Fantasy Clovenhorn

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim moved further into the chamber, her hand brushing along the stone wall as she passed the glowing lanterns. Their light shimmered faintly across the edges of her gown, casting soft gold into the creases of the fabric. She didn’t look back right away.

“It’s not a bad place,” she murmured, voice quiet beneath the ambient hum. “Just forgotten...remnants of a different time”

Her fingers found a wall glyph near one of the side corridors. She pressed it with two fingers, and a door slid open with a smooth, muted scrape. The warm glow of another room spilled through—one of the quarters, its simple furnishings already lit by an overhead charm.

She stepped aside, letting him see.

“There should be enough space for both of us to rest,” she said. “These posts weren’t built with etiquette in mind. Just the storms.”

Her gaze lingered on him then—more steady than curious.

“I'd understand if you’d rather stay in the common hall,"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s gaze lingered on the doorway, the warm light spilling across the stone between them. He didn’t step forward, nor turn away—just adjusted his coat with a careful motion, his hand settling over the line of his waistcoat.

“If it’s all the same to you… I’ll take the common hall,” he said, his voice low and rasped, deliberate. “Close enough if needed. I’ll stay alert.”

His eyes flicked to hers, steady for a breath longer.

“After all that… I’m glad you kept your footing.” A pause, brief. “Not everyone would have.”

His fingers shifted slightly at his side, the weight of his presence still measured, watchful, as the quiet of the outpost pressed in around them.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim watched him from the doorway, the flickering lanternlight casting long shadows behind her. She didn’t move for a moment—didn’t argue, didn’t press.

Her expression remained calm, but something in her posture softened, the quiet tension at her shoulders easing just slightly.

“I didn’t keep it on my own,” she said. “You were there.”

She turned then, stepping into the quarters with the soft rustle of fabric against stone. Her hand paused at the edge of the doorway, resting lightly against the frame.

“If anything changes,” she added over her shoulder, her voice quieter now, “wake me.”

The door slid partway closed with a gentle hiss, leaving only a narrow band of light across the floor. The rest of the hall returned to quiet—steady, humming, waiting.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood still as the door eased shut with a soft hiss, the narrow band of light across the stone floor shrinking until only a faint glow marked its edge. The rest of the hall faded back into silence—just the steady hum of the post’s old magic pulsing through the walls like breath.

His hand lingered at his coat’s edge, eyes fixed on the door.

“Yeah,” he murmured under his breath, the word low and worn, shaped for no one but himself.

No answer came. His hooves shifted softly on the stone, steps drawing him away from the quarters and back into the common hall. The lanterns dimmed slightly with his passing, casting the space in a subdued amber haze.

He stopped near the wall, choosing a bench in easy view of the door. Not too close—just enough. The old wood creaked faintly beneath him, solid but uneven, and he sat with care, his coat settling heavily around his shoulders.

From a pocket, he drew a small brass ring, thread looped tight around it in silver and slate-blue. His fingers unwound it slowly, methodical, the motion precise even through the stiffness in his joints. The thread slid over his hands with practiced ease as he worked it into a quiet pattern—loop and pull, twist and catch, threading between his fingers in a rhythm older than this room.

The thread gave the air shape, gave his hands purpose. A familiar task in an unfamiliar place.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of the day etched into every motion. Still, he didn’t take his eyes off the door.

He was still learning this role—still finding his place—but protecting her felt right. Even if he didn’t know why.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The skypost held its breath.

The common hall stretched wide and quiet, its stone walls veined faintly with threads of silver wind-channeling—sigils carved so long ago their meaning had softened into aesthetic. Thin lichen had begun to grow between some of the lower seams, pale green and silky, as if the mountain itself had begun to reclaim the outpost, one quiet spore at a time.

The hearth remained unlit, but remnants of past use remained: a ring of blackened soot just beyond the rune-etched stone, the faint, lingering scent of charred cedar and dried fruit peels. Someone, once, had cooked here. Not for warmth. For comfort.

Dust covered most surfaces, but not evenly. One bench bore the shadow of an old satchel—its imprint left behind in fine residue. Nearby, a cup remained tucked beneath the edge of a bench, glazed ceramic chipped at the rim, the inside still faintly stained with something dark and herbal. Dried tea leaves had crumbled into the cracks of the floor, long forgotten. A small black feather rested nearby—too small to be a bird’s. More likely a writing quill, its tip worn to a dull curve.

Across the hall, a set of travel notes—folded many times, edges curled—had been tucked into a crack in the stone wall. The parchment was translucent with age. The script inside had faded, but a few characters still held: directional glyphs, shorthand wind notations, and the looped mark of a now-defunct navigation guild.

No sounds rose from the vessel outside. No echoes traveled from the guest quarters.

The sigil-lights flickered once—not dimming, but adjusting, reacting. Their glow narrowed slightly, shifting color—amber into a cooler gold, like lanterns trimming themselves for late watch.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai sat with his back to the stone wall, the bench firm beneath him, its surface worn smooth by time—or wind, maybe both. The air in the hall remained dry, cool, and still, the old magic humming softly through the floor beneath his hooves. A thread of it pulsed faintly through the wall at his side, like veins under old stone, barely visible.

The looped thread between his fingers moved again—not gold, not weaponized. Just a simple ring of gray and slate-blue thread, wrapped tightly around a thin brass band. He passed it between his hands in a quiet rhythm, shaping it into a loose cradle, pulling it apart, then weaving it again. The motion was steady, practiced—a tailor’s habit, something to fill the silence, something to focus the hands when the mind had nowhere to go.

His eyes drifted to the door across the hall. Still shut. The narrow band of light had vanished, the seam now lost to the soft flicker of lanternlight above. No sound from within. No stir.

The thread caught a faint glint from the glyphs above as he wound it once more. Then he stopped, slipping the ring back into his pocket.

He rose, crossing the hall with soft steps, hooves tapping lightly against the stone. At the hearth, he paused, fingers brushing the etched glyph at its base. The rune shimmered faintly beneath his touch, waiting—but he left it cold.

The scent of old cedar lingered in the air, tinged with something sweeter—fruit, maybe. His gaze passed over the shadow of a satchel’s imprint, the chipped cup tucked beneath the bench, the cracked leaves settled into the floor’s seams.

Traces of those who came before.

He didn’t linger. He turned back and returned to his place near her door. The bench gave a faint creak beneath him as he sat once more, coat drawn around him, hands still.

The post settled into quiet again—windless, waiting. So did he.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The lanternlight above Mordecai adjusted—not just dimming, but shifting hue. From its soft amber it dulled to a muted bronze, casting longer shadows across the threshold. The seam of the door was still, silent, undisturbed.

But the floor just outside it bore something new.

A trail—barely visible. Thin streaks in the dust, as if brushed by the edge of fabric or the drag of fingers. Not heavy enough for footprints. Not recent enough to feel fresh. They curved slightly before veering off—toward the right-hand corridor that led deeper into the outpost.

The trail stopped abruptly near the corner, where a section of the wall bore an irregular patch of smoothness. It wasn’t architectural. It looked worn, like it had been touched—often—by a hand, a shoulder, or something that leaned against it again and again. The dust was thinner here, and the wind-carved glyph just above it was clearer than the rest. Not glowing. But cleaner. Waiting.

On the wall opposite, an old travel ledger lay open—half-fused to the shelf it rested on by time and moisture. Its pages had warped into a curl, but the ink hadn’t fully faded. Names. Dates. No recent entries. The last line was scrawled hurriedly, the handwriting different from the others.

“Sky unrest. No contact. Waiting out drift. Door didn’t open last time.”

No signature.

Somewhere deeper in the post, metal groaned faintly. Not a threat. Not a system failure.

Just the sound of a place that had waited too long without being seen.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai rose as the lanternlight shifted, the change drawing his eye to the marks in the dust. He crossed the hall in silence, following the faint trail as it curved toward the corridor’s edge. His gaze settled on the worn patch of wall—stone smoothed by touch, the glyph above it clearer than the rest.

He didn’t touch it.

Across from it, the ledger remained open, pages curled with age. His eyes scanned the final line, the uneven hand.

“Sky unrest. No contact. Waiting out drift. Door didn’t open last time.”

No signature.

He lingered a moment, then turned back, footsteps soft against the stone. Near the bench, he remained standing, posture squared, eyes on the corridor. The post held quiet, but he did not return to rest. He stayed alert, hand near his coat, waiting.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The room was quiet.

Then, there was a soft click—quick, almost easy to miss.

It came from the wall near the fireplace. Not the fire itself, but lower, near the floor. A small piece of the wall had shifted inward, just enough to show a narrow gap.

Something metal was sticking out.

It was a small, curved hook—dull and old, shaped like a handle. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in a long time… until now.

On the floor next to it, a square patch of dust was missing, like someone had knelt there recently. A faint smell drifted through the room—wood, clean and sharp, like cut cedar. Not old. Fresh.

Nothing else moved. The air was still. The bench nearby hadn’t shifted. The lights above stayed quiet.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stilled. The soft click echoed faintly, too deliberate to be the old post settling. His ears flicked toward the sound, eyes shifting to the base of the wall near the hearth.

He crossed the hall in slow, measured steps, coat brushing lightly around his legs. The gap in the stone was narrow, fresh—the curved hook catching the light in a dull gleam. Dust had been disturbed nearby. The square impression where someone had knelt was faint but recent. The scent of cedar hung in the air—clean, sharp, wrong.

He crouched beside the wall, fingers hovering just above the stone. He didn’t touch the hook. Not yet. His other hand rested lightly at his coat, near the hidden thread. Still, he waited.

He stayed crouched, gaze tracing the edges of the wall where dust thinned near the base. His hand moved slightly, fingers brushing along the stone—not the hook, but just beside it. The surface was smooth in places where it shouldn’t have been, worn by contact, not wind.

Above, the glyph carved into the wall remained dull, but clear, like something waiting for use.

Mordecai leaned in closer, examining the seams between the stones. No gaps. No shifts. Just a faint, old groove running along the bottom edge—barely visible, except where dust had gathered unevenly.

He didn’t press further.

Instead, he rose, stepping back. His eyes lingered on the hook once more before he turned away, coat trailing softly behind him as he returned to his place near the door.

He didn’t sit. One hand rested near his coat, his stance still, eyes on the hearth. The gap remained open. The hook remained untouched. The post said nothing.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The post remained quiet. No further sound. No shift in the stone. No flicker of light.

The hook stayed where it was—simple, silent, waiting. But it no longer gleamed. Whatever flicker had drawn attention to it faded back into the stillness, as though the place had decided not to press further.

The scent of cedar thinned, slipping away beneath the colder smell of old stone and metal. Even the missing dust patch near the hearth softened, barely visible now in the low, steady glow of the lanterns.

The magic in the walls hummed once—then settled into a slow, steady rhythm.

Time resumed its ordinary pace.

Above, the lanterns trimmed their light, adjusting as if the post itself knew the hour had grown late. No pulse of warning. No alarm. Just the quiet nudge of a place that remembered how to wait.

Nothing opened.
Nothing moved.

The hall returned to rest. And so, for now, did the post.

---

Morning came slowly.

The skypost’s lanterns had dimmed into low, ember-like glows hours before, replaced by the pale light now filtering through narrow slits in the stone walls—high-set windows meant only for the wind and dawn. A faint haze hung across the common hall, catching on beams and old dust like breath held in quiet places.

The glyphs embedded in the floor pulsed softly—gentler now, steady, as if the post had returned to rhythm. No wind outside. No strange hum within. Just the kind of silence that belonged to stone and air left undisturbed.

The door to the traveler’s quarters opened with a low hiss.

Ephraim stepped through, her movements quiet, unhurried. The long folds of her travel robe brushed across the stone, catching faint rays of morning light as she paused on the threshold.

Her gaze swept the room—She looked to the bench near the quarters door.

“Morning,” she said softly, voice touched with sleep but clear.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The post hadn’t moved since the disturbance, but the room had changed. The lanterns dimmed over the hours, adjusting to the time with slow pulses of amber and bronze, casting shifting shadows across the stone.

Mordecai remained seated near the door, his back straight at first, legs drawn in slightly beneath the bench. His fingers tapped softly at his knee, small, restless movements—twitches that stilled only when he pressed his hand flat against his leg. He kept his eyes on the door across from him. The silence around him never broke, but the walls hummed faintly, a slow, rhythmic breath of stone and old magic.

Now and again, his head dipped forward, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. His eyes closed for brief moments, then blinked open again. Stillness stretched long. Too long. He adjusted his posture, but the haze of quiet pressed in, pulling at the edges of his focus.

Eventually, he dozed—shoulders relaxing, chin resting near his chest, the soft rise and fall of breath breaking the silence for no one but the walls.

---

The door opened with a hiss.

Mordecai jolted upright, a sharp breath catching in his throat. His glasses shifted askew across his face as he sat straighter, coat tugging against his shoulders. His hands moved quickly, adjusting the frames with a slight scrape, pulling his posture into something composed.

His voice was low and raspy, still touched by sleep. “Morning,” he said.

His gaze flicked to the hook by the hearth, then to her. He cleared his throat. “Your Highness—there’s something by the fire… I meant to ask. A hook. In the wall. It shifted last night.” His hand motioned subtly toward the hearth, but he kept his eyes on her. “Didn’t touch it. Thought you should know.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s brow lifted slightly, her steps carrying her into the hall with quiet care. The sound of her boots against stone was soft, but deliberate—like each movement was measured against the quiet stillness the room still held.

She followed his gesture with her eyes, gaze settling on the wall near the hearth. Her pace didn’t quicken, but she angled her body toward it, observing the space without approaching just yet.

“A hook,” she echoed. “In the wall?”

Her attention lingered on the faint marks along the floor, the disrupted dust—subtle, but present.

“I don’t recall anything like that being part of this post’s design.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood, coat settling around him as he stepped toward the hearth at a slight angle—close enough to indicate the spot, but without crowding it. His hand lifted, gesturing to the base of the wall where the hook still sat. “There. Near the floor,” he said, voice low, the rasp more pronounced from sleep. “It shifted last night—click, then movement. Scent of cedar. The dust was marked.”

He paused, eyes scanning the smoothed patch of stone. “Didn’t engage it. No further sound after. Room stayed quiet.” His hand lowered to his side. “I thought it best to report before anything else.”

He glanced around the hall then, head turning slightly as his gaze passed over the sigil-lit walls, the curved ceiling beams, the faded scroll racks and empty benches. Each detail was absorbed in silence. Nothing stirred. Everything here—every line, every glyph—felt distant, unknown. His posture stiffened slightly as his eyes returned to Ephraim.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim stepped closer, eyes narrowing as she traced the edge of the wall with her gaze. She didn’t speak right away. Her fingers found the smooth patch of stone he’d mentioned, trailing lightly across the worn surface.

Then, without ceremony, she crouched.

The fabric of her robe gathered at the back of her knees, folding into itself. The hem lifted just slightly—creased and rumpled from sleep, no longer shaped by formality. In the quiet bend of movement, a glimpse of soft fabric beneath was exposed. Pale. Light. Ordinary. The kind of thing never meant to be seen in public.

She didn’t adjust it. Didn’t seem to notice. Her attention was fixed wholly on the stone.

“You weren’t wrong,” she said, brushing away a thin veil of dust. “There’s a groove here. The kind that gets made from repeated pressure, not weather.”

Her voice was even, but quieter now.

“The scent you mentioned… it’s still here. Cedar. Something else, too.”

She pressed a hand to the wall, testing the stone around the hook—but didn’t pull it.

“Whoever used this before us knew it was here,” she murmured. “And didn’t want it found easily.”

She straightened slowly, smoothing the folds of her robe without haste, without fluster. Just enough to return to shape.

Her eyes lifted to meet his, steady.

“Do you want to open it?” she asked.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s gaze drifted to the hook again, still jutting quietly from the wall—unassuming, but waiting. The faint groove around it seemed deeper now under the morning light, more deliberate. His fingers tensed slightly at his side, slipping to the edge of his coat where the hidden thread rested, untouched.

He didn’t step forward.

Instead, his eyes flicked to Ephraim—then paused. The fold of her robe had shifted again, the fabric beneath pale, light, exposed just enough in the quiet bend of movement to reveal what wasn’t meant for public view. Nothing improper—just real, unguarded.

His jaw shifted. He turned his head away slightly, eyes focusing on the hearthstone.

His voice came low, rough at the edges. “I don’t… know what this place is. Not really. None of this is what I’m used to.”

He shifted, adjusting his stance. One hand rose to his glasses, pushing them up with a small motion that lingered longer than needed. Around them, the post remained silent—watching, waiting.

“I wasn’t meant for places like this.” The words were quieter, spoken more to the stone than to her.

He glanced back at the hook, then down at his hand. The thread tucked between his fingers felt like a weight—familiar, grounding. He tightened his grip.

“If it’s a danger, I’ll handle it,” he added, steadier now, meeting her eyes. “But if it’s more than that… I might need some help.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s gaze didn’t waver.

She stood with her hands folded lightly in front of her, the morning light catching the edges of her hair and robe, softening the sharp lines of her presence. When he spoke, when his words faltered at the edge of certainty, she didn’t interrupt. She listened.

Then, after a long moment, she stepped closer—not all the way to the wall, but close enough to be beside him.

“You don’t have to be ‘meant’ for a place to belong in it,” she said. Her voice was even, but gentler than before. “And you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

She looked past him, to the hook waiting in the stone.

“If this is danger, we face it together,” she continued. “If it’s something more… we learn it together.”

Her eyes returned to his, steady and quiet.

“I trust you,” she said.

Then she nodded, once.

“It’s okay.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai blinked once, as if the words hadn’t quite landed the way he expected. His posture shifted—barely—but his shoulders eased slightly, the tension at the nape of his neck loosening under the weight of her voice.

His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, watching the way the light caught in her hair, the calm in her gaze. “Still not sure why you chose me,” he murmured, voice low and rasped. “I’d have thought you had your pick of better-suited company.”

His lips tugged into a faint, unsure smirk—there and gone, tempered by a slow exhale.

He reached forward, hand hovering above the hook—then stopped. His fingers twitched once before drawing back. Too exposed. Too uncertain.

From beneath his coat, his hand moved deliberately. The golden thread slid free—thin, shining softly in the light, its surface weighted by small, dull-metal spheres woven through the length. It shimmered faintly as he looped it forward, guiding it with practiced ease around the hook. The thread coiled tight, snug against the metal.

With a controlled flick of his wrist, Mordecai pulled.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The golden thread snapped taut with a soft whip of motion—quiet, clean.

The hook gave instantly. Not with a clank or grind, but a smooth mechanical click, like a lock that had waited a very long time for the right signal. It twisted once, then sank back into the stone with no resistance.

A faint tremor followed—not beneath the floor, but in the air. Like pressure changing in a sealed room. Dust stirred from the corners, curling into the light.

The glyph above the hearth lit—no flash, no pulse. Just a quiet glow, steady and clear, as a section of the wall to its left began to move.

Stone slid inward, not crumbling or breaking, but folding along near-invisible seams that hadn’t been there moments ago. What emerged was a narrow passage, barely wide enough for one person at a time. The air that came from within was cool and dry, touched with the scent of old cloth and something deeper—not decay, not rot, but age itself. Like a forgotten room finally exhaling.

Ephraim stepped closer, one hand brushing gently across Mordecai’s sleeve—not pulling, just contact. A quiet affirmation. Her gaze moved to the opening, brow furrowed in thought. No fear. No alarm. Just focused calm.

A low wind moved through the passage. Not from the mountain air, but from inside—from somewhere far beyond the walls.

No magic flared. No traps sprang. Just silence, waiting to be stepped into.

The post remained still behind them. The path ahead did not.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai flicked his wrist once, clean and practiced. The golden thread recoiled with a soft, metallic whisper, the weighted spools sliding fluidly back into his sleeve. His fingers closed over them, the shimmer disappearing into his palm, gone without trace.

He stared at the opening for a long moment, his frame stiffened by the quiet breath of cold air spilling out. The scent of old cloth, of time long-settled, curled faintly around him. His jaw shifted, barely a motion—then her hand brushed lightly against his sleeve.

Not pulling. Just there.

His shoulders eased, a fraction. Enough to feel.

He glanced at her, then back to the narrow passageway. One hand rose to adjust his glasses at the bridge, slow and precise, before he stepped forward—measured, deliberate. He stopped just at the threshold, framed by the fading glyph-light, the air from within brushing against his coat.

He turned to her, extending a hand—not commanding, not formal, but steady, open.

“Together?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t speak right away.

The cold air stirred the hem of her robe as she stepped forward, joining him at the edge of the threshold. The glow from the glyph above painted her fur in pale light, catching along the edges of her sleeves and the strands of her hair. Her eyes searched his—no hesitation in them, only acknowledgment. Of the unknown. Of the choice.

She looked past him into the passage.

The hallway beyond stretched long and narrow, carved from the same stone as the post, but older in feel—less refined. The walls bore no lanterns, but thin lines of script ran along either side, etched with faint silvery veins that shimmered like thread when the air shifted. The floor sloped downward, just barely, and the further it went, the more the light seemed to fall away. There was no sound. No echo. Just a long silence ahead that felt far too deep for the space it occupied.

Ephraim’s hand found his—not as a princess accepting help, but as someone choosing to move forward with him.

“Together,” she said, and stepped in.

The stone underfoot was cold. The glyph-light faded behind them. The entrance did not close—but it did dim, like the post itself had blinked, turning its attention elsewhere.

And the long hallway waited.

Their footsteps echoed softly, swallowed quickly by the silence of the long corridor.

The silver-veined script along the walls shimmered faintly in their passing, lighting only enough to mark their path before fading again behind them. The deeper they went, the quieter the air became. Still. Close. As if sound was not only dampened here, but discouraged.

Ephraim’s fingers remained lightly curled around his as they walked, her pace matching his without rush.

After some time, she spoke.

“May I ask you something?” Her voice was quiet, the kind meant for places that listened.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s footsteps moved in measured rhythm, each step muffled by the cold stone underfoot. The narrow passage pressed in around them—not tightly, but enough to make every motion feel deliberate. His free hand shifted near his coat, fingers finding the familiar weight beneath the fabric.

A flick of his wrist, quiet and smooth, released a short length of the golden thread. It shimmered faintly, catching the dim glow of the etched script along the walls. As it looped between his fingers, the thread reflected the silver veins nearby, casting a soft, flickering light forward—barely noticeable, but present. The metal spheres woven into it added small glints of warmth, like scattered embers strung along a line.

The thread stayed loose, moving with him, more extension than weapon—for now.

Ephraim’s fingers remained in his grasp, light but constant. Her pace didn’t waver. The silence pressed around them, absorbing their presence without resistance.

Then, her voice broke the stillness.

Mordecai’s ear flicked toward her, a glance sideways. His grip adjusted slightly—his hold on the thread tightening, the metal balls sliding gently across his knuckles.

He wasn’t sure what she meant to ask. His voice came low, rough at the edges.

“…Of course.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim nodded slightly, her eyes still on the corridor ahead as she walked beside him.

“When I was younger,” she said, “I thought everyone lived with carved windows and wind-fed lamps. I thought every hallway had a servant waiting at the end. I thought the court was simply… how the world was.”

The silver etching on the wall beside her flared faintly, a line of script pulsing once before fading. Her voice softened.

“I was fourteen before I realized my mother never sent word because she couldn’t afford to.” She glanced at him. “Not because she didn’t care.”

The passage curved slightly, dipping lower now. The temperature shifted. Cooler. Drier. The air no longer smelled like stone—it smelled like fabric sealed in boxes, like something old trying not to be forgotten.

Ephraim’s fingers stayed lightly in his, but her words slowed.

“When I see how you look at these places—like they’re distant, like they might break under your touch—I wonder if that’s because you were raised far from them, or… kept far.”

Her brows knit, thoughtful. “Is it poverty that makes you look at magic like it belongs to someone else?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai let out a short breath—a sound that hovered somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. It wasn’t sharp, not at her, but turned inward—dry, self-aware. His fingers moved over the golden thread in his hand, looping it once before letting it trail loose again.

“Suppose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured, voice low and rasped. “Tailor’s shop doesn’t exactly prepare you for flying ships and stone-faced servants.”

The thread caught light as it moved, faint glints skipping along the silver-veined walls. His grip on her hand shifted slightly, not tighter, but more certain.

“We didn’t have much—me or my mother. No carved halls. Just her hands, her cloth, and whatever thread we could afford that week.”

His eyes scanned the passage ahead, but his voice stayed steady, measured.

“It’s not the magic that feels far. It’s… the way places like this expect you to keep your head down. Make yourself small. Like you’ll be asked to leave if you look too long.”

His tone thinned. Not bitter. Just worn.

“Most of the court types I’ve seen—they notice when you’re poor. Some just look. Some…” He trailed off, his jaw tensing for a moment. “Others made sure my mother didn’t forget where she stood.”

The thread slowly wound back through his fingers, the shimmer fading as it slipped into his sleeve.

“But you…” He glanced at her, a flicker of something like surprise still behind his eyes. “You don’t carry yourself like the rest of them.”

His voice slowed again, caught between reflection and something quieter.

“I know your mother’s not there—in the palace.” A pause, subtle. “Wasn’t sure why outside of what you told me. Not from the court and all. So she's not leading among your father then?”

Not prying. Just there—an observation laid between them, offered gently in the hush of the passageway.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s steps slowed slightly, her pace still even but quieter now. The corridor ahead remained long and dim, the silver-etched lines in the walls glowing just enough to guide their way.

She didn’t answer right away.

When she finally did, her voice was calm—careful in its shape, as if spoken many times before.

“My father did what was expected of him,” she said.

There was no bitterness in her tone, only the kind of restraint that came from years of practice.

“They were married. Once. Not for alliances. He chose her.”

Her gaze stayed ahead, steady on the path in front of them.

“She never fit the court. Her magic wasn’t ceremonial. Her speech wasn’t trained. She didn’t carry herself like they do.” Her fingers shifted faintly in Mordecai’s grasp, brushing against his hand—not pulling away, just present.

“They separated when I was still small. The court doesn’t speak of it. They prefer to remember how it looked, not how it ended.”

The corridor curved, the air growing cooler again. The soft light of the silver script flickered along her robe.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” she added, quieter now.