tree, the rope, the trails left behind. Avarice was trying to lead him somewhere. Or at the very least, leave a message. He didn’t know if the boy was alright. But he had to believe he was.

His thoughts were interrupted by her question.

"Are you okay?"

His gaze flickered, caught in the moment. His instinct was to brush it off, to say something dismissive, something final.

No. He wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been for a while now. And the cracks were only getting deeper.

"...I'm exhausted." The words left him quieter than intended. He started to say more—almost said but it’s fine, almost forced some reassurance into the space between them. But he let it die there.

Instead, he shifted. "Are you okay?" His eyes moved over her, scanning, taking in the lack of injury. No bruises. No blood. No signs of a fight. Whole.

"I'm glad whoever came here didn’t leave their mark," he said, and for the first time since he had stepped into the tent, his shoulders eased. Just slightly.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s fingers toyed with the brush in her hands, turning it over and over between her fingertips, the dried bristles scratching faintly against her palm. Her eyes flickered downward, tracking the movements without really seeing them.

"The masks are interesting, for sure," she said after a moment, her voice measured. "The one that came here… he was a hyena. And on his mask, there was a J."

She let the words sit between them for a beat before continuing.

"I tried to connect with Rathiel about it, but he didn’t reply. He had already given me a lot, though… a vision of sorts."

She didn’t elaborate immediately. Instead, she let her thoughts wander, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around the brush, before finally looking back up at Mordecai.

"I am…"

She hesitated—not because she didn’t know how to answer, but because she didn’t know how much of the truth to give.

"I’m okay."

It was half true.

"I agree with your thoughts. We need to figure out how to pull all this off… in the last timelines, from what I remember, we didn’t really know that we were… working towards an objective."

Her frustration flickered through, the faintest crease forming between her brows as she exhaled sharply through her nose.

"And now that we know it and can see it, we’re floundering a bit, aren’t we?"

She hated it. The uncertainty. The feeling of having all the puzzle pieces but none of the clarity to put them together.

Her tail flicked behind her, an unconscious display of irritation.

"I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, when we met with Rathiel. And this—this isn’t even the worst of it yet."

Her grip on the brush tightened.

"At least you’ve killed one, I suppose…"

The words sounded almost hollow. Not dismissive, but detached, like she was still processing what that really meant.

Her eyes darkened slightly, as if the weight of something unspoken pressed against her.

"The one that came here… at first, I thought maybe it was just darkness. That’s what made him feral. But now? I’m not so sure that’s the case."

She lifted a hand, absently brushing her fingers against the pendant at her throat. The weight of it was solid—a tether, a reminder, an anchor.

"Maybe they’re all just truly evil."

The words came quieter, but the bite behind them was unmistakable.

"Maybe we do need to take them out. Crush them like little bugs under our fingers."

A shift. A crack. Something unlike her.

The brush in her grip snapped, the dried wood splintering under the pressure of her fingers.

She blinked down at the broken pieces in her hand, momentarily startled by her own strength.

That wasn’t…

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if to clear it.

"We need a plan," she said, her voice steadier now, pressing past whatever had just bled through her.

---

Zoof was sitting cross-legged on the cot, running a whetstone over the edge of a dagger she’d lifted off some careless warrior earlier in the day. It wasn’t much, but it was something to occupy her hands. Something to keep her from pacing.

The door opened without warning.

Leviathian stepped inside, shutting it behind him in one smooth motion. His face was unreadable, but she could see the tension in his frame—the kind he only carried when something was off.

Zoof set the dagger down, tilting her head. “That bad?”

He didn’t answer right away. He moved to the opposite wall, arms crossing over his chest, his tail flicking once in irritation before stilling.

“She’s sending me out,” he said finally. “On a mission.” Leviathian exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking toward the door before settling on her again. “Since today, apparently. She pulled me aside after the meeting. Told me I’m needed to oversee a negotiation with an outer settlement.” His voice was flat, but Zoof could hear the edge beneath it.

“She’s testing you.”

Leviathian nodded once. “I think so. The timing’s too sudden.”

Zoof leaned back slightly, watching him. “She didn’t give any indication that she suspected you, did she?”

“No.” His jaw tightened. “But she’s always watching. And she doesn’t like when things get too predictable.”

Zoof ran her tongue over the sharp edge of a fang, thinking. This wasn’t ideal. They had been careful, patient, waiting for the right moment to make their move. If Leviathian was being sent away—especially on a whim—that meant Karn was shifting the board.

“You have to go,” she said after a moment, matter-of-fact.

Leviathian grunted. “I know.”

Zoof rolled her shoulders. “That means I’m holding my own here.”

He gave her a look. “Can you?”

A slow, sharp smile pulled at her lips. “Can they handle me?”

Leviathian huffed, just barely amused. “Just don’t make yourself a target. Stay in the background.”

Zoof smirked. “You’re the one who said Karn dismisses women who fall in line. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll blend in, listen, watch.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Not when she spoke of the Harlekin. Not when she snapped the brush in her grip like it was nothing. Not even when her words took that edge—sharp, uncharacteristic, like something was bleeding through her that didn’t quite belong.

He didn’t react outright. Didn’t flinch. Just watched.

Then, slowly, his gaze drifted lower, toward the pendant at her throat. A tool. A tether. A weapon. One that Rathiel had placed in her hands, just as he had placed one in Mordecai’s.

Mordecai’s jaw tensed slightly, his fingers tightening over the cane’s grip as something cold, something wary, settled at the back of his mind.

Was this Rathiel’s influence?

His ear flicked, but he didn’t speak on it. Not yet.

Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, let the weight of her own words settle before finally, quietly, he asked—

"If you could go back to the old timeline… would you?"

It was an unexpected shift, but it was deliberate.

Not a challenge. Not an accusation. Just… a question.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s fingers lingered at the pendant, tracing its familiar edges, as if the weight of the question had settled there instead of her chest.

“The old timeline…?”

She repeated it slowly, like she was turning it over in her mind, as if testing how it felt in her mouth before truly answering.

“No, I don’t think so.”

There was no hesitation—just a quiet certainty, though her voice was softer than before.

“You were… much older then.”

A small pause. A slight shift in her tone—a deflection, a redirection.

“I was much older.”

She ran her fingers lightly over the pendant again, an absent, thoughtful movement, before exhaling.

“And magic was… uncontained.”

The words came as if she were reminding herself just as much as she was telling him. A fact, one that held a weight they both understood.

She let the thought rest there, before shaking her head slightly, brushing it away.

“Not much use dwelling on hypotheticals, though.”

Her golden eyes flicked back up to him, gaze steady, searching. Then, after a beat—

“I do wonder sometimes.” Her voice softened, the frustration from earlier giving way to something else. Something farther away, quieter, maybe even wistful.

“What our kids will be like.”

She tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth quirking in something not quite a smile, but close.

“What kind of world they’ll walk into.”

The words weren’t spoken with fear or regret—just curiosity, maybe even hope.

---

The door shut behind Leviathian, sealing Zoof in the dim glow of the lantern. She stayed still, her breath measured, listening to the muffled life of the camp beyond the thin wooden walls.

Stay in the background.

She hated waiting. Hated holding back. She had spent years waiting, clawing her way through the ruins of a world Karn had burned down, biding her time while Leviathian worked his way into her inner circle. And now, when the pieces were finally in place, she was expected to sit still?

Zoof clicked her claws idly against the edge of the dagger she’d been sharpening.

If she had to play the part, she would. Blending in didn’t mean staying locked away. It meant being seen in ways that didn’t matter. Moving through the camp without drawing suspicion. Listening, watching—learning the shape of Karn’s empire from the inside.

Zoof stood, slipping the dagger into the loose folds of her robes before pulling the hood over her head. Then she moved to the door, cracked it open just enough to check the path ahead.

She didn’t get the chance to step outside.

Because Karn was already there.

Zoof barely had time to still her breath before the vulturekin leader spoke.

“I told you to wait.”

The words were not loud, but they didn’t need to be. Karn’s voice was controlled, a blade pressed just close enough to remind you it was there.

Zoof turned her head slowly, keeping her expression carefully neutral. The firelight from a nearby lantern caught on Karn’s golden wristbands, gleaming against her feathered shoulders. Her cloak, deep red and worn from years of survival, draped over her frame like a mantle of authority.

Zoof dipped her chin slightly, keeping her posture unassuming. “Wasn’t planning on going far,” she said evenly.

Karn stepped closer, slow and deliberate, stopping just at the threshold of the doorway. Close enough that Zoof could feel the weight of her presence, the sharpness behind her gaze.

“Your place is here.” Karn’s eyes flicked over Zoof’s hooded form, assessing, measuring. “Until I decide otherwise.”

Zoof kept still, kept her ears relaxed, her body language unreadable. But she knew a test when she saw one. Karn had dismissed her earlier, but that didn’t mean she had forgotten her.

The woman didn’t trust her yet.

Zoof forced a slow breath, giving a small, obedient nod. “Understood.”

Karn tilted her head slightly, watching her with the quiet patience of a predator deciding whether something was worth eating.

“Good.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stilled, his fingers pressing against his knee, the rhythm of his idle drumming ceasing as Ephraim’s words settled in.

The old timeline. The past.

She spoke of it with certainty, with a sense of distance, as if it was a chapter closed, something that had been and would never be again. But Mordecai knew better. He felt better.

The past did not die so easily.

It lived in the jagged edges of his thoughts, in the way his instincts sharpened when he held his cane too tight, in the way his mind wandered back to places and choices he had buried but never let go.

It spoke to him, in a voice he had long tried to drown out.

"You are trapped in old ways. You run from it, but you know who you have been before. The roots, deep still inside you. Ephraim would have feared if she saw who you truly were in the old timeline. Not just Wrath. The things you did. You know what you did, Mordecai. You try and hide it from the others, but you know what you are."

Not Rathiel’s voice. Not Edrom’s.

His own. A past version of himself, speaking as if it had been waiting for an opening.

He did not push it away.

Instead, he sat in it, let it linger, let it claw through the quiet.

Maybe they’re all just truly evil.

Ephraim’s words echoed in his head, folding into the voice that had never quite left him.

"If someone like her, someone once embodied with Mercy, who always sought to find the good in someone can say that? Then you know how she would have really felt about you."

Mordecai exhaled through his nose, his fingers briefly rubbing at his temple before he forced himself back into the present.

Ephraim’s voice, softer now. Not like before.

What our kids will be like.

He nodded slightly, the weight of that thought pulling him back just enough.

"We'll keep them safe."

The words left him quieter than intended. A promise, not just to her but to himself.

It was all he could give.

Mordecai pushed himself to his feet, adjusting his grip on his cane.

"I think I need to work on something in my workshop for a while."

He glanced at her, tired but steady, eyes scanning over her.

"You should get some rest."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

A small huff of amusement left her nose, but she didn’t argue.

"I’ll try," she said, though they both knew that was a lie.

She let her fingers run over the broken brush at her side before flicking her gaze back to him.

"Don’t disappear on me, alright?"

---

Zoof didn’t know where they were going, but she followed Karn without question.

It wasn’t the first time she’d walked in the wake of a tyrant.

They moved deeper into the sanctuary, past the wooden walkways and the quiet murmurs of warriors at rest. The soft glow of lanterns flickered against the bark of ancient trees, casting long shadows over the pristine water of the pond that cut through the settlement’s heart. The air here was different, richer—damp with the scent of earth, but touched by incense and the crisp freshness of water.

Zoof didn’t ask questions. She played her part.

Karn led her through a narrow path into a cavern entrance, one carved by time and shaped by careful hands. The moment they stepped inside, the shift was immediate. The air thickened, cooler than the humid warmth outside, the scent of burning resin curling through the dimly lit space. The tunnel sloped downward before widening into a chamber beyond.

It was quiet here. Purposefully so.

Karn stepped forward, unhurried, her feathers shifting as she moved. Zoof followed, her ears twitching beneath the hood of her robe, taking in every detail.

The chamber was small but deliberate. In the center, a low wooden table sat atop a woven mat, its surface holding three objects:

• A wooden sculpture of a vulture, meticulously carved, its details sharp, deliberate.
• A small, weathered carving of the goatkin god Rathiel, its surface worn smooth from years of touch.
• A shallow bowl, its rim blackened from countless burnings of incense.

Zoof’s gaze flicked to Karn, but the vulturekin woman was already lowering herself onto a cushion across the table, her movements as fluid as ever. She gestured for Zoof to sit.

Zoof did, keeping her posture easy, relaxed.

For a long moment, Karn said nothing. She simply watched her, eyes dark, unreadable.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“Choose.”

The word was quiet, but it carried weight.

Zoof’s fingers twitched against her knee. A test.

She kept her expression neutral, her eyes flicking over the objects once more. She could guess the meaning behind them—the vulture, a representation of Karn’s rule. The carving of Rathiel, a god of old, tied to faith and tradition. And the bowl, a symbol of offering, of sacrifice.

A question disguised as a choice.

Zoof had been in places like this before, forced to make decisions in rooms where every option was a trap.

So what do you want from me, Karn?

Zoof let her gaze settle on the objects, fingers brushing against the fabric of her robe as she reached forward—slow, thoughtful. Then, with practiced ease, she picked up the bowl.

It was lighter than she expected, its rim smooth beneath her fingertips.

Only then did she meet Karn’s gaze.

“You burn things to understand them,” Zoof said evenly. “To reshape them. To know what’s worth keeping.”

Karn’s expression remained unreadable.

Zoof tilted the bowl slightly. “Fire isn’t destruction. Not always. Sometimes it’s just a way to see what’s left.”

A pause.

Then Karn’s beak twitched, the faintest ghost of something resembling amusement passing through her eyes.

“You think you understand fire?” she asked.

Zoof set the bowl back down, just as carefully as she had picked it up.

“I understand what survives it.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, Karn leaned back slightly, her golden wristbands catching the dim light. “Interesting.”

Karn’s dark eyes held Zoof’s as she reached forward, sweeping the incense bowl and other objects from the table. The motion was slow, deliberate—every action meant to test, to measure.

Zoof didn’t move, didn’t let any shift in expression betray the thoughts running beneath the surface.

In place of the objects, Karn laid down three cards, face down, each precisely positioned where the objects had rested before.

Her clawed fingers tapped once against the wood.

“Tell me, Zoof,” Karn said, her voice carrying the weight of expectation. “What were you before the Hollow Dawn?”

Zoof felt the shift in the air between them. The weight of the question wasn’t about history—it was about identity. Karn wanted to see if she would hesitate. If she would lie.

She didn’t.

“A survivor,” Zoof answered, the words leaving her lips with practiced ease. It wasn’t a lie. It was just not the whole truth.

Karn’s eyes flickered with something—perhaps approval, perhaps curiosity. But she did not press.

Instead, she gestured toward the three cards before them. “Choose,” she commanded.

Zoof’s gaze lowered, taking in the three identical backs, the worn edges of cards that had been handled too many times before. There was no pattern, no obvious difference.

Another test.

She reached forward, fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before pressing down against the right card.

“This one.”

Karn’s expression did not shift, but Zoof could feel the way she observed. Calculating. Measuring.

Slowly, Karn flipped the card over with a precise motion, revealing the painted image beneath.

Zoof’s eyes flicked over the depiction, the single word etched at the top:

OBSIDIAN.

The illustration was dark, sharp-edged—jagged formations of volcanic glass that caught the light, fractured but still whole. The veins of red and gold running through the cracks gave it the illusion of something still burning, still alive.

Karn tilted her head slightly, considering.

“Obsidian,” she murmured. “Glass born from fire.”

Zoof said nothing, waiting.

Karn’s claws tapped lightly against the card’s edge. “It does not break easily. But it does shatter.” She let the words sit between them for a beat before continuing. “It cuts deep. Yet in the right hands, it is a tool, a weapon, something to be shaped.”

Her sharp eyes lifted to meet Zoof’s. “Fitting.”

Zoof merely inclined her head slightly, neither confirming nor denying anything Karn implied.

Silence settled again, broken only by the faint sounds of the sanctuary beyond the cavern walls—the water’s steady movement, distant voices murmuring outside.

Then Karn shifted, “If I let you stay here, if I let you walk freely within the sanctuary, tell me now—will you try to harm me or my kin?”

Her feathers shifted slightly as she leaned forward, eyes dark and knowing. “I hate surprises.”

She let the weight of the question settle.

Zoof met Karn’s gaze head-on.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stepped out into the cool night air, Ephraim’s words still pressing at the edges of his thoughts.

"Don’t disappear on me, alright?"

A breath left him, barely audible, as he moved toward his workshop—his hideaway, as Eryon called it. A place removed from the others, built of rough stone and sturdy hands, tucked just far enough from the heart of camp that no one would wander in by accident.

Inside, the air was thick with old scents—burnt herbs, acrid oils, the faint metallic bite of alchemical reagents long since dried into the cracks of the wooden workbenches. Glass bottles, some empty, some half-filled with unknown substances, crowded the surfaces alongside discarded scraps of parchment covered in scrawled notes. A mortar and pestle sat askew, dusted with remnants of something ground to powder. Nearby, a long-forgotten cup of tea had gone cold, untouched.

The space was cluttered, but not careless.

Mordecai stepped inside and immediately locked the door behind him, sliding the bolt into place with a quiet clack. He reached for a woven cloth tucked against the wall, rolling it carefully and stuffing it beneath the door’s frame. No drafts. No disturbances. The air in here needed to stay.

Satisfied, he exhaled, finally sinking into his chair. His cane rested against his knee, his fingers absently running along the grooves of the carved goat skull.

"I'm unsure what it is I need. Clarity? Or if I'm just trying to escape to something else. Whether to claim something, prove my thoughts true."

The words came unbidden, quiet but heavy, pressing into the solitude like an unseen weight.

"I'm unsure. But—"

His grip tightened on the cane.

"Edrom. I need the fog."

The response was immediate.

A slow exhale of mist curled from the cane’s skeletal maw, rolling outward, stretching through the workshop in thick, silken tendrils. The fog spread quickly, filling every space, wrapping around the cluttered shelves, the scattered papers, the old bottles. It moved like something alive—something knowing.

Mordecai closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair, letting the weight of it settle around him.

This was different from Rathiel’s shadows. It wasn’t possession. It wasn’t control.

It was something else entirely.

Edrom did not demand. It did not twist.

It only revealed.

And as the mist deepened, as it curled through the dim lantern light, Mordecai let himself sink into it.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. Not yet.

But maybe, for once, something would find him.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The air between them was thick—silent, weighted, waiting.

Zoof held Karn’s gaze, steady and unreadable, though her fingers twitched once against the fabric of her robes. The vulturekin leader had tested her twice already, probing with sharp edges disguised as rituals, tradition, and meaning.

But this question?

This was the real test.

Zoof’s claws curled beneath the folds of her sleeves, pressing lightly into her palms as she considered her words. Karn wasn’t asking for an answer—she was asking for truth.

Anything too careful, too rehearsed, and she would see it.

Anything too soft, and she would question Zoof’s worth.

Anything too direct, and she might decide Zoof wasn’t worth the risk.

Karn’s feathers shifted slightly, a subtle reminder that she was waiting.

Zoof let a slow breath pass through her nose, let her shoulders ease just enough to make it look natural. Then she spoke.

“I didn’t come here to cause trouble,” she said, voice even, calm. “I came here because I know when to follow power.”

---

The fog thickened, rolling in slow, curling tendrils that stretched beyond the confines of the workshop. It moved unnaturally, not like smoke, not like mist, but something heavier, something alive. It did not simply obscure the space—it rewrote it.

The room around Mordecai warped, its edges bending in ways that were not meant for wood and stone. The walls, the workbenches, the cluttered shelves—all of it seemed to stretch and contract, breathing in time with something unseen. The scent of old parchment, acrid oils, and dust was swept away, replaced by something unplaceable. The metallic tang of memory. The thick heat of a fire that had not yet started. The electric stillness of the air before a storm.

The world twisted.

The ceiling curled overhead, beams unraveling like ribbons of ink suspended in water. The floor beneath him cracked apart without breaking, shifting in and out of place like a puzzle that had never been meant to fit together. Shapes flickered at the edges of the fog, blurred figures pressing forward, their features half-formed, dissolving before they could take hold.

Then, something solid. Something fixed.

A figure.

Tall. Perfectly aligned. Poised.

The fog curled around it, thick and knowing, bleeding through the hollow spaces where eyes should have been, where a mouth should have formed. It did not move, but the weight of it pressed outward, as though the air itself had given it space to exist.

The mist snapped, and the figure sharpened.

The same coat. The same cane. But the weight was different, the air around it denser. The carvings on the wood ran deeper, as though worn down by a grip that had never once loosened.

It was him.

But not as he was.

The face was untouched by exhaustion. The eyes did not hold hesitation. This was something else—something older, something built from years that had never been erased, only rewritten beneath the surface.

The air pressed in tighter. The fog coiled through the cracks of existence, its voice not spoken, but understood.

You know what you are.

The world rippled outward, yet the figure remained unchanged, standing within the fractures of memory, untouched by the distortion. The mist reached toward Mordecai, curling around his wrists, his shoulders, not to restrain him, but to make him feel.

If she knew what I knew, she wouldn’t say your name the way she does.

The words did not come from the figure’s mouth. They did not need to.

They were already inside him.

The fog surged. The space around them broke apart, frayed at the edges, twisting between what was real and what had always been waiting. The past did not ask for permission to return. It did not need to.

This was not a memory.

It was an invitation.

A door.



"A lot of people, are afraid, that when they die... they're going to be locked up in a dark room forever..."

Mordecai ran.

Or maybe he fell. Maybe there was no ground beneath him, only the suggestion of it, the pressure of movement without weight, without direction.

The space around him was endless, but tight, shifting as if breathing through unseen lungs. Clocks hung in the nothingness, some still, some spinning so violently their hands blurred into streaks of gold. Time wasn’t ticking—it was screaming, an unrelenting chorus of gears grinding against themselves, metal shrieking as it bent into shapes it was never meant to take.

Ice crawled over some of the clocks, thick, creeping frost, locking their faces in frozen silence. Others dripped, not melting, but weeping, their numbers sliding down like ink, pooling into the void before vanishing. And then—there were the ones with goat heads, their warped, fleshy faces stretched over brass casings, bleating in a chorus that came from nowhere and everywhere.

A noise like a heartbeat pulsed through the space.

No, not a heartbeat. Wings.

The air ripped apart behind him, something enormous breaking through the nothingness, chasing.

He knew what it was before he saw it.

Ashen.

Not as he had been. Not the half-raptor, half-emu creature he knew.

Just the head.

Enormous, looming, stretching too wide to be real. Feathers like cracks in reality itself, shifting between color and the void, a beak lined with teeth that should not exist.

The mouth opened.

No voice. No sound.

Just clocks imploding, twisting, falling inward as the space broke apart with each breath it took.

The goat-headed clocks began to wail, their bleats turning shrill, desperate, as if they understood something he didn’t. As if they saw what was waiting just beyond the fracture.

Mordecai ran.

His cane wasn’t in his hand anymore. He didn’t know when he lost it. Maybe he never had it at all.

The ice spread. The clocks wept. The space bent.

And Ashen laughed.

Not out loud, not in sound—but in the way time itself twisted.

Mordecai could feel it in his bones, could feel the shape of something wrong, something ancient and waiting, something laughing along with him but never at him.

It was laughing because it knew how this ended.

And Mordecai did not.

---

"Castiel," a voice stirred, "Castiel, are you awake?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Castiel’s eyes opened.

The name still clung to him, foreign and familiar all at once. The voice had pulled him from the haze of half-formed thoughts, yet for a moment, he wasn’t sure where he had been—where he was.

A breath. A blink. Reality settled in.

"Yes..." His voice was hoarse, weighed down by exhaustion, by the memories that never truly left. "I’m awake."

He sat up slowly, movements sluggish, the heaviness in his limbs more than just sleep. His body still bore the sharpness of youth—tall, slender, built not yet for war but for endurance. But the weight was already there. The years, the expectations, the noose tightening around his throat.

Castiel exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples. The tent around him was the same as always—cramped, stifling, wrapped in the suffocating trappings of the Sunship. The sigils. The scriptures. The woven bedroll on the floor. As if covering his walls with their symbols would make him one of them.

It didn’t. It never had.

Another day.

Another day inside what the Sunship called salvation, but what he knew was a cage. Some would have called him blessed, spared when his people were slaughtered, taken in, "raised" by the ones who had torn his home apart.

But they never asked him if he would have rather died.

His stomach curled at the thought. Seven years ago. He had been a child. He had watched it happen. His mother. His father. Their bodies—

He clenched his jaw, forcing the memories away before they could dig in deeper. No. He wouldn't go there. Not today.

He inhaled, controlled, steady. Just do what they say. Just get it over with.

His fingers moved without thought, reaching for the ceremonial robes folded beside his mat, their fabric pristine despite the blood that had brought him here. The sigils gleamed in the dim lantern light as he pulled them over his frame, the weight settling over his shoulders like a shroud.

With one final exhale, he stepped outside.

Liora was waiting. The ocelotkin. The priestess. The one who had shaped him like clay beneath her claws. She stood just beyond the tent’s threshold, adorned in her own ceremonial garb, her golden eyes sharp, calculating. Like always.

He met her gaze, unreadable. He was good at that now.

He gave her the answer she wanted. He was here. He was ready.

Even if he would never be.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Liora did not smile. She did not need to.

She did not need warmth, nor kindness, nor the empty pleasantries of lesser faiths to shape the world as she saw fit.

The boy before her—no, the man, for that is what they had shaped him into—was both. And yet, never enough.

The lanterns lining the Sunship’s paths flickered as she stepped forward, the crimson-gold fabric of her robes barely whispering against the ground. Her golden eyes settled on Castiel, slow and deliberate, weighing him, as she always did.

She could see it, the way exhaustion hung on him like a second skin. It did not concern her. It did not matter.

"Your mind lingers elsewhere."

Her voice was smooth, even, untouched by doubt or pity. A statement, not a question.

The night air carried the distant echo of chanting, of prayers murmured in reverence, in submission. The Sunship fed on worship, and tonight, the faithful would be watching.

Liora extended a single hand, not in offering, but in command.

"You will not falter, Castiel."

The name rested lightly on her tongue, but there was always something in the way she said it—as if testing how much of it still belonged to him.

"We stand before those who would see doubt as weakness, and weakness as failure."

She let the words settle, the weight of them binding, before turning sharply on her heel.

"Come."

She did not wait for him to follow. He always did.

Beyond them, the grand pavilion stretched into the heavens, its towering spires bathed in the glow of the Eternal Flame. The banners of the Sunship hung in perfect symmetry, their sigils woven in gold and ivory, a stark contrast to the blood that had paved the path here.

The gathering had already begun.

Figures moved in the firelight—diplomats, commanders, priests of the highest order. The air was thick with the scent of incense, of burning oils, of the expectation that tonight, the Chosen One would stand in the light and cast no shadow.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai followed.

He always did.

Liora commanded. He obeyed.

And he hated it.

He hated the way her voice slithered through the air like a serpent curling around his throat. The way she spoke his name like a leash she had no intention of loosening. The way her golden eyes weighed him, measured him, molded him as if he were nothing more than raw material to be shaped to her will.

He hated her.

The thought was quiet but suffocating, curling in his ribs like something alive.

He could end this.

His fingers twitched at his side. A flick of the wrist. A strike to the throat. He could watch her crumple, gasping for breath that would not come. He could see her eyes widen, feel the weight of her body as it collapsed beneath him. He could make her fear.

But he didn’t.

He never did.

The grand pavilion loomed ahead, vast, imposing, built to be worshiped.

The towering spires stretched upward, kissing the heavens as if to challenge the stars themselves. The Eternal Flame burned at its peak, its golden light casting long, twisting shadows across the marble steps. The banners of the Sunship draped over the entrance, their sigils woven in gold and ivory, pristine, unblemished—a stark contrast to the blood that had paved the way here.

Columns lined the outer walkways, each carved with the scripture of their faith, each whispering of devotion, of power, of those who had sacrificed for the Sunship’s divine cause. And beyond them—the gathering.

Priests in their layered robes, embroidered with sunbursts and celestial markings, murmured their chants in rhythmic unison. Diplomats, commanders, the highest of the high stood in watchful anticipation, their presence a silent judgment. The scent of incense and burning oils thickened the air, cloying, suffocating.

And at the center of it all—him.

The Chosen One.

Mordecai stepped forward, his gaze locked ahead, ignoring the eyes that turned toward him. He did not look at the gathered faithful, at the reverence they were expected to hold in their eyes.

He looked at her.

Because Liora was the only one that mattered here. Because she had made it so.

And no matter how deep his hatred ran, how much it twisted and burned inside of him, tonight, he would do what she asked.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Liora’s steps faltered. A small turn of the wrist, a delicate shift in movement, and before he could protest, her hand pressed lightly against his forearm, guiding him off the main path, slipping them between two towering columns, into the shadowed entrance of a side chamber.

The room was dim, lit only by the glow of a single lantern, its light flickering against the marble walls. A quiet space, away from the prying eyes of the faithful, away from the ceremony, the expectations, the weight.

For a moment, she simply studied him.

Her golden eyes softened—not in weakness, not in mercy, but in something more insidious.

She reached for him, not in command, but in something that almost mirrored care, lifting a hand as if to brush a stray lock of hair from his face before stopping just short, letting the air between them carry the gesture instead.

"You’re wound too tight," she murmured, and for the first time that night, her voice lacked its usual edge. "I can feel it, my star. The weight in your shoulders. The way you hold your breath, even now. You are too much like them still. Like the ones who did not survive."

Her fingers trailed down the sleeve of his ceremonial robe, an almost absent touch, before she sighed, withdrawing.

"Tonight is important. You know this."

A pause, calculated. She tilted her head, her gaze searching his face, and then—a smile.

Something that wanted to be believed.

"I need you to trust me, Castiel." The name, spoken like silk, like something sacred. "Not them. Not the diplomats, not the priests. Me."

Her fingers clasped together lightly, as if in thought. As if something troubled her.

"I have given you everything, haven’t I?" she asked, her tone careful, measured. "I have raised you into something stronger than you ever would have been. You are more than the child who was taken. You are more than what they wanted you to be."

A beat. A flicker of something close to regret—a lie, perhaps, but a convincing one.

"You hate me for it, I know. But hate is only another kind of love, isn’t it? A twisted thing, yes, but still… a bond... if we lose each-other, we'll truly have nothing.... all of this would be for naught, do you understand what I'm saying?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Castiel tensed as her fingers brushed near his face, a touch that was not real, not true. It was a mimicry, an imitation of something he had lost—something she had taken from him.

It sickened him.

Like the ones who didn’t survive.

His breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary thing, and his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. The ones who didn’t survive?

They didn’t survive because the Sunship slaughtered them. Because they wouldn’t kneel. Because they stood their ground. Because they chose death over submission.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

For too long, he had let her shape him, let her words chip away at what was left of him, burying his rage beneath obedience, beneath silence. But here, now, in the flickering half-light of this secluded chamber, something inside him snapped.

Not fully—not into a reckless outburst. But enough.

He let out a scoff, sharp and bitter. “You invaded us,” he said, his voice low but seething. “You came into our home, into our village, and slaughtered the goats who wouldn’t bow to you.”

His golden eyes, once dulled by exhaustion, burned as he met her gaze head-on. “You took everything from me. And instead of letting me die with my parents, with my people, you dragged me into this nightmare. Forced me into it. Do you think that makes me grateful?”

His voice rose, not a shout, but a raw, trembling edge of anger that had been caged for years.

“I would rather you had killed me back then than have to stand beside you now.”

His shoulders squared, his body rigid with tension, his breath uneven as he stared her down. He hated her. He had always hated her. But for the first time in years, he let her see it.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Liora laughed.

It was not a kind laugh. It was sharp, edged, dripping in mockery, as if the very idea of his anger, his defiance, was so impossibly foolish that she couldn’t help but find amusement in it.

“Dear,” she breathed, stepping closer, golden eyes gleaming with something dangerous, indulgent, entertained. “After all these years, and you’re still so dramatic.”

She reached for him again, not tenderly, but possessively, a clawed hand brushing against the fabric of his robe, like an artist admiring their work. “Do you think I care that you hate me, Castiel?” Her voice was low, dripping in false sweetness, but underneath it lay something serrated. “Hate me all you like. Loathe me. Dream of slitting my throat in my sleep. I'm sure you do,” Her nails ghosted over his shoulder, her touch featherlight, suffocating in its control. “It makes no difference. You are still mine.”

She tilted her head, feigning disappointment, clicking her tongue softly as if scolding a child.

“I would rather you had killed me,” she echoed, her voice dripping with mocked distress, like a poorly acted tragedy. “Oh, Castiel, if I had a Sunstone for every time you’ve whimpered that in your sleep—” She leaned in then, her voice turning to velvet, pressing her words against his ears like poison.

“But you never act on it.”

She let the sentence hang, her smile curling at the edges, watching him break just a little more.

She stepped back suddenly, letting out a sigh, pressing a hand against her heart as if his tantrum had wounded her.

“You should be thanking me.”

Her voice shifted, turning into something sharper, something cutting.

“You think I took everything from you? I saved you. You should have died with them. The goats who would rather burn than kneel? The ones who spit on the mercy they were given? Yes, they were slaughtered, Castiel. And you—” Her golden eyes burned into him, “you were pulled from the ashes, carved into something greater, given purpose. And still, you pout like a petulant—
Her words cut off—not because she had lost them, but because her hand was already at his throat.

Fast. Precise. Merciless.

Her grip tightened, fingers digging into his skin, pressing against the pulse there, not just to silence him, but to remind him. To remind him who owned him, who made him, who could end him if she pleased.

“You ungrateful little wretch.” Her voice was a hiss now, sharp as a blade. “You are nothing without the sunship." Her other hand clawed into the fabric of his ceremonial robes, yanking him closer, pressing him right against her, so close her breath was hot against his skin, her grip a promise of pain.

“I should have let you rot with your people,” she spat, the words laced with pure venom. “Should have watched you scream and choke in the dirt beside your mother’s corpse. It would have been a kindness compared to this.”
“Fix yourself.” The command was cold, clipped, impatient. “And wipe that pathetic look off your face before we walk out there, or I’ll do it for you.”

She turned for the door, taking only one step before pausing, her voice dipping into something crueler.

“And Castiel? If you ever bare your teeth at me again, I will rip them from your fucking mouth. You'll do well to remember that."

She left him there. Left him to pull himself back together, to swallow the fire in his lungs, to stand up and follow, as he always did.

The chamber settled into silence, thick and suffocating in the wake of Liora’s absence. The air still carried the phantom weight of her presence, her words lingering like the acrid burn of incense that refused to fade.

But something shifted.

A noise, subtle at first—a whisper of movement, something just beyond the edge of notice. Then, a rattle.

It came from the far corner of the chamber, where the dim lantern light barely reached, where the stacked crates stood undisturbed… until now.

The wood creaked, the sound brittle and hollow, a single crate shuddering as if something inside it had stirred. The rattling returned, sharper this time, a tremor that sent dust spilling from the edges, from the slats in the warped wood.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Castiel stood frozen in place long after Liora had gone. His breath came in uneven bursts, not quite steady, not quite right. His fingers hovered near his throat, barely grazing the skin where her grip had been. The ghost of her claws still lingered, pressing into his pulse, a phantom sensation that sent a tremor down his spine.

His pupils were blown wide, his body locked in place—not from submission, not from fear, but from something tangled between the two. The anger inside him twisted, violent and coiled, but it had nowhere to go. He had bared his teeth. And she had reminded him, once again, that she could take everything from him.

His jaw clenched. His breath hitched, caught between the need to suppress and the need to lash out at something—anything. But before the feeling could take root, his ears twitched.

A sound.

His body stiffened, muscles tightening as he turned his head toward the noise. A faint rattle, just beyond the edge of the chamber. Then, a creak—wood shifting, brittle, like something inside was pushing outward.

Castiel's hands dropped from his throat, fingers curling into his palms as he took a slow, deliberate step forward. His gaze flicked toward the entrance, scanning the space, making sure no one else was watching.

Then, carefully, he reached for the lid of the crate and pried it open.