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

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian reclined like shadow poured into silk, his frame draped along the length of the chaise with the casual arrogance of someone born into power and never once doubted it. One arm hung lazily over the side, claws tapping a quiet rhythm into the velvet as the other held his glass aloft, turning it slowly—watching the plum wine catch the chandelier’s fractured light.

“Salem…” His voice was velvet and ash, low and smooth, as if tasting the name alone soured the wine. He studied the glass for a long moment before sipping, languid and unimpressed. “I don’t know if he’s ever laughed. If he did, I imagine it was practiced. A... ceremonial noise. Something rehearsed in a gilded mirror.”

He shifted, long legs crossing at the ankle, tail flicking once in the soft quiet.

“Always meant to be the firstborn, the golden heir, the throne’s loyal son. Mother adored him. Father feared him. The court? They clung to his words like scripture.” Lucian’s eyes narrowed faintly, sharp with memory. “He doesn’t just wear the crown—he is the crown. Stiff, heavy, and utterly incapable of bending.”

A soft scoff rolled from his throat, followed by a purring chuckle, sharp at the edges. “Let him strut, then. Let him preen like the overgrown lapdog he is—barking orders in that dreadful coat, drowning in reverence and the scent of his own righteousness.”

Lucian’s gaze slid sideways, slow, deliberate, settling on Thalienne as if her presence were an anchor against the stifling opulence. There was no amusement in his expression now—just something thoughtful. Subtle.

“You sit straighter than any noble in this damn court,” he said, voice dipping into something lower, less performative. “And not one of them knows what to do with you.”

He smiled faintly—not cruel, not mocking. Just real.

“That’s why I let them talk. You hoard grace, and they’re starving.”

Lucian’s gaze lingered—unblinking, unreadable—before he took another slow sip, the glass barely touching his lips. Then, with that same cool smoothness, he exhaled through his nose, a soft sound of consideration rather than mirth.

“They call you odd. Misplaced. Unfit.” His voice was silk, but there was steel beneath it now, laced through the velvet. “Let them.”

He leaned back, stretching with the slow grace of a predator at rest, tail curling over the edge of the chaise like a question unanswered.

“I’ve seen diamonds set in crowns worth less than your silence.” His eyes flicked toward her parasol, ridiculous and radiant beside her. “Let them drown in mirrors. You... you are the reflection they fear.”

A pause—then a slow, curling smirk, the kind that never quite reached his eyes.

“And besides... I’ve always admired a woman who can command a room without bothering to enter it.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Thalienne’s smile slid sideways like champagne down satin.

“Well now, sugar,” she drawled, her voice low and warm like brandy in a glass you’re not supposed to afford, “you flatter me like I’m the last girl left at the ball and you’ve just remembered how to dance.”

She rose with theatrical slowness, every rustle of her layered skirts like a sigh from the room itself. Her heels clicked softly against the marble in uneven rhythm—not a stumble, no no, just the kind of walk that made people wonder if they were drunk.

“Careful with all that sweet talk, Lucian. Keep it up and I might start thinkin’ you’ve got a heart in there somewhere... instead of all that silk and sharpened silver.”

She circled the chaise like a cat with no hurry, one gloved hand reaching to brush a finger—gently, deliberately—along his cheek. Her smile never quite reached her eyes. It coaxed.

“I’ve seen you tear men apart without raisin’ your voice. But here you are, talkin’ like I’m the only honest mirror left in this glitterin’ tomb.”

A beat.

“I should be offended. But darlin’...” She tapped his cheek twice, just enough to be impolite. “You always did know how to make a girl feel like royalty.”

She turned, the click of her parasol echoing faintly behind her as she crossed to the brandy cabinet. Her shoulders swayed, not with grace—but with that impossible-to-ignore presence, like a storm in a ballgown. She poured two glasses with one hand and pulled the lacquered cigar case with the other.

Lighting hers, she drew slow, then exhaled with the kind of satisfaction only people with enemies and good taste know how to enjoy.

She leaned back into her chair—cigar in one hand, brandy in the other, and eyes like polished onyx.

“I’ve been dreamin’, sweetheart,” she said, the smoke wrapping her words like silk scarves in a magician’s hand. “Dreamin’ of towers built on coin, velvet ropes that never fall, and a whole lotta poor folks starin’ up like the stars might finally blink twice for ‘em.”

She took a sip, slow and rich.

“And there I am, plain as pearls, holdin’ the key. Not burnin’ the place down, no—just ownin’ the whole damn show.”

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Let the revolution boys swing their swords and chant their pretty little slogans. Me?” She shrugged, cigar glowing. “I’ll be sittin’ pretty in the counting room, kissin’ the books and whisperin’ secrets through the cracks.”

A final drag, smoke curling toward the chandelier like a ribbon in reverse.

She winked.

“After all—what’s the point of savin’ the world if you ain’t wearin’ pearls while you do it?”

Thalienne leaned back, thick skirts rustling like a curtain call, one hoof lazily crossed over the other. Her cigar glowed at the tip, casting her smile in flickering amber.

“I don’t want a throne, sugar,” she purred, voice low and indulgent, a tune played slow and close in a speakeasy haze. “Thrones are stiff. Bad for posture. Too many eyes, not enough room to stretch.”

She sipped the brandy, lips barely touching the glass.

“I don’t want the revolution, neither. Let the boys shout and burn, let the crowns fall where they may. That ain’t my gospel.”

She turned her gaze to him—really turned it now. Smoke trailing from the corners of her mouth like a secret.

“I want the house. The foundation. The vault. The quiet rooms behind the curtain where the real games get played.”

A beat. Then—soft, sly, with reverence:

“I want to let the poor in through the side door.”

She let that linger.

“Not because I’m kind. Not because I’m holy. Just because I can. Because someone ought to.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian let the silence stretch, his gaze never quite meeting Thalienne’s—but not distant either. Just... drifting. Pensive, in that way a predator watches the world—not for threat, but for understanding. Calculation.

A soft clink of glass on marble marked the end of his wine. He didn’t pour more.

“Mercy,” he echoed, low and deliberate, as if tasting the word, letting it linger like something foreign—but not entirely unpleasant. “It rests on your tongue like honey, Thalienne. Thick... sweet... slow.” A pause, his claws idly tapping the stem. “But honey traps just as well as poison—if one isn’t careful.”

He rose then, smooth as silk peeling from its own weight, and crossed the room without ceremony.

Each step landed in rhythm—soft, measured, never idle. When he stopped, it was before the grand portrait mounted in the room’s heart: the Velvraux family, immortalized in gilded strokes and cold precision.

Sleek black panthers, regal and detached, their postures as exacting as their bloodline. A dynasty. Lucian’s eyes wandered over each face—pausing, inevitably, on one.

Salem.

The eldest. Straight-backed. Drenched in crimson silk, rings gleaming on every claw. His smile was slight—confident. Like he’d already won.

Lucian stood below it all, hands clasped lightly behind him, tail flicking once like a quiet thought. His voice returned—velvet over steel.

“There was a story once...” he murmured, barely above the hush. “Of something meek. Forgiving. All soft hands and open arms. It believed the world would repay kindness with loyalty. That if it gave enough... it would be spared.”

One claw traced the rim of his empty glass.

“But the world doesn’t spare softness. It eats it. Piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but bone... and a question.”

His gaze sharpened—eyes half-lidded, a shadow of mirth curling at the edge of his lips.

“What remains... when something gentle decides it will never be touched again?”

He turned from the portrait, slow, the chandelier’s light flickering in his eyes as he approached Thalienne.

“They called it mercy.” A pause, soft as a blade sliding free. “Until it learned better.”

A beat.

“And when it returned... it wore a new name. One with teeth.”

His smile—faint, unreadable—touched only the corners of his mouth. He gestured loosely, like offering a riddle to the air itself.

“Some things are born soft, yes. But the ones worth fearing... are those that learn.”

His voice dipped low—final.

“Because the world doesn’t recognize kindness. Only consequence.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Thalienne didn’t move.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t sip.

She watched him the way one might watch a silk ribbon drift toward a flame—not with alarm, but with expectation. Like she already knew whether it would burn or bow.

Her cigar smoldered softly between two fingers, ash gathering like snow no one dares disturb. The brandy sat untouched beside her, light catching in the cut glass like the glint of a well-placed brooch. She looked radiant in the way only the unbothered could be—lounging in all that opulence like it owed her rent.

When she finally spoke, it was smooth and smoky, dripping with that drawl that turned every syllable into a slow dance.

“Well, now... ain’t that just the prettiest little funeral you ever gave an ideal,” she purred, lips curling around the word “mercy” like it was an old lover who still owed her money. “You speak of it like a dead thing, laid out all stiff and sentimental... but baby, let me tell you—she ain’t in the ground yet.”

She rose—not with his grace, not with his feline glide—but like velvet rising off satin, one thick layer at a time. Her parasol tapped the floor once. Her heels didn’t match. Her skirt trailed a second too long. And yet when she moved, the room watched.

She approached him slow, the smoke from her cigar curling up between them like a veil.

“Mercy ain’t just soft hands and open arms. Not anymore. Never was, if you’d really been lookin’.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian didn’t flinch.

He watched her with that same detached elegance he wore like cufflinks—silent, head slightly tilted, as if she were a painting that had just shifted when no one was looking. But there was something behind the stillness now. Not surprise. Not fear.

Curiosity.

He stepped forward—not close enough to crowd, but just enough that the air between them felt deliberate. His claw hovered at the rim of his glass, tracing once more before resting.

A pause.

Then, low—like smoke curling beneath a locked door:

“And what, exactly... do you think mercy is?”

His voice was soft. Intentional. Each word unfurling like silk over the edge of a knife. Not mocking. Not cruel. But sharp in its restraint.

He glanced toward the cigar smoldering between her fingers, the glow flickering against her silhouette. The smoke curled upward—twisting, elegant, just like them.

Lucian’s smile was slight. A glint.

“Because if it’s anything like you...” His gaze lingered on her—cool, unreadable.

“Then I’ve underestimated it.”

A long breath followed. Unhurried.

Then, as he turned to wander the room again—fingers brushing lightly across the edge of a velvet curtain, his tail flicking in thought—he spoke once more. Not over the shoulder. Not to the room.

To her.

“It’s always the softest things that cut deepest when you least expect it.” A pause. “Velvet, after all... makes for the quietest guillotines.”

He didn’t leave. He just stood there. Poised. Waiting.

Like a man who had tossed down a question with no need for an answer—but knew the silence afterward would say everything he needed.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Thalienne’s smile didn’t shift.

It settled. Like the final note of a jazz tune, low and lingering, played for no one but the moon and the last man still listening.

She drew once more from her cigar, the embers flaring, casting a brief glow across the strong plane of her cheek. Then she exhaled—slow, sultry, unbothered—until the smoke wove itself between their words like thread through velvet.

“You’re damn right you’ve underestimated it,” she said, not biting, but brimming—with something richer than defiance. With certainty.

Her hand dropped the cigar into the ashtray like a closing statement. Then she stepped past him—not circling, not prowling, just moving the way wealth did: without apology. Her fingers trailed briefly along the edge of a polished chaise, then the cool rim of the brandy glass as she returned to it.

She didn’t sit.

Didn’t need to.

Her voice came low again, softer now—not because she’d lost the heat, but because she knew a whisper could fill more space than a shout.

“You think mercy’s velvet ‘cause it’s soft. Gentle. For show.” She smiled faintly, gaze distant, angled toward some point in the dark only she could see. “But no, darling... mercy’s velvet because it smothers.”

She turned to him again—just her head, that decadent profile backlit by the chandelier’s gold-teased glow.

“Mercy walks in quiet. It don’t scream. Don’t beg. It decides.”

She lifted the brandy then, cradled it just below her lips, eyes gleaming like two coins minted in some forbidden kingdom.

“You think it’s softness that cuts deepest?” Her voice dipped—a hum now, silk-lined, teasing in its edge. “No, sugar. It’s choice.”

A beat.

“The choice to let someone crawl. Or stand. Or starve outside a door they never even knew existed.”

She sipped.

“And I’ve been that door, Lucian. I’ve stood in it. Guarded it. Held the key in one hand and a girl’s trembling future in the other.”

A pause—long enough to matter.

“Sometimes, I opened it.”

Her smile was all teeth now—not cruel, but ancient. Familiar. The kind of smile statues wear when the artist knew exactly what they were doing.

“And sometimes... I let her learn the hard way.”

She stepped toward him again, slow as dusk. No threat. Just presence. Just truth.

“I don’t preach mercy because I’m kind, my love. I preach it because I know what it costs.”

Then, gently, almost fondly, she reached out—gloved fingers brushing just under his chin, tilting his gaze the smallest inch.

“And you... you’re still figuring out whether you want to pay that price. Or make someone else do it for you.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian kept his gaze on Thalienne as she tilted his chin. He didn’t move—only watched, still as a shadow pinned beneath velvet.

“Interesting…” he purred, the word barely more than breath, warm against her gloved fingers. His eyes gleamed—not startled, not swayed, but attentive. Amused.

---

The voice in the shadows did not interrupt Vengeance. It did not tremble. It did not flee.

It listened.

“Interesting…” it murmured, slithering between the stone and silence. The air around Ephraim seemed to tighten—not from fear, but from attention. Fixation.

“My, that is… quite the story… Mercy.” The name hissed like a blade being unsheathed. Drawn out. Delighted.

Then—laughter. Low, smooth, unhurried.

“You always did know how to dress your truths in ribbons. But look at you now—still wasting time like it buys you safety.” The voice moved again, flickering across her periphery like a thought she couldn’t quite catch. “Not that I mind. No, no... I rather enjoy it. You think these words should unsettle me.”

A breathless pause.

“They don’t. They reveal you.”

The voice drew closer—never seen, only sensed.

“And now I know… how far back our ties stretch. How deep the seam goes. Perhaps that explains it, mm?” There was a grin in the words now—sly and near fond. “The strange draw I feel to you. Like a dagger to a throat it’s kissed before.”

Silence stretched—heavy, deliberate.

“Of course… I could let you chase me. Let us play this game of tales and torment a little longer. But time?” The voice exhaled like smoke. “Time is ticking, my dear. I’d keep a close eye on what remains of it.”

A final purr. Velvet. Mocking. Intimate.

“I’ve enjoyed the chat.”

Then—

Silence.

Not peace. Not safety.

Just… silence.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t move.

Didn’t lower her blade. Didn’t breathe too deeply.

She stood in the stillness he left behind—not as a woman frightened, but as one measuring it.

The kind of stillness a surgeon studies before the first cut. The kind a priest tastes before the final prayer.

She scanned the dark—not with fear, but intent.

She stepped forward once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

Voice low, clear, calm as a blade laid on cloth.

“Lucian.”

Not a shout. Not a challenge.

A summon.

Measured. Intimate.

“If you’re still here… say something."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The air was still.

No wind. No breath. No presence.

Only silence—hollow and vast, like the moment before a scream.

And then—

A shape tumbled from the shadows.

A squirrelkin, no one known, no one marked. Just a citizen. Just a passerby.

They hit the ground in a stagger—eyes wide, mouth gasping for air that would never come. Fingers clawed weakly at their throat.

A choked gurgle escaped. One. Then none.

Their hand slipped away, twitching once before falling still.

Across their throat—clean, precise—was the mark. Not of a blade. Not jagged or torn.

But curved. Elegant. A single claw.

The body slumped fully now, soft against the stone. The silence returned—but heavier.

A parting gift.

A signature.

A reminder.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim staggered back a step—not from fear, but from the weight of it. Of him.

The body hit the stone like punctuation, and it stopped her. The finality. The precision. The cold of it.

She stared.

Eyes wide. Breath caught. Chest rising—but no sound came. No scream. No prayer.

Just the soft clatter of her blade’s tip gently brushing stone as her grip loosened.

The squirrelkin’s hands had twitched.

Just moments ago.

They’d been alive.

A citizen. A someone. Not a soldier. Not a mark. Not part of any war.

Her throat tightened.

She dropped to one knee, boots scraping against the path, hand pressed to the still chest. Warm.

Still warm.

But the life was already gone.

Gone clean.

Too clean.

Her gaze darted to the throat—curved, elegant, surgical. Not a weapon's wound.

A signature.

A shiver coiled through her—violent in its restraint. Like something ancient in her bones recoiling from memory she didn’t yet own.

“Who...” she breathed, voice cracking like ice under pressure. Her fingers hovered over the wound again. “Who does this?”

She turned sharply, scanning the trees, the hedges, the garden shadows now steeped in a deeper silence. The kind that followed choice.

She wasn’t just alone.

She’d been watched.

Ephraim’s breath hitched—a sharp, silent intake, the kind that lodged behind the ribs and refused to leave.

Her fingers twitched once more above the wound.

Then—she moved.

Not a retreat.

A sprint.

Boots cracked against stone as she turned and bolted, cloak snapping behind her like a banner in retreat. The cold air clawed at her face, the night pressing in, but her focus tunneled forward.

Mordecai.

The name wasn’t even a word in her mind—it was instinct. A flare. A pulse.

She hit the doors of Brakarhall with her shoulder, throwing them open with enough force to rattle the hinges. The warmth of the hearth exploded around her, clashing with the chill still clinging to her skin.

The hall was still roaring—mugs clashing, hooves stomping, laughter booming like a storm behind stone.

She didn’t hear any of it.

Her eyes cut through the crowd, scanning faces, shoulders, horns—his horns.

He was exactly where she left him.

Ephraim was moving before her breath even left her throat. She pushed past a pair of startled guests, chairs scraping as she dropped beside him.

“Mordecai—”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai sat alone at the table, tucked near the edge of the hall where firelight didn’t quite reach. Always apart. Always watching. He didn’t flinch when Ephraim dropped beside him—just turned, slow, too slow, as if moving through water.

His eyes met hers, but they didn’t hold. Glazed. Glassy. His gaze slid past her, then wandered back again like it had forgotten where to land.

A half-finished drink sat near his hand. He didn’t reek of alcohol—no sour breath, no telltale sway. Just stillness. A damp sheen clung to his fur at the brow, sweat gathering despite the coolness of the hall.

He blinked once.

Then again—too slow.

His fingers lifted, reaching for her sleeve, a small, trembling motion—but they missed. The touch fell short, grazing only the air before his hand dropped limply to his lap. He didn’t speak.

He only looked at her.

Like she was a dream half-remembered. Or a name he used to know.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim snatched the mug from the table, heart slamming against her ribs like it was trying to outrun the thought already screaming through her skull.

The wine. The barrel. The threat.

Lucian’s voice echoed—dripping, delighted.

“He hasn’t called for you yet. But he will.”

Her breath snapped short.

And then—without warning—she hurled the mug across the room.

It sailed past stunned faces and shattered against the stone wall, amber liquid spraying in a sharp arc, crashing like thunder through the silence that followed.

All eyes turned. The hall froze.

Ephraim was already on Mordecai, her hands on his shoulders, her face inches from his.

“Mordecai—look at me,” she hissed, voice sharp, cracking with urgency.

His eyes blinked slowly. Distant. Confused. But not gone.

Not gasping. Not choking.

Just… off.

Too quiet. Too still.

“He said you’d call for me,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone. “He said—fuck—”

She spun toward the others, her voice rising to a bark:

“Help him!” she snapped. “He might’ve been poisoned—I don’t know, I—just do something!”

Someone lurched into motion—chairs scraped, hooves stumbled.

“Induce vomiting,” she ordered, pointing at the nearest soldier. “Water. Something bitter. Milk. I don’t know—just move!”

The soldier hesitated, wide-eyed. “Is he—he doesn’t look—”

“He doesn’t have to look like anything yet!” Ephraim roared. “He drank from that barrel!”

The moment the words left her mouth, doubt flickered across her face.

Did he? Had she seen him pour from it? Was it the same one?

She didn’t know.

Couldn’t know.

But the voice still lingered.

“You left him behind.”

Her hand found Mordecai’s jaw, guiding his gaze to hers.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, forcing the steadiness now. “You’re fine. Tell me you’re fine.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai didn’t speak.

He just watched her—slow, glassy blinking, like a lantern burning low behind fogged glass. Present, but dulled.

Heavy hooves approached—fast, sure.

Eryon.

He dropped beside them, eyes sharp on Mordecai, then the wall—where the shattered mug lay in pieces, amber still dripping down stone.

“Lady Ephraim,” he said, voice low, clipped. “Not the barrel.”

He nodded once toward the crowd.

“If it were, we’d all be laid out.”

Another pause—measured.

“That cup—his. Spiked, I think. Slipped to him.”

His jaw set.

“Not a kill. A warning.”

Then, quieter:

“Sharp hands did this. Silent kind.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim stared at Eryon. The kind of stare people use when the world has tilted, and they haven’t decided whether to scream or fall to their knees.

Not the barrel.

Her mouth opened—but nothing came out.

She looked down at Mordecai, still slumped against her, his breath shallow, his eyes swimming somewhere behind the glass.

Her hands trembled. Both of them. Open. Bare.

Eryon’s words echoed—“Spiked. Slipped to him.”

Not a kill. A warning.

Her stomach turned.

A sound escaped her—soft. Barely a breath. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t command.

It was grief. And something dangerously close to guilt.

“I wasn’t supposed to leave him,” she murmured.

The truth of it hit her too fast.

“I left him to breathe in that hall alone,"

She stood up suddenly—too fast. The motion was sharp, ungraceful, full of noise. Chairs scraped. Someone flinched nearby.

Ephraim didn’t care.

She clutched at the edge of the table like she needed it to anchor her, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

“He could’ve died.” The words broke loose, low but wild, stripped of her usual calculation. “For nothing. For a message. Like he’s just—just parchment to scrawl on—”

She turned, eyes shining—not with tears. With fury.

But it wasn’t aimed.

It had nowhere to go.

Her hand came to her chest like she was trying to press something back in.

And then, finally, she looked to Eryon—not as his commander. Not as the poised, untouchable figure she was trained to be.

But as someone terrified.

“I don’t know how they got this close,” she said.

Her voice cracked.

“And that’s what scares me.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon watched her.

Not just looked—but watched. The way a soldier watches a fault line, waiting to see if it will hold or split.

“Lady Ephraim,” he said, low. Steady. “You didn’t fail him.”

His gaze shifted—quick, sharp—across the hall, to every shadow, every doorway. Nothing stirred. But something had.

“We were many,” he muttered. “Still… they slipped through. That shames me.”

A pause. He straightened, jaw tight.

“But guilt? No.” His eyes returned to her. “This was not yours to carry.”

He stepped closer then, voice quiet but sure.

“Let us take him home.”

He offered his arm—not forceful. Just there. Ready.

“I’ll walk with you. See him safe.”

Behind them, Mordecai stirred faintly—still slumped, breath shallow. His hand rose unsteadily, drifting toward her like it wasn’t sure of the space between them. His fingers brushed her sleeve, curling weakly.

His grip held no strength.

But it reached for her anyway.

His mouth moved—slow, uncertain. His voice was rough and low, caught in his throat like gravel under water.

“…Ephra’m…”

The name slurred. Barely formed. But it was there.

He tried again—something else, words tangled and soft, too muddled to land clearly.

Still, his eyes—dim, unfocused—searched for her.

Even drugged, even lost, he felt her. Heard her. Reached.

And tried.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s breath caught.

Not in her throat—but somewhere deeper. Somewhere buried.

The sound of her name—mangled, slurred, shaped by a mouth that could barely form it—hit harder than any blade. Not because it was weak. But because it reached.

She looked at Mordecai then—really looked. And in those glassy eyes, swimming and distant, she saw something that undid her faster than poison ever could.

He still knew her.

Even drugged. Even unraveling. He reached.

For her.

Her hand moved before her mind did—closing gently over his, guiding it to her chest, where her heart beat like war drums held in check.

“I’m here,” she whispered, voice raw. “I’ve got you.”

She didn’t look at Eryon right away. Couldn’t. Not yet.

She brushed a thumb over Mordecai’s knuckles—his grip weak, but there. And she held it like it was the last thread between him and the void.

Then—finally—she looked up.

Eryon stood steady. Ready. Watching.

Not judging.

She nodded once. Just enough.

“Help me lift him.”

Her voice was steadier now—but lower. Stripped bare of armor and authority. Just Ephraim. Just herself.

“We take him home. Quietly. No horns. No whispers.”

She didn’t say why.

Didn’t need to.

If Mordecai fell, it wouldn’t be as a symbol. It would be as a man. Her man.

And that was a wound she wouldn’t let the world see.

She leaned in close to Mordecai as Eryon stepped beside her, offering strength.

“We’re going,” she murmured, tucking her arm beneath his. “You’re safe. I swear it.”

Her voice faltered only once more—just a breath.

“You will wake up tomorrow.”

[Scene END.]
---
Into next morning.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stirred beneath the weight of linen and silence, the world returning to him in fragments.

A low groan slipped from his throat as he dragged one arm across his forehead, fingers brushing through sweat-damp fur. His limbs felt heavy—like stone soaked in riverwater—each breath an effort, each movement a negotiation. His body didn’t ache with pain, exactly. Just... absence. Like something had borrowed him and only half returned.

He shifted, slowly, bracing with a trembling hand as he pushed himself upright. The sheets rustled. His muscles resisted. His breath came short.

The room was dim. Still.

His fingers found his temple, pressing there, trying to anchor the memory of last night—but it spun away, a whirl of warmth and noise and—

Glass.

A flicker of something. A face. Her face.

He blinked hard, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“…Ephraim?” he rasped, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. Dry. Uncertain.

A question, a reach.

Still searching for her.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

“Not quite.”

It came from the corner of the room. That voice had no place in this room. Not in this time.

But it was real. It vibrated in the air like a memory unburied too fast.

There, seated in an old armchair that hadn’t creaked open in years, white as snowfall. Blue eyes too bright, too knowing. A smirk curved his muzzle, more mischief than malice—but tempered with something else now. Something... older.

Avarice.

The arctic fox gave a small, casual wave, as though he hadn’t vanished seven years ago without a word. As though he hadn’t left Mordecai and the others behind with only echoes and an empty trail.

“Well, don’t look at me like I crawled out of your grave,” Avarice said, tilting his head, snow-dusted ears twitching. “If anyone here looks like they saw a ghost... it’s you.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai let his arm drop, blinking slowly as his gaze drifted to the corner—where the voice had come from.

A figure.

Avarice.

Seven years gone, and yet there he was, perched in that forgotten armchair like he’d never left. Like the world hadn’t moved on without him.

Mordecai stared. Eyes narrowing.

No. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.

He blinked once. Then again. The fog in his mind didn’t clear, but the disbelief settled into something dry. Wry.

“…Oh gods,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, voice scratchy. “I really did die this time, didn’t I.”

His tone wasn’t panicked. Just... tired. Skeptical. Like a man too exhausted to be surprised anymore.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Avarice grinned—sharp, crooked, and entirely unbothered.

“Well, if this is the afterlife,” he said, glancing around the dim room with exaggerated distaste, “I’d like a word with whoever’s decorating it. Bit bleak, isn’t it?”

He stepped closer, boots whispering across the floor like secrets, and came to a halt just beside the bed. Not looming. Just… there. Present in a way that twisted something in the air. Too easy. Too familiar.

His voice softened—still laced with that foxish charm, but threaded now with something real.

“No, you’re not dead, Mordecai."

“Though with how pale you look, I wouldn’t blame the universe for checking in.”

He reached out then, slow, and gently tugged the edge of the sheet up over Mordecai’s lap, as if fussing over him was the most natural thing in the world.

A beat.

“I missed you.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai still watched him as he drew near—warily, wearily. Every step Avarice took felt like peeling back a layer of time that had grown too thick, too stubborn to surrender easily. He should’ve been furious. Should’ve barked, swung, accused. But his limbs were too heavy, and the ache in his chest wasn’t rage—it was something quieter. Something old.

He shifted slightly, adjusting himself upright against the headboard. His horns tapped wood. A dull sound. Familiar.

“Bleak style?” Mordecai muttered, voice gravel-dry but tinged with that familiar edge. “Well, I suppose you’ve always preferred sleeping on dirt and building homes out of wet rope and pride.”

He gave Avarice a slow, sidelong look.

“I missed you too,” he said, finally. “Since you threw me off that bridge.”

A pause. No heat. Just history.

“I sent Silvano after you, you know. Hoping he'd dig you up from whatever rock you vanished under. Couldn’t find so much as a trail.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“…So, who let you into our house? Because someone’s getting a lecture. You’re like a frostbite in a coat closet—shouldn’t be here, but somehow still found your way in.”

But the smirk that followed—crooked and slow—was real. Honest.

And beneath it: relief.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Avarice let out a short breath of a laugh—half amusement, half guilt—as he leaned against the bedpost with the casual sprawl of someone who didn’t quite deserve to be comfortable, but did it anyway.

“Silvano? Poor bastard. Bet he cursed my name all the way from the border and back.”

“You’re right,” he said, quieter now. “About the bridge. About the rope and the pride. I’ve got a damn good explanation for all of it.”

He looked away, jaw tight for just a moment.

“But it doesn't seem like the appropriate time."

His gaze drifted to the edge of the blanket, the flicker of Mordecai’s fingers tucked just beneath it. Still trembling. Still coming back to himself.

“Ephraim let me in,” Avarice said, tone softening, "Your kids are interesting... especially the one you had with Ashen."

His expression flickered—faint admiration, faint wariness—but it passed quickly.

“Riven’s here too,” The smirk grew a shade warmer. “Still jumpy as a leaf in storm season, still drinks like a fish. But he’s alive. Safe. And curious as hell about this city.”

He looked back to Mordecai now, more directly.

“I wasn’t sure I’d find you.”

His voice dropped to something rawer.

“Wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s smirk was faint, but it lingered longer than most things did these days.

“Ah, you saw Ephraim. Bet that was a reunion…” he rasped, the edge of amusement pulling at his dry voice. He didn’t need to elaborate—Avarice would understand. The weight of what Ephraim had become. What she now carried.

At the mention of Ashen, his ear flicked—wry, almost warning—but he let it pass. Typical Avarice.

But when he said his name—“Avarice”—it wasn’t dry. It wasn’t sharp. It was something slower. Anchored.

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” Mordecai murmured, eyes steady now, the fog lifting just enough. “I was worried about you.”

He let the silence sit between them, heavy but honest, before continuing.

“Thought you were dead. Thought that Harlekin got to you. Seven years.”

His voice thinned slightly at the end, not weak—but worn.

“And yet… you’re still alive. You found Riven. You found us.”

He exhaled again, then—softer, quieter—added, “I’m proud of you.”

No performance. No posturing.

Just truth.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Avarice blinked.

Not in surprise.

In relief.

For a moment, he just stood there—quiet, still, fingers curling lightly against the edge of the blanket like he needed something to hold on to. Like he wasn’t ready for the way those words hit.

“I’m proud of you.”

It shouldn't have mattered. Not after everything. Not after seven years, lies, silence, storms. But it did. Gods, it did.

A slow breath left him, misting faintly in the cold that still clung to his coat.

“Thank you. You don’t know what that means.”

He paced a few steps, absently—less out of restlessness, more like he was buying time with movement. Thinking. Choosing his words.

When he spoke again, it came out low. Careful.

“You were right about the Harlekin. About the danger. The rot in their spine.” He glanced back at Mordecai, eyes sharp even in the dim.

“They did find me. I just found them first.”

A pause.

“Riven and I—we didn’t go dark because we gave up. We went dark because we got in. Deep." A flick of a smirk returned, briefly. “We have a Harlequin on the inside."

His smile faded again.

“I couldn’t break contact. Not without blowing the whole thing. Not without putting Riven in the ground. So we stayed quiet. Slipped through gaps. Sent word when we could, when it was safe.”

He met Mordecai’s gaze again—earnest, no smirk this time.

“I didn’t forget you; I never forgot you.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai shifted slightly in the bed, his weight propped on one elbow now, eyes narrowing just enough to signal the return of clarity. That edge was back—not sharp with anger, but honed by years of knowing when something mattered.

His voice came low—grainy from strain, but grounded. Steady.

“What do you mean,” he asked, slowly, “you have a Harlekin on the inside?”

He didn’t sound shocked. He sounded like someone measuring the weight of a fuse just before it lit.

His gaze followed Avarice as he paced, eyes sharp beneath the veil of exhaustion. “They’ve been a plague, Avarice. Everything we know turns to ash the second they move through it. Even Katya—” He stopped short, jaw tightening. “You saw what she left me with.”

Silence. But not empty. Intentional.

“So,” Mordecai continued, tilting his head just slightly. “What have you figured out that we haven’t? How the hell have you survived?”

There was no accusation in his tone—only quiet gravity.