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

[scantilycladsnail]

The estate dining hall flickered in candlelight, the long wooden table set with careful precision—elegant but lived-in, sharp but softened by familiarity. It was neither a war council nor a gathering of strangers. It was something more dangerous.

It was family.

And family had expectations.

Ephraim sat at the head, Mordecai just beside her. Their children were next to them—Rhea, practically bouncing in her chair with barely restrained energy, and Castara, composed, watching everything like a quiet tactician. Across from them sat Callabassas—awkward, uncertain, but keenly aware of his placement at the table.

Further down, Riversong sat with Jasper beside her—the two a picture of effortless grace and detached wisdom, though Jasper’s eyes held their usual knowing glint, already watching the evening unfold like a story he’d read before.

Then—the other side.

Alra, Tiz, and Ulysses, the latter perched comfortably with his boyfriend Janus at his side. The conversation at their end of the table was already stirring—light, polite, but laced with the unspoken tensions that always came when their families gathered.

Mordecai and Ephraim unfortunately hadn’t gotten their drink yet.

It had been one thing after another—the children needing something, a last-minute conversation about seating, ensuring Callabassas felt like more than an outsider. By the time they had finally sat down, the first round of wine had already been poured for the others—but not them.

A mild inconvenience, at first.

But now—as Tiz cleared his throat, already looking like he had something to say— Ephraim felt the migraine return.

“So,” Tiz began, voice thick with its usual weight of unwanted authority, “I think we should all acknowledge what happened today.”

A pause.

A too-long pause.

Then—he looked directly at Mordecai.

“Many kin saw what you did.”

Tiz continued, gesturing with a hand. “Dunemire? Done. And while I’m not saying it wasn’t warranted, there are consequences to—”

Ulysses coughed loudly, cutting him off before he could get momentum.

“Maybe,” Ulysses said with a pointed look, “we don’t start dinner with a lecture?”

Janus, beside him, bit back a grin, nudging Ulysses under the table.

Tiz huffed but didn’t immediately push back.

For now.

Alra, seated beside him, had barely touched her food, her fingers fidgeting lightly against the table’s edge. Her eyes were sharp, but there was something jittery beneath them—subtle, almost unnoticeable, but not to Ephraim.

She knew that look.

The tension in her mother’s fingers, the way her shoulders held themselves just slightly too tight.

She wasn’t sure if anyone else noticed. Tiz certainly hadn’t.

Ephraim’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t address it. Not now. Not in front of the children.

Instead, she glanced toward the waiting barrels near the far end of the room—the ones from Orlin Redtail’s vineyards, waiting to be served properly.

She would need that drink.

For many reasons.

For now, the dinner continued.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai sat at the far end of the table, his posture composed, unbothered in appearance—but his eyes, those red, sharp instruments of judgment, didn’t miss a thing.

Especially not Tiz.

Of course it was Tiz. Ephraim’s father. Always first to speak, always convinced he held some deeper wisdom the rest of the world had simply failed to appreciate. Mordecai didn’t bother disguising his disdain—not here. Not tonight.

The word “consequences” had barely left Tiz’s mouth when Mordecai’s gaze snapped to him, unflinching.

“I’m aware of consequences,” he said, his voice low, even, and sharp as glass. No embellishment. No debate. Just truth.

A statement. A dismissal.

Castara, seated beside him, glanced up from her plate. Her golden eyes locked on her father’s face, watching him in quiet focus. Mordecai met her gaze for a breath, the hardness in his features softening only for her. A brief flicker of a smile, there and gone like a shadow in the flame. Then his attention turned back to the rest of the room, the smile vanishing with it.

His wine glass, still empty, caught his eye. He didn’t sigh, but the way his fingers tapped once—once—against the table said enough.

Across from him, Riversong sat, still and serene. She wore her usual soft expression, that gentle river-current calm that neither resisted nor yielded—but flowed, constantly observing. She offered Callabassas the occasional smile, acknowledging his presence, making sure he felt it. A guest? No. A part of the table now.

But her focus, too, drifted.

To Alra.

Riversong saw it. The tension in the fingers, the too-tight stillness. She’d seen that look before—long ago, in a different place, in a different Ephraim. And while she said nothing, her gaze lingered. Watching.

Ephraim, as expected, masked it well. Riversong admired her control—but recognized the weight of that mask. The hurt that had once been hers alone, now returned to the table. Quiet. Sharp. Poisonous.

Still, silence.

Until—

“D’you ever think,” Jasper said, his voice slow and airy, like smoke curling around a thought half-finished, “that maybe we’re all just soup? Like, spiritually, man. Soup in the cosmic pot.”

A pause.

“Simmerin’. Vibin’. You know?”

His shaggy bangs swayed as he nodded sagely to no one, a lazy grin beneath them.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Tiz exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that felt like an announcement of authority—as if his stance alone solidified his position at this table.

“Soup,” he repeated flatly, leveling a look at Jasper before shaking his head. “I swear, every time you open your mouth, the words are worse.”

“You talk like you understand consequences,” he said, voice firm, not quite raised, but pressing. “Like you know what’s coming. But let me remind you of something, Mordecai—Umbrafane doesn’t exist in a vacuum.” He gestured vaguely toward the air, but everyone knew exactly what he meant. “You just put this city under a spotlight it may not be able to crawl back out of; take it from me, I led operations at Ramura for a long time,”

Ephraim’s fingers curled slightly against the table’s edge, but her expression remained neutral. Controlled. Measured.

Tiz continued, his voice tightening, his frustration starting to show. “Dunemire wasn’t just some backwater warband—Karn was a leader. What if someone fills that void she left? Someone stronger?"

His hand struck the table once—not aggressively, but pointedly. “And when they do, they'll look to us once again."

Silence.

Then—

“You’re assuming Umbrafane is afraid.” Ephraim’s voice cut through the tension—not loud, not sharp, but precise. A scalpel against stone.

Tiz turned to her, brows raised, expecting agreement. Expecting reason.

Instead, he was met with cold, unwavering certainty.

“Dunemire was already a problem,” Ephraim continued, her violet eyes locked onto her father’s. “Karn had already positioned herself against us. Her cavalry, her alliances—they weren’t sitting idle. That war was coming, whether we wanted it or not.”

She tilted her head slightly, her voice calm—too calm. “Or do you think they would have stopped at the wall? Do you think if we had hesitated, if we had faltered, they wouldn’t have come through anyway?”

Tiz’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re looking at this from the outside,” Ephraim continued, “as if you weren’t here. As if the ground beneath you wasn’t shaking. As if the wall isn’t still smoking.”

Her tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

“We didn’t invite war to our doorstep, Father.” Her eyes flickered, something cold settling in them. Something final. “We just decided who walked away from it.”

Tiz opened his mouth—then closed it, picking up his wine glass instead in synergy with Alra.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai exhaled through his nose—a quiet, unimpressed sound—as his gaze flicked toward Tiz.

“You talk like you understand consequences,” Tiz pressed on, gesturing vaguely, as if his hands alone could make his point matter. “But let me remind you of something, Mordecai—Umbrafane doesn’t exist in a vacuum. You’ve put this city under a spotlight it may not be able to crawl back out of. Take it from me—I led operations at Ramura for a long time.”

Mordecai’s expression didn’t shift—but the faintest twitch of his jaw signaled it.

He set his glass down.

Then leaned forward just slightly.

“Oh yes. Ramura.” Mordecai’s tone was silk dipped in acid, his voice smooth, precise—dangerously unbothered.

He tapped one claw lightly against the table, once.

“Funny, I remember those ‘operations’ you so fondly recall. Like when you insisted we host those Laos contenders, desperate to show the outside world how strong Ramura’s fighters were.” His crimson eyes glinted, sharp with memory.

“And remind me, how did that go?” He feigned thoughtfulness, pausing for a beat. “Ah yes. Every goatkin who entered the ring was eliminated in the first round.”

He tilted his head, smiling without warmth.

“Except me.”

Silence.

Mordecai’s voice sharpened further, cutting like a knife across the table.

“I was the one who held Ramura together while the Hearthkeepers debated over tea. I was the one who kept it standing. While the rest of you pondered philosophy, I was the one dragging missing kin out of a fraud of a system.”

His gaze slid to Ulysses—bored, calm—before delivering the final blow.

“You’re welcome.” A single, dismissive nod. “Janus returned, as promised.”

A ripple of awkward tension.

Mordecai sat back in his chair, the light glinting off the edge of his cane as he tapped it once against the stone floor.

“You speak of consequences, Tiz. Let me make it clear. You may have led something in Ramura, but you live here now.”

His tone dropped, colder, heavier.

“This city does not bend to you. It is not yours. Umbrafane rose because of me and Ephraim. Your history? It’s beneath us.”

He raised his glass again, tilting it casually.

“Stay in your lane.”

A beat—then a low, airy laugh rose from Jasper as he leaned back, revealing that gap-toothed grin, his shaggy bangs still veiling his eyes like a curtain of mysteries best left undisturbed.

“You know…” he began, voice slow, dreamlike, as if speaking from another plane entirely, “...the moons have been real chatty lately. Last night, I swear I saw one wink at me.”

A pause.

“I think it knows something.” He gave a sage nod, completely serious. “Told me to plant my shoes in the garden and wait for them to bloom into wisdom.”

He snorted, slapping the table with the lazy enthusiasm of a stoned prophet. “Guess I’ll be barefoot for a while, huh?” Jasper just smiled wider. “Ahhh, time’s not real anyway, man. Just vibes and fermented fruit.”

Riversong felt it—the tension, the ripples of strained words and unrelenting pride weaving through the air like threads pulled too tight. Her soft gaze swept between Mordecai and Ephraim, their shoulders squared, their glasses still untouched, empty.

She moved without a word.

Like the river she was—fluid, serene, unstoppable—she rose in a single smooth motion, her smile calm, untouched by the storm. Her hands found the wine bottle, fingers delicate around the glass, and with practiced ease, she crossed the room, a presence of warmth amid cold glances and frayed tempers.

She poured for Mordecai first—a gentle motion, unspoken affirmation—then for Ephraim.

As the wine filled Ephraim's glass, Riversong’s hand lingered, resting lightly at Ephraim’s back, a soft, steadying touch—not forceful, not asking—but present. Support without weight. A knowing without words.

Then she returned to her seat, calm as ever.

The river had moved—and the current was with them.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim lifted her glass with the practiced grace of someone who had endured too many family dinners, too many power plays woven beneath the guise of polite conversation. Her fingers curled around the stem with care, her violet eyes flicking briefly to Riversong in quiet thanks before shifting toward the table at large.

She had been waiting for this moment—a reset. A small bridge after the relentless barrage of tension and stubborn pride.

“A toast,” she began, her voice smooth, unwavering. “To family. To Umbrafane.”

A simple sentiment. A pause to acknowledge the chaos of the past, the weight of what had been lost, and—perhaps—a rare opportunity to look forward.

But Tiz and Alra did not wait.

Tiz, as always, moved first—not to acknowledge, but to prove something. His fingers wrapped around his glass, and before Ephraim could even finish her words, he tipped it back, swallowing deep, as if his defiance meant something.

Alra, sitting beside him, followed almost immediately. Her hand trembled, ever so slightly, before she forced the movement smooth—practiced. The wine met her lips, and she drank, her throat bobbing in a swift, eager gulp.

Ephraim saw it. The way her mother clutched the glass, like a woman desperate for comfort.

She had seen it before.

Leaves of Soothing. The addiction Alra had sworn to bury. The lie she had built a bridge upon.

Ephraim didn’t let her expression shift, but she saw it.

She would deal with it later.

Tiz set his glass down with a sharp, final clink, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “You and your speeches,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Always so caught up in your own damn—”

He stopped.

His voice cut off.

A sound—not quite a cough, not quite a gasp—ripped from his throat, raw and unnatural. His chest convulsed. His fingers twitched. His body jerked violently forward, knocking his empty glass onto the table, shattering it against the wood.

Across from him, Alra’s fingers clawed at her throat.

Her eyes widened—panic, confusion—a strangled sound escaping her lips as she lurched forward, her entire body trembling. Shaking. She coughed, a horrible, garbled noise, wine spilling from her lips as her body rebelled against itself.

Purple.

Her skin was turning purple.

Tiz gasped, his own body convulsing now, his back arching as his limbs seized, his throat fighting against a breath that would not come. His chest heaved in desperate struggle—nothing. His veins darkened, poisoned.

The room had stopped.

Silence. Shock. Horror.

Then—

A single glass hit the floor.

Ephraim’s heart slammed against her ribs.

The sound of the glass hitting the floor barely registered over the roar of blood in her ears. One moment—one moment, she had been watching her mother drink, watching Tiz push forward in his stubborn, insufferable way.

Her mother’s hands clawed at her throat. Tiz’s body convulsed, his fingers digging into the table, his eyes bulging in blind panic as the veins in his neck darkened—blotching, twisting. The purple spread like ink spilled over skin, a grotesque map of agony.

Ephraim stood so fast the chair beneath her screeched against the floor and toppled backward.

“Mother—” Her voice was raw, an instinctual call before her mind even caught up.

Alra’s eyes locked on hers, wide, wild, pleading.

For help. For salvation. For something Ephraim couldn’t name.

Tiz wasn’t even looking at her anymore—his body jerked once, hard, as if something inside him snapped. He choked, something wet and awful sounding—a gurgle. His lips curled back, his teeth clenched as he tried, tried, tried to breathe—

And failed.

A terrible, wet cough burst from Alra’s mouth, flecks of darkened, thickened blood spilling over her lips. She twitched, spasmed— her limbs losing control. She reached—her hands trembling, grasping blindly.

Ephraim caught them.

She grabbed her mother’s wrists, felt the erratic, dying pulse beneath her fingertips, felt how weak the squeeze was.

“No. No.” Her voice cracked, shattered.

Her fingers tightened, hard, unrelenting, desperate—

“Mother, stay with me!”

Her breath hitched, her pulse pounded.

Her mother was dying in her hands.

Tiz’s body gave another violent jerk.

And then—

Stillness.

Final. Absolute.

His hands slipped from the table. His chest caved inward on a final, broken gasp.

Tiz fell forward. Face-first. Lifeless.

---

The chamber was a cathedral of shadows and silk, draped in illusions of grandeur that masked the rot beneath. High, sweeping arches of deep-blue stone curved overhead, the walls etched with sprawling murals of stories that had never been true. The air was thick with something not quite real—a scent like flowers that had never grown, wine that had never been poured, a history rewritten too many times to hold weight.

Poise sat upon his throne—though throne was perhaps the wrong word. It was a seat carved into the heart of the chamber, half art, half prison, its spiraling gold filigree curling upward like the delicate tendrils of some unnatural, carnivorous bloom. Beautiful. Deadly. A gilded cage he had built himself.

The mask he wore was polished, gleaming beneath the flickering light of the chandeliers. The carved porcelain surface was too smooth, too flawless, too unreadable.

His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest, slow, deliberate.

His voice—when it came—was even softer.

"And you're sure you've managed to re-create the poison exactly?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Riversong’s breath caught—her eyes snapping wide the instant Tiz’s body lurched, Alra choking beside him. The scent of wine still clung to the air, but now it was twisted, tainted—foul.

Her hands shook—but only for a heartbeat.

Then she moved.

Fast. Fluid.

Her chair scraped back, barely a sound, and in the next breath, she was by the children.

“Rhea. Castara. Callabassas.” Her voice was gentle, urgent. A current, not a wave. “Come with me—now.”

She gathered them swiftly, an arm around Rhea’s shoulders, her hand on Callabassas’s back, Castara’s wrist held in her grasp. The girl was frozen, wide-eyed, but Riversong didn’t give her the chance to falter.

They didn’t need to see this. Not this.

She pulled them from the room as Alra’s wet cough echoed behind them.

Meanwhile, Mordecai shot to his feet, the screech of his chair lost beneath the chaos. He reached Ephraim in an instant, grounding her with a hand, but his eyes were already on Tiz—on the wine staining the table.

The glass. The smell.

His blood ran cold.

Poison.

Not natural. Not time. Not consequence.

Intent.

His breath tightened, his mind calculating fast—formulae, toxins, methods. This wasn’t alchemy by chance. It was precise. It was planned.

And someone had poisoned their wine.

---

A low purr, deep and resonant, coiled through the chamber’s stillness—less a sound, more a presence—as Lucian lounged across a leather chaise with all the effortless command of a creature born to stalk thrones, not sit upon them. His posture was relaxed, elegant, but beneath it lay a tension—coiled, waiting, always ready.

His porcelain mask, sculpted in the image of his true form, gleamed in the flickering light. The eyes—hollow, black, feline slits—stared with unblinking calm, unreadable and patient.

One paw lifted, idly flexing in the air, long black claws glinting as he unsheathed a single one—his only weapon.

The answer came as if it had never been in doubt.

“Naturally.” His voice, silken and slow, rolled from his throat like warm velvet, tinged with a quiet purr. “You know I do not make mistakes.”

He did not look at Poise immediately—he never rushed attention—instead, he inspected the curve of his claw, watching it catch the candlelight like a blade kissed by moonlight.

Then, with the grace of a king addressing a lesser court, he shifted his gaze.

“I will grant you this—” A slight incline of his head, more acknowledgement than praise. “This...performance of chaos was artfully staged. Brisance’s theatrics, Katya’s flair.” A pause, deliberate. “But chaos is not conquest.”

He sat up just enough to rest one elbow on the arm of the chaise, the other paw dragging lazily along the velvet, the soft scritch of claws just barely audible. A reminder of control.

“True conquest,” he purred, “waits in silence. It watches. It chooses its moment.” A claw tapped once against the leather, the sound precise. “Let them chase shadows through burning streets.” His voice darkened slightly, laced with something colder. “The real blow...is struck in quiet.”

He let the words settle, like smoke curling through a closed room, inescapable.

Then, smoothly, he reclined again, folding one leg over the other, tail flicking once.

“They never saw it coming.” The last line a whisper, satisfied. “As it should be.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian the Panther – The Velvet Guillotine​

Chronosphere of Origin: Velvraux
Current Status: 6th Council Member of Poise
Affiliation: Harlekin
Ability:
Lucian’s ability, The Midnight Reprise, is a honed echo of Wrath’s force—silent implosions that erase life without sound or spectacle. Where Rathiel engulfs cities in fire, Lucian collapses space itself, extinguishing his targets with surgical precision. No blaze, no screams—only the hush of finality.

---

Velvraux – The Gilded Shadow​

Velvraux was regal excess made manifest—a Chronosphere of mirrored halls, jazz orchestras, and velvet-draped power. Picture the roaring 1920s, infused with royal bloodlines, where nobility ruled not with armies but with influence, wealth, and unseen blades.

The ruling House Velvraux, panther kin of pure black fur, governed with effortless dominance. They did not crush dissent. They erased it.

Lucian, second son of the house, was their invisible executioner. In silk vests and tailored coats, he slipped through shadows, his claws opening throats as easily as doors. There was no mess. No struggle. Just precision—and a return to the ballroom, drink in hand, as if nothing had happened.

Salem, his older brother, was the crown—composed, commanding, the perfect heir. When Wrath chose Salem as its vessel, it found not a berserker, but a king—fury bound in elegance.

Lucian envied him for it.
Not out of love. Out of ambition.

---

The Motive – Shadows Do Not Kneel​

Lucian didn’t act to save Salem from Wrath’s grip. He acted because Salem stood between him and everything he wanted—control, autonomy, and power unchallenged.

Salem’s rise meant Lucian would always remain second—always in the shadow.

Lucian refused.

He struck under moonlight, slipping past guards, through opulent chambers lit by soft jazz and crystal chandeliers. His claws gleamed in silence.

But Salem knew.

Wrath didn’t stop the blade. Salem did.

---

The Court Betrayal – Velvet and Blood​

The invitation was routine—a court proceeding, a thief to be judged. Lucian arrived in a midnight coat, gloves crisp, hat tilted just so. He walked marble floors dusted in gold, past nobles draped in silk, pearls, and tailored suits.

In the mirrored hall, he stood beside Salem, poised and unreadable.

Salem’s voice echoed, smooth as fine liquor.

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

Lucian’s brow flickered—the barest sign. He turned, calm, toward Salem.

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

Eyes turned. Murmurs rose. Lucian remained still—calculating.

“Lucian Velvraux.” (Salem’s gaze bore into him.)
“Your crimes are laid bare.”

Silence.
Lucian let out a slow breath, maskless, composed, yet something in his eyes wavered.

“I see,” he murmured. A faint smile, cold and resigned.
“Well played.”

---

The Mirror Death – The Velvet Guillotine Falls​

Salem didn’t summon guards.

He approached, coat flowing, claws glinting under gaslight.
Lucian didn’t run. He didn’t beg.
He knelt, head high.


“Do it cleanly,” he whispered.

And Salem did.

His claws sliced Lucian’s throat—precise, elegant, and silent.

Lucian collapsed onto marble, blood pooling beneath pearl buttons.

The assassin died by the method he had perfected.

And Velvraux’s shadow was gone.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s breath came sharp, ragged. Her hands trembled against her parents' still bodies, heat flooding her veins, an anger so raw it burned.

No.

This wasn’t happening.

She shoved Mordecai’s hand off her shoulder, barely aware of him, barely aware of anything but the way they weren’t moving.

Tiz’s chest heaved in shallow, uneven gasps. Alra’s lips were pale, her breath wet and gurgling. The poison coiled through them, too fast, too deep.

Ephraim didn’t think—she acted.

Her hands shot out, pressing to their skin. Healing. Restore. Undo.

Light flared—for a moment. Then it flickered. Then it died.

She gasped, choking on it, on nothing—on the absence of power, the absence of the gift that had once surged so easily from her fingers.

No. No. No.

She pushed harder, willing, forcing, clawing at what should have been there—what had always been there—what had been hers to wield since the day she’d first called on it.

Nothing.

Her body wrenched back as if struck. Her breath came shallow, her chest heaving with the sudden, undeniable truth.

Mercy to vengeance. Life to ruin.

The power that had once been hers was gone.

Or the poison refused to be healed.

Her stomach twisted, but the grief, the terror—they were secondary. Secondary to the fury that took their place.

Her head snapped up.

“Orlin.” Her voice was steel. No tremble. No hesitation.

“Find him and seize him. Now.”

The words cracked like a whip through the room.

Ephraim surged to her feet, whirling on the nearest guard. “Orlin gave us the barrel! Find him! Drag him back in chains!”

“NOW!”

The room snapped into motion.

Chairs overturned. Guards scrambled. The door slammed open.

Ephraim barely saw it. Barely cared.

She stood rigid, shaking, watching—watching as her parents lay dying at her feet.

---

A pause.

Then—a slow inhale, deep and deliberate.

Poise did not sit. He stood as he always did—effortless, poised, a creature of control. The flickering light carved his silhouette in silver and shadow, his presence a contrast of elegance and something deeper—something sharp, something that could cut if one lingered too long.

“Lucian.”

The way he said it—low, indulgent, rolling over his tongue like fine brandy—made the air between them shift. A murmur of silk sliding over skin. A name not just spoken, but tasted.

Not a reprimand. Not quite praise. Something else.

His voice curled around the chamber’s hush, slow and rich. “You are ever the master of patience. The stillness before the execution. The quiet before the collapse.” His eyes—piercing, golden in the candlelight—drifted over Lucian’s porcelain mask as if peeling it apart, layer by layer.

Then—lower now. More intimate.

“But tell me…” Poise took a step forward, deliberate, invading the space just enough. Just close enough. “If you wait too long… will conquest slip through your fingers entirely?”

A taunt. A challenge. A tease.

The air thickened, charged with something unspoken. A current between them, humming beneath the surface.

Poise tilted his chin, giving Lucian his full attention now—the kind of gaze that lingered. That knew. That made a promise without ever speaking it aloud.

And then—a laugh. Low. Rich. Amused.

“You speak of silence, my dear Guillotine,” he murmured, just close enough that Lucian could feel the whisper of his words. “And yet, you were never truly silent, were you?”

A challenge. A memory. A dare.

“Not in the mirrored halls. Not in the way you watched your brother’s throne with such… ambition.” His smile now was a slow thing, decadent, as if savoring the taste of the moment, "Two lost, yes, but the pay-off here will be grand."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stepped back—not from fear, but from the storm breaking within Ephraim. She gave the order to seize Orlin, and he said nothing. There was no need to. Someone had poisoned them. The wine traced back to Orlin. As the guards rushed out, Mordecai watched in silence, knowing Orlin’s judgment was already sealed.

---

Lucian did not move. He remained reclined, half-lounged in the tall-backed chair as though carved there—porcelain mask tilted just slightly, a flick of his tail the only sign he’d heard.

A pause.

Then—a low hum, almost a purr.

“The stillness before the collapse…” he echoed, voice smooth, lazy, unbothered. “You do have a way with words.”

His fingers idly traced the armrest, claws faintly tapping—not nervousness, not tension, merely rhythm.

“A symphony requires more than silence, true. But even the finest orchestra depends on restraint. On the space between sound. On each instrument knowing when to rise, and when to be still.”

A flicker of amusement laced his tone.

“You have your drums, your brass, your blinding crescendos.”
He tipped his head, gaze steady beneath the mask.
“I? I am the pause that makes them listen.”

A beat. A breath.

Lucian shifted, languid, as if the very idea of urgency was beneath him.

“And conquest…”
His voice dipped, velvet-wrapped steel.
“…comes to those who do not waste their breath chasing it.”

He let the silence hang—rich, deliberate.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Poise did not move at first.

Not in the way Lucian might expect. Not in the way that was calculated, designed to provoke or press.

Instead, he hesitated.

It was slight—just the smallest shift of weight, the lightest draw of breath—but it was real. A moment of stillness not meant to manipulate, but to gather.

And then—a step forward.

Measured, but softer now. Less a performance, more a reach. A bridge, uncertain but still offered.

“You speak so often of patience,” Poise murmured, a whisper of movement in the hush between them. “Of restraint. Of knowing when to act, and when to wait.”

His voice was smooth, but beneath it—beneath all of it—was something else. A careful vulnerability, hidden in the deliberate grace of his stance.

A wanting.

Not of conquest. Not of control.

Something simpler. Something older.

A breath, then—a choice.

Poise extended a gloved hand. Upturned. Open.

An offering, not a demand.

“Will you share a dance with me, Lucian?”

The words left him without flourish, without theatrics—just the quiet honesty of the request itself.

He did not try to tease, did not lace it in challenge.

He simply asked.

And then, because he was Poise, because he had learned how to craft beauty from ruin, how to take shattered things and make them elegant, he allowed himself—just this once—to ask for what he wanted.

“I wish to be led.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian watched Poise in silence, his only motion the slow, deliberate flick of his tail against the velvet chaise.

“You wish to be led?”
A soft chuckle, barely a breath, laced with amusement. He didn’t move.

His claws extended, dragging lazily along the armrest—a pointed scratch, as if to mark it. “Mm. But I’m rather comfortable where I am,” he murmured, claws tapping once before retracting.

A pause.

Then—motion, fluid and unhurried, as he rose with a languid stretch, the kind that spoke of coiled grace, not obligation. Lucian moved as if he had all the time in the world—because he believed he did.

He took Poise’s hand with practiced elegance, not deference, but ease, stepping into the rhythm with the confidence of one who had danced through ballrooms and bloodshed alike.

“You flatter me,” Lucian murmured, his voice silk over steel. “But let’s not pretend you ever wish to be led.”

Their steps fell in line, smooth, deliberate—a dance of shared power, not surrender.

“You… calculate. You don’t wander. You wait. You strike. You already know the worth of silence—of stillness. You’re not chaos, Poise. You’re restraint.”

A turn. A pause. Their movement stilled at the center.

Lucian’s voice dipped lower, almost intimate.

“They shed false tears for their crumbling towers while the bodies fall unseen. That is a masterpiece.”

A breath.
“Poisoned wine, bodies in silence… That’s not chaos.”
A flicker of a smirk behind the mask.
“That’s artistry. And you—already know exactly when to strike.”

One final step—measured, smooth, precise.

The dance, like Lucian himself, was not indulgence.
It was control—shared, but never surrendered.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

A hum, soft—pleased.

Poise let himself be moved. Let himself be led.

It was an unfamiliar sensation—foreign, but not unwelcome.

His steps followed Lucian’s as if drawn by an unseen current, a force older than Harlekin, older than masks, older than them. A muscle memory from another life. A time when he had been something else—someone else—when the world had known him by a different name, a different shape.

But here—here, beneath the hush of velvet and flickering candlelight—he was just Poise.

And Poise… was allowed to want.

A hand in his. A firm guide at his back. The subtle pressure of a lead that he did not have to command, only trust.

It sent something warm curling through him. Something that almost—almost—felt like nostalgia.

Lucian’s words cut through the hush between them, all sharpness, all knowing, all control.

“You don’t wander. You wait. You strike.”

Poise’s fingers curled slightly against Lucian’s palm—just a fraction, just a whisper of motion before he let his grip ease again. A flicker of something unspoken. Uncertain, perhaps. Or simply… remembering.

Their bodies moved in tandem, precise, deliberate, a dance of calculation, not indulgence. But Poise allowed himself—just this once—to close his eyes and pretend it was indulgence.

For a breath. For a moment.

Then—a step. A shift. A change.

Lucian led with expertise, with quiet command, but Poise… Poise knew how to follow. And following was not the same as surrender.

Their steps slowed, the space between them narrowing, their weight balanced on a single shared breath of stillness. A pause before the final note.

Poise did not pull away.

Instead, he lifted his chin ever so slightly, his mask tilting just so, as if offering Lucian a secret.

“Mm,” Poise mused, voice barely more than a whisper. A tease. A temptation. “And yet, you took my hand all the same.”

He let the words settle, their final step drawing to a close.

Then, deliberately, he exhaled slowly, and in that moment—for himself, for no one else—he imagined it.

A grand ballroom. A different life. A floor of gilded marble and the weight of a hundred eyes, all turned toward him. A dress of soft silk, draped in pearls, a partner’s hand firm against his waist, guiding him in a waltz that was meant to be seen, meant to be revered.

---

The night had settled into its aftermath—hushed, uneasy, waiting. The echoes of the poisoned wine still clung to the air, though the violence had stilled, leaving only the quiet wreckage of what had transpired.

Ulysses moved through it like a ghost.

Not unnoticed—never that—but unremarkable. Purposefully so. The weight of the Harlekin coat on his shoulders, the hush of his own breath—both were familiar, grounding.

The others had scattered—some tending to the wounded, some hunting Orlin’s trail, some simply grasping at what control remained.

And then there was Mordecai.

Ulysses found him where he expected—alone, but not untouched.

He approached slowly, carefully. Not as if stepping around something fragile, but something deliberate. A man caught in the middle of a formula yet to be solved.

The candlelight flickered against Mordecai’s sharp profile, shadows carving his face into something unreadable. His hands were still stained—not with blood, but with knowledge. With calculations running beneath his skin.

Ulysses stopped just short of standing beside him.

A pause.

Then—his voice, low. Steady.

“Your mind’s louder than the room," he said, greeting his former mentor with warmth.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian’s head tilted, the faintest motion—a predator’s idle curiosity.

A beat. Then—his voice, soft and precise, smooth as silk draped over steel.

“Even the stillest blade moves when the hand behind it is… familiar.”

A pause. The barest hint of amusement.

“And we are all tethered to something, Poise. Some threads pull tighter than others.”

His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle across the back of Poise’s hand—not affection, but acknowledgment. A Harlekin’s bond to their maker. Their muse.

Lucian’s tone dropped, a quiet echo of certainty.

“I follow because it serves me. I lead because it serves you. Balance.”

A final glance, mask catching the light.

“And we both know how delicate balance can be.”

---

Mordecai didn’t turn at first. His gaze remained fixed ahead, eyes on something distant, something that wasn’t there—or perhaps something only he could see.

The candlelight danced across his face, hollowing his features, casting sharp shadows beneath his eyes.

A beat passed. Then—his voice, low and rough, like stone scraping glass.

“She’s changed.”

A pause. Thoughtful, not mournful.

“It was always there, beneath the skin. The fury. The fire.” His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger—but understanding. “Now it has teeth. Clarity. Vengeance.”

His fingers curled, slow, deliberate, as if weighing the shape of the moment in his palm.

“You know what grief does, Ulysses. You’ve seen what wrath made of me. And now it’s taken her hand.” A quiet breath. An acknowledgement. He did not deny Wrath. “She’ll never be the same. Nor should she be.”

Finally, he glanced sideways, his gaze settling on Ulysses—not cold, not kind. Just truth, delivered without embellishment.

“This… is the shape of the world now. And we follow the forms it gives us, until we shape it back—or break under it.”

A flicker of something in his tone—not regret, but resolve.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

A pause.

Not out of hesitation, but because Ulysses understood the weight of silence.

He let Mordecai’s words settle—let them breathe, let them sink into the room like ink into water.

Then, finally—a slow inhale, measured. A choice.

“I know,” Ulysses murmured, voice low, steady. Not arguing. Not comforting. Simply… acknowledging.

He did know.

He knew what grief did—what it carved out, what it filled, what it left behind. He had seen the way rage made homes in the spaces sorrow abandoned. How it reshaped a person, made them harder, sharper, less willing to bend.

Mordecai was right. Ephraim had changed.

And Ulysses knew better than to mourn it.

Instead, he let the moment shift, let it turn—not away from what had been lost, but toward something that still remained.

His hands, clad in dark leather, pressed briefly into the back of a nearby chair, fingers tapping once—a thought given form.

Then, without preamble—without any of the usual formalities or careful maneuvering—he said it.

“Thank you.”

A simple thing. A weighty thing.

Mordecai turned fully now, watching him. Measuring.

Ulysses didn’t look away.

“For Janus,” he clarified, quieter this time. Sincere. Unadorned. “For pulling him out of the Soul Games when I couldn’t.”

He exhaled, slow and even.

“I won’t forget it.”

A promise, not a debt.

A pause. Then—he let himself move, just a fraction closer. Not intrusive, not overstepping—just enough to be present. To hold the space with him.

“I understand,” he continued, shifting his weight slightly, his voice softer but no less firm. “What you’re saying. What grief does. What vengeance can shape you into.” His fingers curled loosely at his side, a quiet, unconscious mimic of Mordecai’s own.

He let the words stretch between them, knowing Mordecai wasn’t the kind to need platitudes, to need reassurance that his thinking wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t.

The world was changing.

And them with it.

Ulysses tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady, considering Mordecai in a way that wasn’t just passing.

“If the world gives us a shape, and we have to choose between breaking or reshaping it…” A breath. A thought. Then—a quiet decision.

“Maybe it’s better not to do it alone...." he leads off, "Ephraim and your kids are... just like you two, wise, thoughtful; I feel sorry they had to see the world's cruelness in this way."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai was still for a long moment, the only motion the slow rise and fall of his breath. When he spoke, his voice was low, rough, and deliberate—each word carved from stone.

“Don’t thank me.” A pause. “I did what needed to be done. That’s all.”

It wasn’t cold. Not dismissive. Simply truth.

He glanced at Ulysses, eyes sharp but understanding. “You’d have done the same. For him.”

Then he looked away.

The silence stretched—thick, but not uncomfortable. Mordecai let it hang, let Ulysses’ words settle—the ones about shapes, about not doing it alone.

Without a word, he withdrew a small vial from his waistcoat. Clear liquid, mist coiled inside. He uncorked it, threw it back in a practiced motion, swallowed. A beat. No explanation. No acknowledgment. Just another breath, and the vial vanished back into his coat like it had never existed.

He said nothing, but his jaw tightened, thoughts flickering behind his eyes. The children had seen too much—their grandparents, Ephraim’s parents, struck down before them. He was grateful Riversong got them out, but the damage was done.

Mordecai’s teeth clenched suddenly, a sharp tension in his head—pain, swift and jarring. His vision flickered.

For a breath, Ulysses wasn’t there.

Instead—sunlight, fire, the scent of burning stone. He was small again, Rhea and Castara's age, watching his parents die, the sunship cutting across the sky in their conquer.

The moment passed.

A blink. Ulysses stood before him once more.

Mordecai exhaled slowly.

“No one reshapes the world alone.” His voice was lower now, rougher. “But we don’t all walk away from it whole.”

His gaze darkened, distant, as he glanced toward the window.

“And soft hands don’t survive in a world like this. Not anymore.”

A pause. Final.

“Wisdom doesn’t come from thought. It comes from loss.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

“That’s a damn convenient philosophy,” he muttered, voice low, but cutting. “Loss makes us wiser, soft hands don’t survive, no one walks away whole. I don’t doubt you’ve paid the price, Mordecai. I don’t doubt you understand the cost."

A flicker of candlelight against his gloves as he gestured, his voice steady.

“But why do you think the only wisdom worth keeping is the kind you have to carve out of yourself with a dull knife? If no one walks away whole, then what the hell are you still standing for?”

His hands curled, just slightly, at his sides.

“You won’t take credit for the good you do. You won’t let yourself be more than the sum of what you’ve lost.” A breath. “But you’re shaping the world whether you admit it or not. And if you keep believing the only thing worth learning is pain… then that’s what they’ll learn from you.”

A pause.

Then, finally—quieter. More honest.

“And I don’t think that’s who you are... or who you were anyway,”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s gaze snapped toward Ulysses, sharp and cold—not anger, not fury. Irritation. The kind that simmered low, steady, and unbothered, but lethal if prodded too long.

His voice, when it came, was low and raspy, but no longer calm. Cutting. Direct. Measured.

“I don’t recall asking for a moral lesson.”

He took a step forward—not threatening, but imposing, the weight of centuries behind his posture, his gaze.

“You think you’ve cracked something open, lad? That you’ve stared long enough at the world to know its shape?” A scoff, rough and dry. “You’ve seen a chapter. I’ve lived the whole damn volume.”

His fingers flexed once at his side, jaw clenched, but he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“I don’t need to justify my choices to you. Or to anyone.”

A pause—just enough silence to make the air taut.

“You want to hold onto hope, optimism, whatever makes the world palatable to you? Fine. That’s your luxury. Live by it, die by it. But don’t come to me thinking that gives you insight into who I am.”

His eyes narrowed—not unkind, but unyielding.

“You’ve watched pain. I became it.”

Another pause—then, that final twist of the knife, smooth and tired, like he was already finished with this conversation.

“You’re bold. Admirable. Naïve.”

A flicker of something behind his eyes—respect, buried beneath layers of stone.

“I taught you once because you were worth the time. Don’t waste it thinking you suddenly know the man who taught you.”

He turned away, adjusting his coat with a flick of his fingers, voice dropping one last line, rasped and final.

“Let the world shape you however it wants. I’ve already carved mine.” With that, he stood up trailing out the door, slamming it behind him.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The days passed in a haze of mourning and movement. A city does not stop for grief, but it bends beneath its weight. Umbrafane had always known loss—had been built upon it, brick by brick, bone by bone—but this? This was a reckoning.

The funerals came and went like a tide, each one pulling a little more from the city’s soul. Buzz, laid to rest among her kin, their silent, solemn hum filling the air like a dirge only they could hear.

Eryon’s fallen warriors, buried with their shields in a solemn procession, Umbrafane’s people lining the streets in reverence.

Tiz and Alra, sent off in rites that carried both sorrow and complication—

(She had been a mother. A liar. A woman Ephraim had tried, time and again, to save.)

(He had been a father. A fool. A man who had never known how to listen until it was too late.)

Karn and Eoghan. Dunemire’s golden warriors turned to ash. Their absence left a hole in the world where once a kingdom had stood.

And finally—Orlin. Detained. Held. His name spoken now in bitter whispers.

Umbrafane still stood. But it stood heavier.

---

The estate was quiet.

Mordecai had spent most of the evening occupied—speaking with Mern about the future of the city, reviewing Orlin’s detainment, ensuring that every loose end was accounted for.

Ephraim lay in their bed, beneath the weight of silk and shadow, the warmth of the covers doing little to thaw the cold in her chest. She wasn’t asleep. She had tried. The exhaustion was there, thick in her bones, but her mind would not rest.

Her eyes remained open, staring at nothing, violet gaze unfocused.

She wasn’t even sure how long she had been like this.

The room was dim, the only light a soft flicker from the lantern near the door, casting long shadows across the carved wood. Their home was untouched by the war raging outside—but not untouched by its consequences.

Her fingers curled slightly against the sheets. The funeral prayers still echoed in her mind. The scent of incense and turned earth lingered.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai entered the room with his usual measured stride—no sneaking, no hesitation. The soft creak of the door, the click of his cane against the floor, each sound deliberate, familiar. He didn’t fill the silence. He didn’t need to.

His gaze found her—not asleep, but still, lying beneath silk and shadow, her form etched in the low flicker of lantern light. He knew that stillness—not rest, but exhaustion that refused to let go.

He approached quietly, the tap of his cane pacing his steps, until he reached her side. Without a word, he leaned the cane against the wall, then lowered himself to sit at the edge of the bed, beside her but not intruding—a presence, solid, steady, offering nothing but truth.

His voice came low, rasped, but not unkind.

“You haven’t moved.”

A simple statement. No judgment. Just truth laid bare between them.

He watched her for a moment, the weight in his chest not foreign, but familiar—a burden he’d carried longer than most had lived.

“You’ve buried more than family.”
His words settled like stone, heavy and real.

A pause.

Then, quieter—measured.

“You’ve buried what could have been. What never was.”

His gaze lingered, then turned forward, staring into the dim light.

“I won’t tell you to rest. I won’t tell you to heal.” A breath. Slow.
“But I want you to come with me.” His voice softened, but it held weight—not a command, not a plea.

“To the water.”

A pause. Final.
“There’s something I want to show you.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim inhaled sharply.

Not because his words surprised her. Because they didn’t.

She had spent all evening submerged in that stillness—wrapped in it, weighted by it—but Mordecai had named it, carved it into something tangible.

Something real.

Something that hurt.

Her breath hitched—barely—but it was enough.

She sat up slowly, the covers slipping from her shoulders as she moved, her hands bracing against the mattress like she needed to steady herself. She did.

Her throat burned. She had spent days holding back, holding everything. Keeping herself composed for the city, for the council, for their children. For herself.

But now—here, in the quiet, with him beside her—she felt the crack.

Her eyes stung, her lashes clinging together as her vision blurred. A breath—a shallow, shuddering inhale. Then another.

Then it broke.

The first tear fell with no sound. Then another. And another.

Her shoulders tensed, her body betraying her even as she fought to keep it together. Even now, her instincts screamed at her to be strong, to lock it down, to move forward.

But Mordecai was still there.

Steady. Waiting.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers to her temple, then exhaled slowly. It didn’t stop the tears, but it steadied her breathing.

She opened her eyes—not clear, not strong, but determined.

Her voice was soft, raw. Shaken, but not broken.

“…Okay.”

She stood—slow, deliberate, her movements careful like she wasn’t quite sure she trusted her own balance.

Then, finally, she lifted her gaze to his, blinking past the dampness in her lashes, her lips pressing into something close to a wry, exhausted smile. A fraction of herself again.

“You better not drown me, I'm not some sick dog you can just put down."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai said nothing more as Ephraim stood, her breath still uneven, lashes damp. He didn’t need to speak. The weight of the room, of their silence, of everything unspoken between them—it was enough.

He rose with her, retrieving his cane in one smooth, mechanical motion, then stepped toward the door and pushed it open without another word.

The night air greeted them like an old ghost.

Outside, the gardens stretched dark and quiet, moonlight casting pale lines across stone pathways and low hedges. Umbrafane didn’t sleep, but here—beyond the reach of war and whispers—it was still.

Mordecai led, as he always did—not too fast, not waiting. Just steady, his cane tapping against earth and stone as they left the house behind.

No guards. No lights. Just the distant rustle of leaves and the soft hum of water somewhere near.

They moved through the outer gardens, weaving past fruit trees into thicker brush. The air cooled beneath the canopy of branches, overgrown paths winding beneath their feet. Old stone steps, half-buried under moss and soil, gave way to tangled brambles and hanging limbs. Mordecai moved with purpose, pushing aside branches, clearing a path through the quiet tangle of time and neglect.

He didn’t look back.

He knew she was there. He could hear her—quiet steps, lighter than his own, but heavy with the same weight.

Finally, the thicket broke, and the path opened onto the riverbank below.

Moonlight shimmered across the water, casting silver ripples into the dark. At the river’s edge stretched a long wooden pier, old but solid, reaching into the current.

At its end floated a ragged old houseboat, tethered loosely to the dock. Its hull was weathered but intact—not lavish, not abandoned. Just... a place built for one.

Mordecai paused, his hand resting lightly on the pier’s post. He said nothing at first, eyes on the boat. The breeze stirred the edges of his coat, the lantern hung at the pier’s start flickering low.

“This place…” he said finally, voice low, rough with memory, “wasn’t meant for anyone but me.”

He glanced at her—tired, but clear.

“Solitude. Clarity. Sometimes the only way to think… is away from everything. It’s… a fragment of my old past, in a way. But it holds a message.”

He didn’t move yet. Didn’t step onto the pier.

His gaze lingered—not demanding, not expectant. Just watching.

He saw it—the storm behind her eyes, the way she carried herself like she could bear everything if she just held it tight enough.

Then, Mordecai stepped onto the pier. The wooden boards creaked faintly beneath his boots, the river lapping softly at the posts below.

He didn’t go far. Just enough to feel the water’s breath beneath him. Just enough to be still.

He turned, glancing back—no pressure, only presence—then lowered himself onto one of the beams, hand resting on the post beside him.

“Sit with me.”
Low. Simple. Not a request. Not a command.
A space, held open only for her.

Once she joined him—if only for the weight of silence—they sat side by side, the river stretching out before them like a path with no end.

Mordecai didn’t look at her immediately. He didn’t need to.
He could feel the tension still coiled in her shoulders, the grief held too tightly in her chest.

After a beat, he spoke, his voice rough—truth dragged through years of experience, but calm.

“Pain does something to you.”

A pause. The river murmured beneath them.

“It changes how you see things. How you move. How you breathe. You think you’re holding it together, but really… it’s holding you.”

He turned his head slightly, catching her in his peripheral—not unkind, not pitying. Just... present.

“I know that weight.”
A breath—measured, slow. “More than you could ever want to.”

Then—without breaking the silence—he reached up, loosening the collar of his coat, fingers moving methodically. Not for comfort. For something more.

His gloves came off next, folded over his knee. Then his coat—shoulders rolled, slipping it from his frame in quiet, practiced motions.

He laid it beside him, the weight of it landing soft but heavy on the wood.

Then the vest—unfastened with the same calculated care, as if he were shedding more than fabric.

Not a word of explanation.

Just a man removing his extra fabric, piece by piece, in the presence of someone who mattered. (No he's not naked)

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders, but the weight of everything still clung to her. Heavy. Relentless.

She didn’t stop him. Didn’t interrupt as Mordecai pulled off layer after layer—his coat, his gloves, his vest—each motion practiced, deliberate, revealing not just skin, but something else. Something heavier.

She understood.

She had seen him in battle, in fury, in command. She had seen him drenched in blood and shadow, eyes burning with Wrath’s power. But this? This was different. Stripped down, not as a warrior, not as a leader. Just… him.

Her fingers flexed against her own knee.

A slow, quiet breath.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“…Mordecai.” Her voice was low, steady, but there was an edge of something else in it. Not anger. Not bitterness. Just exhaustion.

She shifted slightly, adjusting the weight of her body on the wooden beam beneath them, staring out at the water. “You always say pain changes things.” A pause. “That it shifts how we move. How we breathe.”

Her gaze flickered toward him, studying his profile, the sharp angles of his face softened in the moonlight.

“…So what did it change in you?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched her for a long moment, the question hanging between them like smoke—then gave a small, silent nod. His shirt hung loose now, open at the collar, the moonlight catching the lines of his frame, the scars half-hidden beneath fur and shadow.

With a quiet push of his hands, he swung his legs over the dock’s edge, the wood creaking beneath him. The water stirred at his touch, a soft splash as he stepped in—slow, unbothered. It rose past his waist, cool, steady, but it didn’t slow him. He moved deeper until it lapped at his chest, then turned to face her.

He didn’t speak right away.

He simply stood there, watching her, the current pulling gently around him like a second skin.

Then, finally—low, rasped, deliberate:

“Pain… feels like drowning.”

“A pull. A weight. Suffocating. Numb. But comforting, in its own way.”
His eyes didn’t leave her.
“You struggle against it. Then you don’t.”

He moved through the water slowly, each step deliberate, his voice steady—measured.

“There’s no more Mercy. Only Vengeance.”
“And walking with something like that… like Wrath… it feels impossible at first. You lose yourself.”
A pause. “Or maybe... you become who you were meant to be.”

He let the words settle, let the silence hold—for a moment, then more.

“You ever wonder what it’s like… to burn?”

“Not from the outside. From the inside.”
“It starts slow—still. Like the world stops asking anything of you. Like the pain’s too much to carry, and Wrath offers to take it instead.”

His gaze fixed on hers. “Whispers to you—Let it in. Let it take the weight.”

A breath—low, even.

“And for a moment… I did.”
“Let it all in—the anger, the loss, the heat. Thought maybe that would be enough to stop feeling anything else.”

His voice didn’t waver, but the memory weighed behind it—solid.

“But then something fought back. Not hope. Not peace. Just… survival.”
“Every nerve lit, every thought screaming to take control. To fight. To rise. To destroy.”

He stepped closer to the dock, water trailing from his hands.

“And in the middle of it—one question. Like a blade to the throat.”
‘Have you had enough?’”

Silence clung for a beat, heavy as stone.

“I remember.”
“The sunship. What they did to my village. My parents.”
His voice dropped, rough. “Liora raising me with her claw to my throat.”
“I wanted to end it—end me—because the pain didn’t stop.”

His hand lifted from the water, droplets sliding down dark fur. He turned it over, revealing the sigil carved into his palm—a mark, a memory, a bond.

“That night, Wrath came to me.”
“I was broken. Empty. Nothing left. The world didn’t give me a reason to breathe—but Wrath did.”

“Most people never hear that question. Never stand on that edge.”
“But when you do—it doesn’t leave you. It carves into you. Claims you.”

He watched her now—sharp, but soft in the moonlight, his gaze open.

“It claimed me.”
A breath. “And for that… I thank it.”
“My old friend.”

He moved closer to the dock, crimson eyes never leaving hers.

“That day, I let that man die. The one who couldn’t bear to live with that pain.”

Without pause, he dipped beneath the surface—submerging fully. The river stilled around him for a breath… then he rose, water clinging to his fur, dripping from his hair, his expression unchanged—but something in him clearer.

“Another was born.”

“That pain… that hollow ache that feels like it’ll devour you—can break you. Or it can forge you into something greater.”

He raised his hand toward her, stepping forward, close now—offering, but not pulling.

“That is pain with Wrath. And with Vengeance.”

His voice quieted.

“Let go of the fear. Of what it means to hurt. It doesn’t have to control you.”

His hand remained outstretched—steady, unwavering.

“You’re strong now. Just like you’ve always been meant to be.”

A breath, softer, almost reverent.

“You are perfect, Ephraim.”

His eyes searched hers—not commanding, not pleading. Just truth, vulnerable and unguarded, offered to her alone.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t hesitate.

She reached for him, fingers pressing firmly against his palm, grasping, not grazing.

Not tentative. Not unsure. Not anymore.

She knew.

The weight, the expectation, the pain she had carried—she had never fought it the way Mordecai had. She had resisted it, tried to bear it without breaking, without letting it shape her. But she had been shaped anyway. Wrath had burned him, Vengeance had sharpened her, and they had both survived.

Her grip tightened.

“You say Wrath saved you,” she said, her voice low, steady, filled with something that wasn’t quite anger, but wasn’t fear, either. Conviction. “That it asked if you had enough.”

Her violet eyes locked on his, unwavering.

“I don’t need to be asked.”

A breath. Deep. Full.

“I’ve had enough.”

She stepped forward, letting the water bite at her ankles, the cold shocking against her skin. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t stop. She looked at him, really looked at him—the man who had stood at her side, who had walked through the fire, who had burned and still stood, unbroken.

And she matched him.

“I am Vengeance. I am power. And I will not be consumed.”

She exhaled, slow and certain, and let go.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The water stilled between them, silver ripples lapping at Ephraim’s ankles—cool, biting, real.

Mordecai’s outstretched hand remained steady, crimson eyes fixed on hers. And when her fingers curled into his—firm, certain—he gave a faint nod. Not of approval. Recognition.

She had chosen this. Chosen herself.

Without a word, he guided her deeper into the river. Their hands never parted. The current tugged at them, but neither yielded. The pier loomed behind, but Mordecai didn’t look back.

His steps were careful, deliberate, until the water rose to their waists, then higher—moonlight skimming the surface like fractured glass. When it reached their chests, he stopped.

His hand left hers only to rest at her shoulder, the other brushing her back—a guide. Not a weight.

His voice broke the silence—low, rasped, steady as stone worn smooth by time.

“This world takes from us. Rips at us. Carves us hollow.” A pause, the current swirling around them. “But pain... pain can give back. If you let it.”

His gaze dropped to her—not as a judge, not as a mentor—as an equal. A partner. His mirror. His love.

“You are Vengeance. You are strength. And you... will not be broken.”

His hands moved—one to the nape of her neck, the other bracing her back. Not controlling. Not forcing. Offering.

“Let go.” Soft, but steady.

Then—slowly—he lowered her beneath the surface.

The river took her, cool and complete. Moonlight fractured above. Silence filled the space where breath had been— Not suffocating. Still. Quiet. Whole.

Mordecai held her there—not long. Not cruelly. Just long enough to feel it. The weight. The pull. The moment before the choice.

Then he brought her back.

His arms supported her, lifting her from the water, guiding her as she broke the surface.

“And rise.”

The word cut clean. Not a command. A truth.

Water streamed from her face, her hair, her shoulders. Mordecai watched—water falling from his own frame, droplets trailing down fur and shadow—steady.

His hand reached for her again. Not a command. Not a demand. Just there. As he always had been.

“The fear is gone now. All that remains... is you.” A breath. “Ephraim. Our shadows.”

---

Deep within the estate, far beneath the chambers touched by sunlight and civility, lay Mordecai’s sanctum—a place untouched by war’s noise, yet steeped in its preparation.

Not a study. Not a room. A crucible.

Stone walls pressed close around clutter and chaos—tables littered with scrolls, shattered vials, the scent of burned herbs and iron lingering like a permanent stain. Glass tubes, rigged together with wire and clamps, pulsed with the slow heartbeat of alchemy in motion—liquids bubbling, hissing, changing.

Mordecai sat at the heart of it, hunched over a scarred wooden table, hands gloved in thick leather, movements exact—a surgeon dissecting the means to an end.

Before him, a beaker boiled beneath flame, amber liquid shifting to a dark mossy green, tendrils of steam curling like fingers toward the low ceiling. Powders, fragments, notes scrawled in sharp, unforgiving ink surrounded him like debris from a storm.

But this storm was planned.

His crimson eyes flicked to a metal tray at his side—the broken remnants of Katya’s porcelain mask, jagged and silent, retrieved by Silvano from the aftermath.

Trophies. Tools. Warnings.

With practiced precision, he reached for metal tongs, lifting a fractured shard. Pale dust flaked from its edges, falling into a container of viscous tar-dark liquid, green undertones glowing faintly beneath the surface.

He submerged the shard.

Hissssss.

The mask fragment reacted, cracking, trembling, fighting dissolution as the fluid ate away at it. Mordecai watched without flinching, holding the tongs steady as the corrupted shard emerged—dark liquid dripping, each drop hissing as it hit the stone basin below.

No wasted motion. No unnecessary thought. Only observation. Calculation. Wrath, sharpened.

He transferred the fragment into another vial—clear, dense, not water, not simple liquid. The moment it touched, it stilled, suspended mid-vessel, as if the liquid itself refused to let it fall.

Controlled. Contained. Subjugated.

Mordecai leaned back, a hand resting near a pile of discarded metal instruments, his eyes never leaving the vial. A hum of satisfaction, low and cold, rumbled in his chest.

“Interesting…” The word was barely above a whisper—not surprise, but confirmation.

His gaze sharpened, reflecting the faint glow of lantern flame and bubbling chemicals. There was a plan now. No guesses. No theories. Only the slow unraveling of Harlekin from within.

And it would begin here.

His ears flicked. Footsteps, cautious, nearing the door.

Expected. He had called Ephraim.

He didn’t turn immediately. No one came here without his summons. No one left without purpose.

The door creaked open, slow, heavy—wood on rusted hinges.

Mordecai finally turned his head, crimson eyes catching the dim light as he regarded the figure in the doorway.