Fantasy Clovenhorn

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai didn’t speak right away. Their steps echoed softly in the narrow corridor, silver light pulsing faintly along the walls, trailing behind them like thread. His hand remained in hers—not tense, but steady.

Her words lingered between them, carried in the hush of the stone. Familiar in feeling, if not in detail. His gaze stayed forward, but his voice broke the quiet—low, rasped, careful.

“The court would probably have my head for saying this,” he murmured, dry humor threading beneath the words. “But as far as I can tell… we’re alone. In a skypost no one’s set foot in for years.”

He glanced at her, just briefly, then back to the path ahead. A faint squeeze of her hand—barely there—then his grip relaxed again, more reserved. Still present.

“I do not think the royal court’s ears reach this far,” he added, quieter. “If you wanted to speak… you could. No one to stop you.”

His free hand moved idly, adjusting the edge of his coat, restless. Then, after a beat, he gave a small breath—not quite a laugh.

“When I worked the shop… I used to talk to myself. While sewing, patching, threading. No one around, just the sound of my own voice. Helped me think clearer. Kept the thoughts from tangling.”

His brow shifted slightly, expression unreadable in the dim light.

“Some might call that mad, I suppose.” His tone lightened, just a fraction. “But sometimes, saying things aloud… makes them easier to carry.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The corridor stretched on, but the light ahead had changed—less silver now, more diffuse. The narrow path began to widen slightly, the walls pulling back by slow degrees as if easing them into some larger space.

Ephraim said nothing for several steps.

The soft pulse of the etched script faded behind them. What little light remained came from ahead now, casting their shadows forward across the floor in faint shapes. She looked forward, gaze steady, though her fingers shifted slightly in his. Not withdrawn—just… repositioned. Looser. Thoughtful.

She gave a soft breath. Not quite a sigh. Not quite agreement.

“I don’t talk to myself,” she said finally, voice quiet. “I write.”

Her tone didn’t carry judgment. Just distance. A truth spoken flatly.

“Records. Journals. Letters that won’t be sent.”

Her shoulders shifted with the movement of her robe as she adjusted her grip on the folds of her sleeve.

“I’ve always preferred knowing I can tear something up when it’s finished.”

The air changed as she spoke—cooler, thinner, touched with the dry scent of parchment and dust long undisturbed.

The corridor widened fully now, and the walls gave way to a high, vaulted chamber.

They stepped out into a vast circular room.

Bookshelves rose from floor to ceiling, carved from dark, weatherworn wood. Some leaned ever so slightly, heavy with scrolls, tomes, and volumes bound in strange leathers and cloth. Others stood completely empty, as if once full, now forgotten. The walls were ringed with metal ladders that arched with the curve of the room, suspended by thin chains that creaked softly in the still air.

Above them, the ceiling vanished into shadow—no visible end. Thin strands of light drifted down from above like mist, catching faintly on specks in the air. They illuminated the room unevenly, spotlighting fragments—an open scroll laid across a cracked table, a crystal lens left beside a half-melted candle, a chair that hadn’t been touched in decades.

At the center of the chamber stood a tall plinth, its surface flat and empty, ringed with a circle of faintly glowing script carved into the stone floor around it.

The air held its breath.

Ephraim stepped forward, her pace slow, eyes scanning the shelves, the sigils, the strange geometry of the space.

“…This is not a court archive,” she said quietly. “This is older.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s hand slipped from hers with a quiet, deliberate motion. Not hurried—just a soft release as he stepped forward, his gaze rising to take in the vaulted chamber around them. The dim strands of light played along the angles of his face, catching faintly on his glasses, the hollow lines of his jaw shadowed beneath the glow.

He moved slowly, careful not to let the sound of his hooves disturb the stillness. The place felt untouched—not lifeless, but resting.

His eyes swept the room, then returned briefly to Ephraim as he gave a small nod.

“You’re right,” he murmured, voice low and rasped. “This… this is older.”

His steps carried him toward the nearest shelf, fingers brushing along the edge of a spine—rough leather, timeworn, the title long since faded. His touch remained light, respectful, more observation than possession.

“If you like to write,” he added, tone quieter, touched with dry warmth, “this room might suit you better than the court’s archives. Less eyes. More space.”

He paused beside the central plinth, his gaze dropping to the ring of glowing script at its base. His brows furrowed slightly.

“If this isn’t part of the Anima Archives or courts…” His hand lifted again, fingers tracing just above the surface of the carved sigils. “What did we find?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim circled slowly around the outer edge of the chamber, her gaze scanning the worn spines and faded bindings with quiet focus. The weight of the room pressed gently on her shoulders—not heavy, but present, like the past itself was listening.

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers paused over a shelf near eye level, trailing lightly across a row of cracked volumes. Some were wrapped in protective cloth, others bare to the air, their covers etched with unfamiliar symbols or no marks at all.

Then her hand stopped.

A book rested slightly out of place, wedged between two slimmer volumes. Its spine was thick, dark gray, wrapped in layered parchment that had weathered to near-black at the corners. A single word was pressed into the cover in faded gold lettering:

Anthroterra.
She turned the book over.

The back was scuffed and worn, edges curled with time, but the text remained. She tilted the book toward the nearest shaft of silver light and began to read aloud, her voice hushed but steady.

The world is broken, but it pretends not to be. Cities like Unity dress their wounds in banners and council seats, hoping diplomacy will silence the ghosts. Scalespire hides behind black glass and colder bloodlines, and Beakburg keeps its arrows sharp and its secrets sharper. Each region is ruled not by leaders, but by the stories they’ve survived. And in the shadow of these stories walk two souls too stubborn to stay buried.

Silvano is a hybrid—half prey, half ass, wholly unwanted by both. He slips through the gutters of Unity, a ghost of lost revolutions, carrying daggers in his sleeves and bitterness in his bones. Leviathian is a Wolfkin, stoic and scarred, born to battle and bound by honor to no one. They collide not in friendship, but in necessity. Enemies by nature, allies by choice, they move through smoke-choked cities and crumbling sanctuaries, unraveling a world that never made room for men like them.

But they are not alone. Avarice, the blind foxkin politician who sees everything. Mordecai, the soft-spoken scholar who becomes the vessel for something ancient and furious. Wrath, the entity living inside him—no longer content to whisper. Together, they stand at the edge of war, revolution, and something deeper. The black jackals of the sanctuary vanish into ash. The sky breaks open with light that isn't light. The Augur falls without a scream, and in the silence, something colder rises.

This is not a tale of good men. It is a story of cracked loyalties, of found families stitched together by desperation, and of rage given form. A crater marks where Unity once stood, too clean, too precise—like the land itself was cut from memory. And as Wrath watches from behind Mordecai’s eyes, as Silvano sharpens his words like blades, as Leviathian reaches out a hand he swore he’d never offer, the world tilts. Not toward peace. But toward change.

For the girl in the castle reading this beneath silks and sighs, know this: fairy tales lie. This story doesn’t end with a kiss. It begins with a scream—and a shadow that never left.

Ephraim lowered the book slowly, her thumb pressed lightly against the edge of the page.

Her eyes flicked to Mordecai—not startled, but assessing.

“…You’re in it.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stilled as her voice trailed off, the words hanging too heavy in the air to ignore. His brow furrowed, shoulders squaring slightly beneath his coat as he took a single step toward her, his hand tightening faintly at his side.

“I’m in it?” His voice was low—still rasped, but firmer than before, edged with disbelief.

He let out a short scoff, not sharp, but tight in his throat. “What do you mean I’m in it?”

Another step forward, eyes fixed on the book in her hands.

“That’s... not possible.” His tone flattened, quieter now, but no less pointed. “You just said that was old.”

His fingers twitched faintly, the faintest motion of unease, though he didn’t look away from her or the faded gold lettering on the cover. The word Anthroterra glinted dully in the light, unmoved by protest.