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

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim placeholder

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t charge.

She twirled.

One foot pivoted, one hoof skimming the train’s trembling roof with perfect, practiced grace—like a dancer answering a cue only she could hear. Her form cut through the wind like a memory of something divine, old, graceful, impossible to touch.

And from her fingers, light bloomed.

Not harsh.

Not fire.

But golden—angelic.

A ribbon of radiant energy unfurled from her palm, rippling with every spin, weaving around her in long, elegant loops. It shimmered like cloth in a windless cathedral, each wave trailing light like ink poured into water. Not just magic—presence.

Then—she stopped.

Mid-turn, foot planted hard.

And the ribbon snapped forward.

It cracked like lightning—but didn’t strike.

It grabbed.

The golden light lashed through the space between them with impossible speed and curled—deliberate, sudden—around Lucian’s wrist. Not to wound. To hold.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian watched as the blade was cast away, his gaze following it for only a moment as it vanished into the churning dark. The sound of it cutting through windless void was crisp—final.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t even blink.

A slow shrug lifted one of his shoulders, as if to say: Very well.

His arms remained behind his back, but one hand curled slightly—fingers flexing, claws beginning to unsheathe with an almost absentminded grace. The polished surface of each one caught the dim flicker of voidlight, shimmering like lacquered obsidian.

He didn’t speak yet.

He simply watched her approach.

Measured. Bare. Undeterred.

His tail flicked once behind him, a single whip-crack of tension, then stilled.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

“Good,” he said softly. “Let’s not ruin it with metal.”

Lucian stepped forward at last—precise, unhurried, every inch of him flowing like silk wound tight around a blade. His claws now fully extended, gleaming in the dark, arms loosening from their rest like a predator finally accepting the shape of the hunt.

A low, almost imperceptible purr thrummed beneath his words as he moved into stance.

The void above them rippled—like something holding its breath.

And then the train roared forward.

---

Lucian remained poised, claws extended, his stance immaculate—every inch of him the embodiment of restraint uncoiled. The windless air seemed to still around him, waiting for violence.

But then—light.

His eyes flicked to it, golden and fluid, unfurling like silk caught in a divine breeze. His head tilted slightly, just slightly, eyes narrowing with a sudden, unmistakable shift. Not in fear.

In feline curiosity.

His posture loosened. The velvet tension unwound. His tail gave a subtle twitch, then another—flicking back and forth in a slow rhythm. His ears even swiveled faintly forward, and he leaned—not out of calculation, but instinct.

Drawn in.

The ribbon cracked forward—graceful, radiant, alive. And in that breath, Lucian flinched. A soft, involuntary movement, too fast to be conscious.

And it was too late.

The light snapped around his wrist with impossible speed, and his composure froze—his shoulders tightening, claws flexing wide. His ears flattened briefly, tail flicking sharp.

"What—!" he hissed, breath sharp through his teeth as he jerked back against the bind, more surprised than furious. The restraint wasn’t physical. It was symbolic. Tactical. Psychological. And he felt it.

His wrist twisted once. Twice. Testing. Not panicked—but caught.

And that alone… was insulting.

His eyes, sharp and golden, narrowed across the rooftop.

“Cute,” he said at last, voice low, strained through grit and grace. “Try not to get attached.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

ephraim

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian’s wrist jerked back with force—not to break free, but to claim. His claws slid along the ribbon, not slicing it, not yet. He let it stay. Let it hold. Because it meant something. And if it meant something to her, he’d use it.

His other paw gripped the light-made tether with a single, fluid motion and pulled—hard, yanking Ephraim towards him.

The train rumbled beneath them, the wind screamed above, but Lucian didn’t flinch. His eyes locked on her, sharp as razors behind porcelain.

“Come now,” he purred through his teeth, a low growl rumbling underneath the velvet of his voice. “You threw your sword away. Don’t make me take the rest of you.”

His tail lashed once, a whip of shadow against the void.

He yanked the ribbon again—closer, closer.

“I want to see if mercy can bleed.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim – “Unshaken” (1/session)​

No storm, no hardship, no force of will can unroot her. Once per session, Ephraim can endure an overwhelming emotional or physical force without breaking. Whether it’s resisting the pull of magic, withstanding a brutal strike without falling, or staring down an enemy meant to terrify, she does not yield—and others see it. Those who stand beside her find their own courage hardening in turn.
Lucian pulled.

And for a heartbeat—it looked like Ephraim might give.

Her boots slid across the metal, the ribbon of gold snapping taut between them like the final note of a symphony stretched too long. His claws tightened. The void around them pulsed.

But she didn’t move.

Not back. Not forward.

She straightened.

And the wind bowed to her.

The light around her feet swelled, not in fury—but in clarity. A wave of power burst from her chest like breath finally exhaled after a lifetime of restraint. Her mane lifted—not with magic, but presence. The ribbon in Lucian’s grip shimmered, and where he gripped it, it trembled.

Then—

She changed.

Her form split—not with violence, but with harmony. One side bathed in golden light, feathers soft and aglow, the other cloaked in midnight velvet, horned and winged, divine and demonic in perfect symmetry. The embodiment of judgment, of contradiction, of balance. The fusion of wrath and mercy in a single, sovereign shape.

Her gaze locked onto Lucian—not pleading, not angry.

Resolute.

The golden ribbon in his hand blazed—then snapped back toward her like it had a will of its own. She drew it back without effort, the line of light curling around her arm in a glowing spiral, gathering at her palm.

“I do bleed,” she said, voice low, unwavering, echoing with layered resonance.

“But I do not break.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian’s arm recoiled slightly as the ribbon snapped away from his grip, light spiraling back toward her like a living thing. His claws flexed in the space it left behind, hand hanging open in disbelief.

His tail flicked once.

“…What in the names of every dead saint.”

The words slipped out—quiet, not shouted. Not afraid. But shaken in the smallest, most telling way.

He took a breath, long and slow, as if collecting himself atom by atom. Then came the sound—low, purring, amused. A soft laugh, velvety and dry, curling through the storm like smoke.

“Well,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “You truly are one worth studying.”

His gaze roamed over her new form—not with fear, but with something close to reverence. Appraisal. Admiration, maybe. Or maybe something older.

Then, with a half-turn of his head and a flash of teeth, he lifted his brow and added with cool charm, “But you should know, my darling…”

His paw ran casually along his sleek, shadow-black arm as he tilted it into view, tail swishing.

“Black goes with everything.”

The smirk lingered for only a breath.

Then his posture shifted.

The velvet fell away.

Claws unsheathed with a soft click, and he took a single, perfect step forward—low, graceful, dangerous.

“Shall we?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

ephraim placeholder

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian placeholder

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Before Lucian could finish that last indulgent syllable—“Shall we?”—the golden ribbon cracked through the air like divine punctuation. No flourish. No warning. Just action.

Ephraim moved.

Effortless. Sharp. Unbothered.

She flicked her wrist, and the light-formed tether—now radiant, braided with veins of both vegenance and mercy—snapped forward with impossible speed. It coiled in midair, then lashed like a serpent reborn from heaven’s own wrath.

It struck directly across Lucian’s muzzle.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian’s head snapped back as the ribbon struck, a clean arc of divine force catching the jawline of his obsidian mask. The black shield cracked—just slightly—but enough. A splinter along the edge. A fracture in the elegance.

He staggered. Only a step. But a step was enough.

His breath hitched. A claw rose, instinctively, touching the side of the mask. His tail bristled, puffing in a startled lash of fur before he forced it still.

“You—” he growled, voice dipped in disbelief, tinted by something sharper than pain.

His breath caught again, this time not from the strike—but from the shift.

The train continued forward, screaming into the dark. But the void around it had changed. Something began tearing through it—splintering the fabric like seams strained too long. Light broke through in jagged streaks. The wind howled, not just with speed, but with voice.

A voice from another world. An old memory. Salem's voice. His brother.

“Velvraux convenes to pass sentence. The accused stands among us—one who betrayed blood, throne, and kin.”

Lucian’s breath stopped.

He turned—slowly—toward the sound above, eyes narrowing. His claws flexed against the rooftop.

“What is this?” he hissed.

But he knew.

“He struck from the shadows, consorted with enemies, and sought to take what was never his.”

Lucian shook his head—hard.

“No—” His voice broke over the word. “Not this.”

The wind carried the name like a funeral bell.

“Lucian Velvraux.”

It cracked through the air.

Lucian’s claws raked through his hair, digging against the back of his skull. His teeth bared. His muscles tensed, trembling beneath fur that rippled with restrained panic. The black mask gleamed faintly where the crack had begun to spread.

“Silence!” he roared, voice unravelling. “Enough!”

He staggered, then locked his eyes on Ephraim—burning, feral, something wild and desperate boiling beneath the poise.

The mask stayed on.

But the man inside had cracked.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

ephraim placeholder

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian placeholder

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The winds shrieked. The train screamed.

And Ephraim didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t understand the voice. The trial. The name. Velvraux. Salem. Kin she had never met, yet whose judgment now echoed like thunder through a storm she hadn't summoned.

But Lucian—Lucian was staggering.

He was unraveling.

And Ephraim, no matter how broken, no matter how lost—knew an opening when she saw one.

The golden ribbon twitched in her hand, still warm from the strike across his face. Her body flowed with movement again, half-instinct, half-divine choreography—spinning once, her hooves skidding across the slick iron roof, wing flaring for balance.

She didn't strike high.

She struck low.

The ribbon uncoiled with a dancer’s grace and a predator’s speed, slithering through the air, then snapping taut around Lucian’s leg. The impact jolted him—enough to steal his footing, to shift his stance, to rip what remained of his composure.

He turned—snarling, half-mask fractured, claws raised—

And Ephraim yanked.

The force was clean. Calculated. A twist of the wrist, a pivot of the hips, and the ribbon dragged him down. Lucian’s foot caught for only half a second on the train’s edge—but momentum won.

He slid.

Then—

Off.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian caught one last glimpse of her—eyes blazing, ribbon coiled like judgment in her hand. His breath came ragged, wild, his composure hanging by a thread already split down the center. The cracked edge of his mask gleamed in the voidlight.

“This isn’t over—!”

His voice was swallowed by the wind as he slipped, the rooftop claiming its due. He fell—not flailing, but furious. The golden tether snapped loose as his form vanished into the churning black, carried not by gravity, but by force. A pull, a sentence, a reckoning.

And then he was gone.

The train howled.

It shrieked like a wounded beast as the winds closed in around it—no longer just shadow, but something more frantic. Something failing. The whistle blared again and again, a cacophony of emergency, of chaos unraveling. The metal beneath began to tremble, plates groaning, bolts ripping from unseen anchors.

The cars swayed, tilted.

The train lurched sideways—then forward—then down.

A fall. A collapse. A plunge.

And then—

Silence.

Not a crash. Not impact.

Stillness.

Ephraim did not fall.

She stepped.

One foot met solid ground—smooth cobblestone, faintly warm beneath her hooves. The sound of birds somewhere distant. A breeze that did not scream, but breathed.

She had not landed. She had arrived.

Umbrafane’s shadow stirred behind her—just a common alley corner near a vine-covered wall, shaped by the natural slant of the late-day sun. No twisted train tracks. No scorched metal. No smoke.

As if she had simply… walked through.

No train.

No Lucian.

Just Ephraim.

Standing once again beneath the real sky.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The shadow that caught Lucian did not belong to any train. It was deep—not just dark, but dense. The kind that pulsed like breath and shifted like muscle. There was no platform, no earth beneath his feet at first. Just the aftertaste of unraveling, the bitter press of being seen.

And then—stone.

Cobblestone. Real.

The scent of Umbrafane.

The world spun slightly, then settled.

Lucian landed hard but upright, his boots scraping against the alley wall, his mask still cracked, breath ragged. Whatever force had dropped him here had not been kind—but it had been precise.

And he wasn’t alone.

A shape emerged from the darkness near him, not walking, but present—as though it had always been there and merely allowed itself to be noticed. A tall figure, cloaked in long, heavy garb that moved like it was made of stitched feathers and worn time. Its cowl hung low over a face of warm ochre and carved silence—an owl-like mask with hollow eyes, carved as if it had never been meant to blink.

Sol.

He stood perfectly still at the mouth of the alley, backlit by nothing but the breath of the sky and the still hum of the world that had kept moving without Lucian. He did not approach. He did not lurch. He simply tilted his head once, slow and deliberate, the motion too exact to be kind.

And then, he spoke—his voice deep, distant, like a drumbeat under a funeral procession:

“The cat plays with his food…”

A pause.

“…and it falls out of slippery paws."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian landed on all fours.

The cobblestone scraped beneath his paws, claws instinctively extended, tail bristled and arched in a perfect curve of alarm. For a single heartbeat, he was startled—not thrown, not harmed, but unnerved. That alone was rare.

His breath came low through his fangs, but already, the purr returned to smooth it over.

Composure restored.

He rose—graceful, deliberate, like he’d merely crouched for balance. His spine straightened, shoulders rolled back, his silhouette once more that of the predator prince, not the thing unseated. Only his tail betrayed him—flicking in tight, furious motions behind his legs.

Then—the voice.

Lucian turned his head slowly, golden eyes narrowing as the figure in the cowl emerged. Sol.

The panther's smirk came easily—but the sharpness behind it was not for show.

“I will say,” Lucian murmured, brushing invisible dust from the cracked edge of his mask, “she did surprise me.”

A purr rumbled low, tinged with something darker. “But you know us cats…” he drawled, pacing a slow arc as he watched the owl-masked figure. “We love to play with our food.”

His tail lashed behind him, not playful now, but precise. Agitated.

“That just makes the chase more interesting, doesn’t it?”

A pause. The weight of the alley pressed in. Ephraim’s blow still echoed somewhere in his spine—and deeper. The crack had been made. And Lucian felt it.

He exhaled. Smooth. Measured.

But the smirk that followed as he met Sol’s gaze again was thinner. Harder.

“However,” Lucian said softly, “I must admit… I’m surprised to see you here.”

A pivot. A slow, calculating tilt of his head.

“You’re not one for Poise’s performances. And I doubt you’ve wandered in to admire the aesthetic.” His claws curled slightly.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Sol remained still.

He did not shift his weight. Did not blink. His cowl swayed slightly in the breeze, the mask beneath catching a sliver of light like the polished surface of a coin too old to spend. Only the faint ripple of his cloak betrayed that he was even breathing.

Lucian’s words carried on the wind, as smooth as ever, but here—against this presence—they scattered like dust against stone.

Then Sol moved.

Not a full step. Just a lean forward, the fur-lined folds of his mantle parting with a whisper like parchment being turned in a book that had not been read in centuries. A clawed hand—brown, steady, worn with ritual rather than time—rose to adjust the edge of his hood just slightly.

And then he spoke.

“Poise is a playwright,” Sol said calmly. “But power is not applause. He mistakes you…” His head tilted slowly, eerily, “for someone meant to dance.”

“You are no performer."

A pause. Stillness. His eyes—if there were any beneath that mask—felt as though they were searching deeper than bone.

“You are the one who watches when the curtain falls.”

“I’ve seen what you’ve done. What you are.”

Sol’s hand lowered.

“And what you could be.”

A flick of his fingers, and the shadows around Lucian suddenly… leaned. They curved inward—not to strike, but to bow. Not to threaten, but to listen.
“There is a wound in this world,” Sol continued, his voice like the edge of thunder. “It bleeds in timelines. In memories. In gods forgotten. And in the mouths of... CHILDREN... who do not know whose war they are dying in.”

He stepped forward once.

Just once.

“You don’t belong to Poise... you know this."

Another pause.

“You belong to no one.”

From the folds of his cloak, Sol produced something—a shard, golden in color, smoothed to a curve, pulsing faintly with the same golden light as the feathered edge of his mask. Its surface showed no reflection. Only motion. Memory. Shape.

He offered the shard. “Have a taste of power..."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The sanctum was colder than it should have been.

No fires burned here. No incense drifted from unseen vents. The air smelled of nothing—too clean, too pure, like it had been scrubbed of memory itself. It had always been this way, but tonight, Liora noticed. Every step she took along the obsidian tile echoed in muted tones, the sound swallowed by the stillness around her. It wasn’t silence that followed her—it was something denser, heavier. A hush that felt held, like breath caught in the throat of something immense.

She had been summoned.

Not with ceremony. There was no scroll sealed in wax, no envoy dressed in flame-colored silk. No words at all. Just a flicker—the briefest dimming of the Eternal Flame in the high temple. A heartbeat-long shadow. That was all. That was enough.

Sol required no more.

Now, she walked alone through the corridor that wound like a spinal cord into the bowels of the Sunship, each step drawing her deeper into the dark. The hall narrowed as she descended, its walls curving inward—not aggressively, but subtly, like the interior of a throat. There were no torches to light her way. No stained glass or banners. No scripture. Nothing sacred. And yet, she could see—dimly, precisely—only what she was permitted to see.

The light here obeyed him.

It always had.

At the corridor’s end, she stopped. The wall before her bore no door, not in any traditional sense. It was seamless, unmarred—save for a single smooth circle of black iron embedded flush with the surface. Within that circle, a sigil had been carved, etched so precisely it looked like it had grown from the stone itself. She recognized it. She had only seen it once before.

Seven years ago.

She remembered that night well.

Without sound or warning, the iron circle split. A seam appeared vertically down its center, widening soundlessly. There was no grinding of mechanisms, no whisper of air escaping. Only stillness. And then, darkness.

Not emptiness.

Not absence.

Presence.

Darkness that watched. Darkness that pressed against her like an unseen hand on the sternum. A pressure that made the space feel smaller, as if her lungs had to fight for room.

She stepped through.

The wall sealed behind her with the finality of a tomb.

The chamber beyond was immense, circular, and bare. No torches. No altar. No banners or relics or idols. Only obsidian walls, unbroken, and a polished black floor that reflected no light. It drank it. Devoured it. A room where even flame would hesitate to exist.

And in the center of it all—him.

Sol.

He did not speak.

He stood at the far edge of the chamber, unmoving, a monolith in cloak and fur. The pale mantle draped over his shoulders shimmered like moonlight over still water—beautiful, ancient, and cold. His hood was drawn, casting a deeper shadow across the golden mask beneath it.

The mask had no mouth. No expression. Just deep-set, hollow eyes and a smooth, oval face that caught light in unnatural ways, turning reflection into distortion. It was impossible to read, and more impossible not to stare at.

He looked taller than she remembered.

Or perhaps the room had grown smaller in his presence.

It didn’t matter.

He had always felt larger than space allowed. The kind of presence that bent rooms around him, rather than stepping inside them.

Liora bowed.

Precisely.

Not too deep—desperation would insult him.

Not too shallow—defiance would doom her.

Just enough to acknowledge what needed to be acknowledged.

“My lord,” she said. Her voice stirred the air, but only faintly.

He did not respond.

Seconds passed like falling stones. Heavy. Irretrievable.

She stood with her hands clasped at her waist, unmoving, though the skin of her palms was already slick with sweat. She didn’t shift. Didn’t clear her throat. She knew better. Sol did not demand submission. He simply made resistance meaningless.

Finally, after a pause that threatened to stretch into eternity, a single word left the mask.

“Busy.”

Liora inclined her head, just slightly.

“All things in service to the Flame.”

He tilted his head, slow as a sundial shadow. It was impossible to tell if the movement meant amusement, disapproval—or anything at all.

“Your flame,” he said. Not a question.

“My lord—”

“You speak with confidence.”

He cut her off.

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They sliced through her like a breath of ice through drowning lungs.

Sol stepped forward.

Just one step.

It made no sound.

But something in the room shifted—as if the air leaned in to hear him better. As if the walls narrowed with expectation.

Liora resisted the urge to take a step back.

“I tolerate your ceremonies,” Sol said, his voice rich with silk and steel. “Your processions. Your obsession with theatre. You’ve built quite the following.”

Her throat tightened.

“I have served loyally,” she replied. “I’ve elevated your name in every dialect. I’ve silenced the disloyal. I’ve brought the boy to heel.”

Sol tilted his head again.

“The boy,” he repeated, as if tasting the words.

Then:

“You mean Castiel.”

The name struck the air like a match.

Liora didn’t speak. She knew better. He hadn’t asked a question. Not really.

Sol stepped closer.

Not with menace.

With inevitability.

Like tide coming in.

“He belongs to me, Liora. As do you. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” she said. Her voice did not tremble. It didn’t have to. Sol would taste fear no matter how she disguised it. He always did.

He studied her, the mask inscrutable. The gold caught phantom light. And then he stepped fully into the center of the room, his cloak billowing just enough that the ends of her robes stirred in the displaced air.

“I’ve seen what you’ve done to him,” he said. “I’ve watched you lace your voice into his anger. Twist his obedience into dependency. You’ve molded him like a possession. And in doing so, you’ve forgotten who handed you the leash.”

“I have forgotten nothing,” she said quietly.

Sol said nothing.

His hand lifted—slowly, deliberately—until it hovered near her jaw. Gloved fingers, unmoving.

She didn’t flinch.

But she didn’t lean forward either.

She held herself perfectly still.

Letting the gesture exist.

Letting it mean what it was always meant to.

“I’ve ended high priests for less than your tone,” he said. “Burned chapters of the Sunship from the annals of memory for less.”

His fingers curled—not toward her. Just into a fist.

“You will never speak in absolutes to me again.”

Liora gave a single, stiff nod.

“Yes, my lord.”
Sol held her gaze for a moment longer, then let his hand fall.

When he turned away, it wasn’t dismissal. It was a demonstration of power. The pure, unshakable confidence of someone who knew that nothing in the room could touch him. That she, for all her rank and reputation, was still beneath his notice unless he chose otherwise.

“I did not summon you for punishment,” he said, voice even, calm. “If I wanted to see you broken, I’d have left your corpse on the altar. Let the attendants clean what remained.”

Liora said nothing. She almost swallowed. Almost.

Instead, she watched him begin to circle the chamber. His steps were wide, slow, and measured—each one deliberate, each one leaving a silence in its wake that pressed harder than words. He moved like a storm thinking.

“You’ve grown ambitious,” he said. “You’ve confused fear with faith. Castiel was not made to be adored. He was not made to be followed. He was made to serve.”

Liora’s voice, when it came, was careful.

“He would not have survived without—”

“Survival?” Sol interrupted. The sound of his voice rippled the air like heat rising from stone. “You think I allowed him to live because I wanted him to endure?”

He stopped walking.

“I do not spare lives. I forge them. He was useful. That’s all. And when he ceases to be, I will build another. Better. Quieter.”

He faced her fully now. The golden mask reflected her form in miniature.

“You do not matter enough to question my designs.”

The words landed like stone.

Liora said nothing. Not because she agreed, but because arguing would be useless. He would not be moved by defense. Only silence could weather him.

She remained where she stood, posture perfect. Every inch of her poised to project submission, composure, reverence. But Sol saw through it. Of course he did. He always had. He knew the rhythm of her breath. The pause of her heartbeat before she spoke. He could feel the tension that bloomed beneath her skin.

He had let her rise.

But he had never let her forget who had lifted her.

Sol began to move again, but slower this time. Less measured. Like something pacing. His cloak dragged across the floor, the weight of it stirring dust where none had ever dared settle.

“I’ve watched you,” he said. “Even when you believed yourself unseen. In the west annex. In the reliquary vault. His name is always on your lips. Even in your sleep.”

He stopped. Stillness returned to him like an old companion.

“And in your dreams.”

Liora’s jaw shifted. Just slightly. A small betrayal of composure.

“You’ve been in my mind.”

“I don’t need to be,” Sol replied. “You are not subtle.”

“I shaped him for your cause,” she said. Her voice was steady again, but tight. “I made him beloved by the faithful. They kneel when he enters a room. They see him as divine. As chosen.”

Sol tilted his mask.

“They kneel to him. Not to you. Not to me.”

That one landed deeper than she expected.

He saw it.

The stiffness in her back. The faint, sharp intake of breath. The flicker of indignation she tried—failed—to suppress.

“You mistake utility for favor,” he continued. “You think love is power. You think you can control him through affection. But affection is weakness. It softens the blade.”

He stepped toward her again.

“You’ve made him a symbol. And worse—you’ve made him a mirror.”

Liora’s voice dipped lower. “I did what you asked. I kept him alive. I made him feared. I taught him obedience.”

“You taught him dependency.”

The words were soft, but they struck like a lash.

“You gave him yourself,” Sol said, “when all he needed was me.”

Another silence bloomed between them.

Liora didn’t break eye contact. She didn’t blink. But something in her voice changed—just slightly—when she spoke again.

“He would have died.”

Sol didn’t reply.

So she added, “I gave him something to hold onto. Something real.”

“You needed something real,” he said. “Don’t mistake your need for his.”

He stepped closer again. No longer circling. No longer toying.

“Do you know why I chose you?” he asked.

Liora said nothing.

“I didn’t spare you because of your beauty. Or your piety. Or your intellect. I chose you because you knew how to gut the ones who loved you and smile while they died. I chose you for your ruthlessness. Your ability to command without compassion. To build fear like scripture.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“But you’ve grown soft.”

“I haven’t,” she said, too fast.

“No?” Sol’s head tilted. “Then why haven’t you punished him?”

“Because he’s different.”

“You sound like them. The ones who begged before they burned.”

Liora’s hands were still. Her breath was quiet. But inside, something clenched.

“He hates us,” she said. “He dreams of killing me. I can feel it. But that hatred gives him purpose. It keeps him burning.”

Sol was still. Like the dead.

“You call that control?” he asked.

“It works.”

“It weakens you.”

“No. It sharpens him.”

“You’re attached.”

“I’m not.”

Now she looked up—fully. Her eyes met the empty, glowing sockets of the mask. Unflinching.

Sol was silent.

“You think I don’t see it?” she said. “I shaped him. I know what he is. But I also know what he could become. If I push too far, I lose him. And then you lose everything.”

“Then prove it,” he said.

“What do you want?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Take him to the Hall of Atonement. Present the blade. Cut away his name.”

Liora’s breath stopped.

“That rite hasn’t been used in—”

“I know. Use it.”

Her voice was ice now.

“I gave him that name.”

“Then take it back.”

He stepped back slightly, just enough to give the illusion of space.

“I want you to carve it from him, in front of the priests. I want them to watch. I want them to remember that no name exists outside my will.”

Liora’s throat tightened.

“And if I refuse?”

Sol turned toward her fully.

“I will take everything you’ve built. I will unmake you slowly. And he will watch.”
Liora stood still.

The room had changed. Or perhaps it hadn’t, and only she had. The air pressed against her skin like iron now, like heat before a crucible. She felt her pulse in her throat, in her fingertips. Her silence wasn’t submission—it was calculation. A frantic, careful weighing of what she could say, what she could survive.

She stepped forward. Just a fraction. A gesture meant to be seen.

“My Lord,” she began, voice silk-wrapped steel, “I have obeyed every command you’ve given. Without hesitation. Without question. I’ve led the faithful through fire. I’ve turned orphans into saints. I’ve broken cities and made them praise you as they burned.”

Sol watched.

She pressed on.

“I have spilled blood in your name. My own. Others’. I’ve watched children die screaming beneath my hand because you asked it of me. I have not flinched. I have not faltered.”

Her voice dipped lower. Calmer. Sharper.

“But cutting away his name will not break him. It will erase him.”

Sol’s mask remained still. But the room felt colder. Less like a sanctum and more like a tomb.

She continued anyway.

“And ruin what we’ve built.”

That, at last, made him move. Just slightly. A tilt of the head. A shift of weight. Not surprise. But interest.

“You think we’ve built something?” he asked.

“I know we have.”

“No,” Sol said. “You built. I observed. You layered mythology over a weapon and began calling it worship. But I remember what he is.”

“He’s more than that now.”

“He’s what I made him to be.”

“He’s what I made him to survive.”

Sol stepped forward once again.

“We have built nothing,” he said, his voice cold and final. “You have built dependency. You have made him love you. That is not faith. That is rot.”

Liora didn’t flinch.

“I can fix it.”

“No,” Sol said again. “You’ve had your chance.”

Silence stretched between them.

Liora’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “He dreams of killing me.”

“I know.”

“And I let him. Because it gives him purpose. Because it keeps him alive.”

“You call that loyalty?”

“I call that survival.”

Sol tilted his head.

“You sound like them. The ones who burned.”

“I learned from them,” she said.

He paused.

“You taught me to kill what I loved,” she said. “And I did. Again and again. You taught me to smile as I condemned the innocent. And I did. You told me to raise a vessel worthy of the Sunship. And I did.”

“But I will not destroy him for theater.”

Her voice trembled, just slightly. Not with weakness. With conviction.

“I will not carve his name from him and parade it before priests like meat on a spit. I will not hollow him out to prove I remember who holds the leash.”

“You misunderstand,” Sol said.

He stepped so close now that his shadow swallowed her.

“This is not theater.”

She stared up at the mask.

“What is it, then?”

“Correction.”

He reached toward her.

Liora resisted the urge to move.

But she didn’t resist the words.

“Don’t you dare—”

Sol’s hand landed on the back of her neck.

Not hard.

But firm.

A warning dressed in reverence.

“You think yourself indispensable,” he said, voice barely above breath. “Because I let you speak. Because I let you command. Because I let you love something.”

He pressed downward.

Not violently.

But insistently.

And slowly, inevitably—

Liora knelt.

Her knees met the stone in silence.

Sol loomed over her.

“You are not a prophet,” he said. “You are not a priestess. You are not a mother.”

His voice darkened.

“You are a mouthpiece. And when I close my hand—”

He closed it.

“You vanish.”

He released her.

Turned.

Walked.

His cloak swept past her face like storm-wind.

And as he vanished into the shadow at the room’s edge, he left her kneeling in the dark.

Not praying.

Not weeping.

Just burning....

The chamber grew still.

Liora remained where he had left her, spine rigid, knees pressed to the cold obsidian. The silence pressed inward, dense and absolute. Not reverent. Not sacred.

Just silent.

A silence made of shame.

She did not rise.

She could feel the heat of her heartbeat at her temples. Her breathing was measured, shallow, controlled. But beneath that, her thoughts churned—rage, humiliation, fear—all trapped in the vice of Sol’s final words:

You vanish.

And for the first time in years, Liora believed him.
The Core

No doors marked its threshold.

There were no priestly guards stationed outside it. No scripture above the arch. No torches burning to signify its importance.

It was not a room meant to be witnessed.

It was the place where Sol watched.

The Core of the Sunship sat buried beneath the upper sanctum, deeper than the reliquaries, deeper than the tombs. No acolyte had entered in living memory. No High Priest dared speak of it aloud. It was not secret.

It was sacred.

And only one being ever walked its floor.

Sol sat on a broad slab of black stone at its center. Not a throne. Just an elevation. A seat of design, not dominance.

He wore no cloak here.

Only his gloves.

His mask.

And stillness.

The chamber pulsed with a low hum—steady, rhythmic, barely audible. Like a heartbeat transmitted through ancient bones. The flame above the altar glowed faintly gold, casting sharp reflections across the circular floor.

Before him, a table of etched obsidian shifted under his fingers. The runes weren’t etched. They were alive—constantly rearranging, shimmering with fluid motion. Reports. Communications. Surveillance records. Ritual notations. All danced under his hands.

And then they stopped.

A tremor rippled through the surface. A sudden gap. A broken pulse.

Sol did not raise his head.

But his breath changed.

Only slightly.

Moments later, the guards arrived.

Two of them.

No more.

That was all Sol allowed when he had no need for ritual.

The first—a tall houndkin with a ceremonial braid down his back—fell to one knee, eyes downcast. The second, smaller, younger—foxkin, barely out of novicehood—followed suit, slower, more hesitant.

Neither dared speak until the silence allowed it.

When it didn’t, the elder of the two took initiative.

“My Lord Sol…” His voice was steady, but too quiet. “The boy is gone.”

The runes on the table shimmered faintly.

The flame above dimmed.

The younger guard shifted nervously, mouth open, then quickly closed it again.

The houndkin continued. “We believe he escaped during the second night-cycle. Vault logs indicate tampering in the eastern wing. A broken seal was found near the relic crates. The western watch reported unusual movement, but dismissed it.”

A pause.

Sol said nothing.

The younger guard, eager to fill the void, rushed forward.

“We’ve already begun a sweep, my lord. The outer tunnels are being searched. The iron scouts—”

“You dispatched scouts?” Sol asked.

Quiet. Calm.

Deadly.

The foxkin froze.

“Without my sanction?” Sol repeated.

The words were barely more than breath. But the temperature dropped.

“I—I thought the time was urgent—”

“You thought.”

Sol stood.

The room changed.

Not in structure.

In atmosphere.

He stepped toward the foxkin. Not fast. Not slow.

Just inevitable.

“You assumed urgency meant disobedience was forgivable.”

He stopped directly before the young guard.

The foxkin dropped to his knees fully, forehead pressed to the floor.

“I meant no disrespect. I—I believed—”

“You believed you were allowed to act without being told.”

Sol turned to the elder.

“He will die for this.”

The older guard nodded, without hesitation. “Yes, my lord.”

“Take him to the oubliette. Break him. Slowly.”

The foxkin didn’t protest. He didn’t plead. He only trembled.

By dawn, he would be nothing but silence.

When the guards were gone, Sol stood alone again in the Core.

The runes had gone dim. The flame, too.

Gone.

Gone.

The word didn’t echo in the chamber.

It didn’t need to.

It echoed inside him.

Sol reached for the stone wall behind the slab, placing one gloved palm against it.

The wall shimmered.

Then melted.

Behind it, a vault of masks.

Dozens of them.

Each unique.

Each worn once.

Each representing a different command, a different era of rule, a different execution.

Sol chose a new one.

Unmarked.

Unadorned.

Blank.

He lifted it, staring into the reflection warped across its smooth surface.

And then, he said a name.

Not loud.

Not angry.

Just a whisper. A breath.

“Castiel.”

The name tasted like ash.

And behind the walls of the Core, the flame dimmed again.

They brought her in blindfolded.

Not to disorient her—she knew these corridors by memory, down to the imperfections in the stone, the shifting pitch of the air. She could have found her way to the chamber in absolute darkness.

But that wasn’t the point.

The blindfold was a message.

You are no longer permitted to see.

And she understood.

They had bound her wrists in iron. Ankles, too. The metal bit into her skin with every movement, but she did not wince. She walked as they led her—straight-backed, head high, even without sight. Fear, she knew, could not be hidden from Sol. But pride could still be wielded like a blade.

The air changed the farther they descended. The warmth of incense and burning oils faded. The soft whispers of the flame above gave way to a hollow silence that felt… wrong. As if something had been scrubbed from the air entirely—purged of scent, of sound, of time.

They reached the threshold.

The blindfold was removed.

Liora squinted as her eyes adjusted to the cold white glow pouring from an aperture high above—an impossible light, source unknown. The chamber was circular, smooth, seamless. No doors. No windows. No seam in the floor. Just the uninterrupted expanse of polished stone and sterile brilliance.

And in the center: Sol.

He stood waiting, still as sculpture, clad in a new cloak of dense, glimmering fur. His mask this time was unfamiliar. Wider. Smoother. A single sunburst etched across where a mouth should have been. No eyeholes. No openings at all.

It did not look like a face.

It looked like a warning.

Liora tried to straighten, but the chains made it inelegant. She hated that. The guards released her arms and stepped back into the shadows. She didn’t watch them go.

She kept her eyes on Sol.

“Have you come to pass sentence?” she asked, her voice low.

He didn’t respond immediately.

He let the question hang.

Then:

“No.”

He began to walk.

Slowly. Around the perimeter of the chamber, as if inspecting the edges of the silence.

“I did not bring you here to kill you, Liora.”

She didn’t relax. Not even slightly.

“I brought you here because you failed.”

The words weren’t cruel. They were truth. And that made them worse.

“You were sacred once,” he continued. “Fire-made. Purpose-built. You tore down cities in my name. You sang prayers that doubled as executions. You knew how to make obedience look like awe.”

He stopped walking.

“But then you forgot.”

She said nothing.

“You forgot what you were for.”

Another pause.

“You began to imagine yourself as more than a vessel. You imagined yourself necessary.”

His voice deepened.

“You loved him.”

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t even an accusation.

It was a fact.

One spoken with such certainty that she didn’t try to refute it.

“You believed,” Sol said, stepping closer, “that shaping him was your right. That the affection you carved into him was strength. That he was yours.”

He stopped only a few paces away.

“He was never yours.”

Silence.

“I know that now,” Liora whispered.

“Do you?”

He turned, gestured toward the far wall.

It opened—not like a door, but like skin pulling back. Stone rearranged itself to reveal a second chamber.

Liora looked.

What she saw turned her blood cold.

The room beyond was made of reflection.

Polished walls, curved and glistening, all marked with her. Her writings. Her voice. Her likeness. Sermons looped endlessly across the surface—images of her leading children to flame, torturing the disloyal, whispering in Castiel’s ear. Her entire legacy, exposed. Replayed. Etched into stone like scripture.

And in the center of the room: an altar.

No, not an altar. A slab. Shaped like a bed, but bound in leather and gold-wire restraints. Around it—tools. Implements.

Some she recognized.

Some she didn’t.

Sol spoke again, voice even.

“This is where you will live.”

Liora turned to him, jaw tight. “For how long?”

“Forever.”

Her breath caught.

“Not for penitence. Not for rehabilitation. For record. For consequence.”

Sol stepped to the edge of the chamber.

“You will be kept alive. Sustained. Nourished. Your consciousness maintained. And every day, you will be made to witness what you created. What you ruined.”

His voice turned low. Cold.

“Not as punishment. As example.”

Liora’s throat constricted. “You would do this… to me?”

“I already have.”

He gestured again.

And from the wall behind him, another panel slid open.

Inside, standing silent and still—another her.

Younger.

Cleaner.

Eyes like mirrors.

Wearing the same robes, the same sigil.

But different.

Her mouth was slightly open, like she was learning how to speak for the first time.

Liora stared at the duplicate.

Sol said:

“She is Liora. As you once were. As you failed to remain.”

The real Liora turned sharply, voice low with fury. “She’s a shell.”

“She is purpose,” Sol said. “She will not love. She will not pity. She will not hesitate.”

He stepped between them.

“She will not fail.”

Liora’s hands balled into fists despite the chains.

“You can’t replace me.”

Sol looked down at her.

“I already have.”

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

The guards returned. They did not speak. They each took one of Liora’s arms.

Sol turned away.

“This chamber will remain sealed,” he said. “No one will hear your voice. No one will know your name. The new Liora will rise. And you will watch the Sunship flourish without you.”

Liora’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“I served you.”

“And now,” Sol replied, without turning, “you will serve forever.”

The guards dragged her forward.

The chamber door closed behind her.

The stone sealed like flesh reknitting.

And the High Priestess of the Sunship was never seen again.

But in the quiet moments, in the places deep below the sanctum—

Where no footsteps ever tread—

Some said the walls still wept.

Not in water.

Not in sound.

But in memory.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian said nothing at first.

The golden shard caught in his vision like a splinter of judgment—small, curved, yet impossibly heavy. He did not reach for it. Not yet. His eyes, sharp and reflective, drifted instead toward the crack along the edge of his mask. The fracture where her ribbon had struck. Not deep. Not fatal. But it remained.

A faint flick of his tail broke the silence.

Then, with a low exhale, he lifted a paw—claws sheathed, precise—and pressed two fingers against that crack. His touch was gentle. Almost reverent.

“…Funny,” he murmured, barely audible beneath the wind. “It wasn’t rage that broke it.”

He let that hang. A flicker of something unreadable—regret, fascination, hunger—passed through him like shadow through silk. His hand lowered. His gaze returned to the shard.

“I’ve danced with gods,” he said, voice low and poised. “They all demanded the same thing: surrender. Mercy didn’t.”

A step forward. Deliberate.

---

The hallway to his father’s study was long and lacquered in shadows, each polished tile reflecting Lucian’s gait in muted glimmers of black and silver. The sconces were low, deliberate. The house always breathed like this at night—slow, rich, waiting. Like velvet lungs beneath the floorboards.

Lucian stepped silently to the tall mahogany doors, pausing only when the dark gold handle clicked open before he touched it. Always unlocked. Always expecting.

Inside, the study smelled of cigar smoke, varnish, and old ambition. Shelves climbed the walls like cathedrals in miniature, and behind the enormous desk—carved with the family crest of Velvraux—sat the panther whose voice never needed to rise to command a room.

Lord Tharros Velvraux.

His father.

Tharros was broader now than he had been in his prime. The soft weight of power rested along his jaw, his stomach, his hands heavy with rings that gleamed as he sipped a smoky brandy. He did not rise.

"Lucian," he said, voice low and unhurried. "Come sit."

Lucian did, silent, composed. He folded one leg over the other, smoothing the line of his sleeve.

"Salem spoke well at tonight's affair," Tharros began, gazing into his drink. "The lords from House Arathos were quite taken. He's every inch the future king this house needs."

Lucian's eyes flicked toward the fire. "Naturally."

Tharros glanced at him, a faint smile behind his glass. "You disapprove."

"Not at all. He's excellent at what he does."

"Good." Tharros set his glass down. "Because so are you."

Lucian looked back at him now. Not tense. But watchful.

"I raised two sons to hold the same blade from different ends," Tharros continued, standing slowly. He moved toward the tall window behind the desk, watching the city below. "Salem is the hand we show the world. The speech. The wine. The open gesture. You, Lucian, are the blade that moves when the curtain falls."

Lucian didn't reply. He didn't need to.

"You are not forgotten," Tharros said, almost softly. "You are what keeps the rest remembered."

A long pause.

"When House Cael struck out against our trade ships last year... Who made sure the admiral never woke for his next toast?"

Lucian's voice was smooth. "I did."

"When that little rebellion in the east tried to gather signatures for a vote?"

"Handled."

Tharros turned, finally, hands folded. "You wear shadows like silk, son. And in the end, people do not remember the silk. They remember the comfort it gave them."

Lucian met his father's gaze, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

"You said once I was born to be feared."

"Feared," Tharros echoed, "and respected. Because no one fears the front of the blade, Lucian. They fear the moment it appears."

Silence stretched again, this time not awkward, but heavy. Final.

Lucian rose.

"Is that all?"

Tharros nodded. "For now."

Lucian left without bow or flourish, the door closing softly behind him. No click. Just finality.

He didn’t pause in the hall. Didn’t glance back. But as he passed the mirror at the far end, he caught his reflection.

Behind it, always, the shadow of Salem. Laughing. Smiling. Wearing their name like a crown.

Lucian did not stop walking.

But the line of his jaw had tightened.

And his claws had begun to show.

---

He took the shard.

Held it between his claws with all the care of someone handling a blade honed to pierce something more fragile than skin. He didn’t marvel. He studied. Eyes narrowing just slightly, as though weighing not the cost, but the echo of it.

“Power that remembers,” he mused, voice soft, dangerous. “Now that’s a rarity.”

Then, with no warning, he pressed the shard against the fracture in his mask. Not gently. Firm. Intentional.

A pulse.

The gold did not heal it. It did not vanish.

It widened.

And yet—Lucian didn’t flinch.

Instead, he smiled.

Cool. Calm.

“Let’s see what bleeds through, then.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The rooftops of Umbrafane buckled beneath their stride—wooden beams creaking, shingles clattering as two shadows danced between the angles of burning homes and screaming kin.

Gladios landed first, her form sleek and brutal, a blur of muscle and fur beneath her polished mask. The porcelain caught the light of a nearby blaze, eyes reflecting it with unconcerned calculation. Her claws clicked against the edge of the tile before she pushed off again, vaulting clean across a crumbling gap without so much as a grunt.

Kayn followed, silent, deliberate. Where she was speed, he was stillness broken by bursts. His movements weren’t as aggressive—but no less precise. A domesticated thing turned feral. A shadow loping behind the storm.

Below them, the city burned.

Zhu’gar’s laughter—distorted, hyena-thin—curled up from the alleys, echoing beneath the cobblestone screams. Diseased beasts prowled the streets, twisted shadows of kin ripped from flesh and smoke. The hyenas barked and cackled as they tore into the defenseless, while kin fled through ash-choked alleys with nowhere left to run.

Kayn paused at a chimney, crouched low, watching a family get pulled apart beneath the collapsing beam of a herbalist’s shop. A child’s cry cut through the din.

He didn’t blink.

“Delightful,” Gladios growled, perched ahead of him, her tone as casual as someone admiring a painting. “Zhu’gar’s finally in,"

She rolled her shoulder with a satisfying crack, glancing over her mask’s edge toward Kayn.

“You keeping up, Prettyboy? Or should I carry you on my back next time?”

Kayn didn’t answer immediately. He simply hopped the gap with a single, elegant twist, landing beside her in a crouch. His tail twitched once behind him.

“Just enjoying the view.”

Gladios snorted—amused, but not kind. “You’ve always been the poetic one.”

A chorus of screams punctuated the night. One of the hyenas below snarled with glee as it dragged a kin across the cobbles.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Morrath barreled down the street, hooves and claws pounding the stone, his breath ragged, a low snarl rippling from his throat. The cries of kin, the crack of splintering beams, the roar of flame—it all merged into a single, suffocating pressure behind his eyes. His vision blurred at the edges, red creeping in—not mindless rage, but something focused. Controlled. Directed.

He heard it.

A snarl cut through the noise. Down an alley, one of Zhu’gar’s ferals dragged a kin across the cobblestone, leaving a thick smear of blood in its wake.

The scent hit Morrath's nose like fire in his lungs. He inhaled sharply—deep, guttural—and something broke loose.

He roared.

A raw, soul-rattling howl tore from his chest, echoing through the burning streets. He charged, muscle and instinct coiled as one, and slammed into the hyena with full force. His jaws found its throat, crunching through fur and bone. With a violent whip of his neck, he flung the creature high into the air—still clamped in his teeth—and brought it crashing back down, the body hitting stone with a wet, broken thud.

The beast whimpered, diseased shadows flickering along its frame, but Morrath didn't have time to watch it stagger.

Another hit him from behind.

Claws dug into his back. Teeth sank into the scruff of his neck. Morrath let out a sharp, pained bark as the second feral clung on, growling deep and dragging him back.

He reared, twisting, flinging his head and shoulders in an arc—trying to dislodge the thing as its jaws held fast, refusing to let go.

---

Perched atop the spiraled rooftops of Umbrafane, even as the city groaned under fire and fury, Silvano stood with casual elegance. One shoulder leaned against the curving stone of a tower, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Below, the Harlekin tore through the streets like spilled ink—graceful, horrifying.

Silvano twirled his mustache with a flourish, voice light with amusement.
“Well, well!”

He glanced over his shoulder toward the shadowed corner, where a figure lingered just out of the firelight’s reach. His tone lilted with teasing mischief.

“Looks like we’ve got an audience tonight… perfect for a little—” he flicked a paw with theatrical flair, “—demonstration. Yes?”

That fox’s grin curled wider as he turned fully, sharp and charming. All teeth and confidence, as if the city weren’t crumbling beneath his feet.

---

The path back to the estate blurred beneath her hooves.

Riversong ran, breath sharp in her chest, robes whipping behind her as smoke curled through the canopy above. The city behind her screamed—timbers cracking, voices wailing, the distant bark of those feral hyenas. But her focus narrowed to a single point ahead: the house.

The children.

Her staff pulsed in her grip, the crystals humming with Rippletail’s water magic—soft blue light swirling protectively around the carved wood, droplets hovering and orbiting as though sensing her fear.

“Hold on,” she whispered, more to herself than to the wind.

The estate loomed from the trees, half-shrouded in ash and shadow. She didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate. Her shoulder slammed into the front door, sending it swinging wide with a groan.

“Rhea! Castara! Calabassas!” she called, voice cracking from breath and desperation as she bounded up the stairs two at a time. The walls shuddered from a distant blast—somewhere in the southern district—but she didn’t look back.

The children’s door was closed. She reached it with her heart pounding in her throat and flung it open.

Inside—three pairs of eyes, wide and frightened, turned toward her. Safe. Confused.

“I’m here. I’m here.” Riversong dropped to her knees and wrapped them all in her arms. The water around her staff coiled outward, shimmering in the air as if casting a quiet ward, droplets drifting into a soft circle around the room.

“You’re safe. Nothing’s going to touch you.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

A flicker of movement—a blur of sunlight and laughter—darted across the rooftop just above the alley’s edge.

Ar’paw.

The little devil skipped through the air like a skipped stone across water, his paws barely touching tile before he leapt again, golden eyes flashing beneath his oversized skull mask. In one hand he held a small wooden flute, carved from bleached bone and strung with a single thread of red sinew. His steps were light. Joyful. Almost too fast to follow.

He landed on the edge of a hanging signpost with a dancer’s poise and pressed the flute to his lips.

A single note.

Not shrill. Not beautiful. Just… wrong.

The sound slithered down the alley like smoke—low, curling, familiar only to those born of gnashing teeth and laughter in the dark. And the diseased hyenas heard it.

The one clinging to Morrath’s back froze.

Then—howled.

It didn’t flee.

It tightened its grip.

And more came.

From the shadows, from beneath broken carts, from cracks in the burning homes—four, five, six ferals, eyes glowing with sick green light, pelts bristling with rot and violence. They skittered into the alley on twitching limbs, yipping and snarling, forming a loose circle around the beast. Their movements weren’t coordinated.

They were commanded.

Ar’paw twirled the flute once, beaming down at the chaos with a child’s thrill. “No one survives the Laughter Line!” he called with a giggle.

Another sharp note. Another command.

The circle of hyenas closed.