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The sky was a pale, brittle blue when Temdras slipped from the creaking flat—hitting his head, again, on the doorframe carved for shorter folk with warm skin and louder lives. The morning light scraped sharp against the white stone walls, too clean, too cold, catching in his eyes as they adjusted to another day far from home.

The city unfurled before them in white stone and silence. All bright terraces and bone-colored arches, carved from the same rock as the clifface they were sat upon, their edges shaped by generations of wind and weather.The buildings were all the same: pale, chalky, unyielding facades, rising in neat rows toward towers that caught the dawn. It was a beautiful city—sharp-edged, orderly, distant.

And yet no roots, no grain, no shadowed bark or deep groves. Just white towers that hurt to look at too long in full sun, streets paved with square-cut flagstones that clicked under his boots like teeth.

Everything here gleamed too clean. Too careful. Like a place newly dusted after something terrible had passed through. Restless hands deprived of something too great to name, shifting about for a routine, to feel as though life went on without them.

A’nari clung to his hand like a ghost might cling to something once warm. Silent, watchful, rigid. Her eyes were too large for her face, older than they should have ever become.She hadn’t smiled in over a year. And slowly, he had started to wonder if she even remembered how.

Sleek, ever-curious, poked a narrow snout from the pack slung over the taller elf’s back. The ferret sniffed the foreign air with suspicion, whiskers twitching in the cool breeze, mouthing a dramatic sneeze. Temdras pulled a dried fig from his pocket and offered it, an old ritual. Sleek sniffed, nibbled, and let it fall to the pale stone below, unimpressed.

"Charming," Temdras muttered, holding the fig like a lover rejected.

A’nari didn’t laugh.

Still, he tilted his head down at her and smiled with a stubborn gentleness, as though he could draw joy back into her by sheer force of will. As though her laughter was coming just around the bend.

His voice dropped to a hush, theatrical and bright beneath the hush of a mourning city.

“Operation Great Escape is underway, Commander A’nari,” he said, mock-serious. “Brother Finch has taken wing, Sergeant Myrie’s asleep at her post, and the fairgrounds are unguarded.”

A’nari looked up at him with those ancient, hollowed eyes and blinked. “She’s not sleeping.”

“No,” he resigned, “I suppose not.”

The walk was long.The streets, though broad and sweeping, felt too quiet. It loomed like a nest of pale spires and narrow bridges, the white stone underfoot clicking with hollow rhythm. Windows lined the walls—dozens, hundreds—but none open. No music. No laughter.The city bore its scars in silence. No rubble, no ruin—but faint cracks ran through the stone steps, just beneath the careful whitewash. Statues stood on every corner, faces serene, hands raised in benediction or warning. Too many of them were blindfolded, silent watchers who’s unseeing eyes felt like needles to the back of his head.

Wreaths of Riverwood and silverleaf hung all along the roads, over windows, gates—doorways. Warding charms, wilted and browning, barely holding to their strings, holding the line. It has been a year now, since the war drew to a close—since nightmares clawed from the shadows and burrowed deep into Fahlorne. He had seen it all. Fought more monsters than he could count, lost more comrades than he could fully remember.Undead, Werekin, Vampyr, Scorn, Demons and the nameless.But Wraiths—ghastly things, screams like shattered glass and faces made of a raging fire. They haunt battlefields and graveyards, lured by blood like all monsters were. They were such a cold blue, but the blaze they left behind burned red and hot, all consuming.

They called it Ashfall, back home in the Shadowveil. What remained of home—broken frontlines and graveyards made of pale embers. Though the humans of the city had taken to calling it "Day of Hollow".

Temdras did not look at the wreaths, nor altars covered in black flowers, where bowls of oil burned with still, blue flames. He did not read the names chalked on the walls—names already smudged by saltwind and dew. The air itself felt like it was holding its breath.

Ahead, beyond the fourth wall, color began to bleed through the fog, dancing in the descending sun on the hills beyond.

They reached the fairegrounds as the sun broke low through the red canopies—soft evening light scattering through the curling trees above. And just like that, a breath moved in A’nari’s chest.

He hadn’t told her. Couldn’t. To hope was a risk, and the silence of their mornings had grown so thick that anything spoken felt fragile. The walk had been a quiet ache—she hadn’t looked at him once. The pale glow of her eyes weak, dim, distant. Missing someone he could not return to her, or himself. Had he the power, could he exchange places, it would be her mother standing at her side. Not he.

Her eyes fell upon the familiar banners of purples and reds and dark greens—and she stirred.

Sunlight slipped over the cliff’s edge and scattered across red awnings and curling pennants. Trees lined the edge of the grounds like guardians, their early leaves catching gold and orange. The smell of sugar, smoke, and fresh bread curled through the air. Music drifted—steady, carried on strings and breeze, with a rhythm much older than either of them.

It had always been the same: colors so loud they sang, barkers calling from paint-chipped stalls, spinners and singers, dancers and gamemasters and illusionists. There were whistles and lutes, laughter and the call of barkers pitching coin tricks and charm-games. Temdras felt her fingers shift.

She bolted.

He watched her run—white hair streaming behind her like starlight, bare feet darting over shadowed grass and uneven stone. The faire was darker here, the colors deeper, richer. The setting sun gentled the light, easing the strain on his eyes as multicolored torches flickered to life all around. Bursts of magic flared from performers like prismatic stars caught mid-fall.

Sleek curled tighter against his neck, but Temdras made no move to stop her. He only smiled, staying close as she flitted from person to person—each new face chipping more and more at her reluctance. It ached in a way he couldn’t describe. But still, he smiled.

They wandered past stalls of painted glass and charm-makers with sun-warmed hands, past fortune-tellers beneath faded canopy tents who blinked twice at the flash of golden elf-eyes. Past puzzle-carvers with splintered fingers and shelves of delicate wooden dreams. A’nari wanted twelve of everything—her fingers twitching with the urge to gather and stitch and make something new from pieces.

Then she stopped—of course she did—before the fire dancers.Temdras knew before he looked. He could feel the heat ahead of them, pulsing in waves even from across the road.

Red and gold flickered in her eyes, wild and rising, catching in the pale of them like a second sun. The flames spun taller with every breath, coiling and blue-tipped as they threaded through bare fingers and along painted skin. Heat rippled the air, bodies turning to silhouettes—melting faces into distorted, torn shapes.

Temdras tensed. His skin prickled as the memory surfaced: another fire, always her face. The one who still looked at him in every reflection of heat, in every curl of smoke. For a split moment, he swore he saw Myrie in the light—jaw set, arms crossed like always, not blinking, not breathing. Just watching.

Sleek yawned from his belt, his back curling with indifference. The smallest defiance in the face of something, someone, teetering. As though nothing had changed.

A’nari stopped, a few paces away, still as a doll carved from wood. Her face was turned toward the fire-dancers, white hair haloed by firelight, eyes wide but unreadable. They hadn’t stepped closer than the edge of the crowd, but the heat pressed against Temdras like a warning.

“They’re not afraid,” she said at last, her voice a whisper almost lost in the noise. It wasn’t awe.

“No,” Temdras returned, voice barely noticeable above the roaring of flame that resounded around them. “Not today.”

Down cobbled paths and candy-slicked lanes, weaving through barkers and booths lit with strange magic and carnival fire. A’nari devoured candied roots and honey crisps and some deep-fried monstrosity that made his stomach turn. But he let her pick, let her drag him toward every new wonder by the wrist—her willing audience.

They paused before a puppet show of the First Thorn’s founding—mocked in string and cloth, the regal dignity replaced by squeaks and fart jokes.A’nari laughed.

By the stars, she laughed.

For a long moment he dared not breathe.

His hand rose to the charm braided into his hair—a moon and a feather, fragile and worn. She’d made it when her fingers were smaller, unfathomably smaller. And for a heartbeat, he thought the laughter he heard belonged to a ghost.

But no—A’nari was there beside him on that splintered bench, snorting at some overacted punchline. He didn’t know why.He smiled, quiet and full.

Later, when the shadows stretched long across the fairgrounds and the air cooled into something gentler, they climbed the hill to a ruined stage—leftovers long abandoned.

It was old, half its boards warped or cracked to rot. Still, it stood.

Temdras stepped up without thinking, the rhythm of it sunk into his bones. He turned to face her with a sweeping bow, just like he used to when she was a bit younger.

“Ladies, lords, and moon-drunk mortals!” he bellowed, arms flung wide. “House Thistleblood proudly presents—"

A’nari giggled.

“—the Night of Nights. A night to remember! And in our noble company, none other than the First Seed herself, Star Augur Supreme, and Craftsmistress of Trinkets and Charms! A’nari Thistleblood.”

He spun, he sang, pulled Sleek from his belt and wielded him like a sword, a villain, a knight, a king. He played every part. And not for a moment did he tire—not while she laughed like the sound might carry them both home.

He was breathless by the end. His chest ached with it. Laughter clawed its way out of him—real, sudden, and unfamiliar. A sensation so alien it felt like shedding armor.

They stayed until the sun was only a smear along the cliffs, until the sounds of the fair began to soften into the hush that always came before spectacle. A slow quiet gathered over the hilltop—families, loners, lovers, all drawn upward toward the stage.

The broken old platform groaned beneath them as they sat, but held.

Temdras leaned back on his elbows beside A’nari, looking up at the bruised sky. Stars blinked awake, one by one, hesitantly peaking through the dark purples and blues of clouds. The sea wind carried faint music and the scent of woodsmoke, and somewhere below, someone lit incense in a cracked clay bowl.

“Think they’ll be loud?” A’nari asked, not looking at him. Her voice had a hush to it, like she was trying not to startle the moment.

Temdras considered. “Maybe. The good ones usually are.”

She tilted her head against his arm, just slightly. “I don’t mind.”

Neither did he. Not anymore.

And then the first flare shot skyward—silver and green, streaking high above the cliffs before bursting into silence. It bloomed like a strange flower, raining glittering leaves down into the dark as it twisted, shifted, transformed. Moving images, preformers below bending the embers into animals and spinning mirages.

The crowd gasped below. A’nari didn’t.

More followed—blossoms of flame and color, one after the next, rising in rhythm. Some spun like wheels, others cracked like thunder. Each one tore the sky a little wider.

Temdras couldn’t stop watching her.

Her face, upturned and lit with gold and violet. Her mouth slightly open, the way it used to be when she’d sneak into his room just to listen to him play the piano. When the world had still been small and safe and whole.

Light bloomed in her eyes now—real light, not just firelight reflected, but something behind it. A spark that had been guttering for so long he’d almost forgotten what it looked like. Her entire face shifted values as A’nari turned into her own beacon.

She turned to him. “Did you know it’d be like this?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I hoped.”

A pause. Then—"It’s good,” she said, as another firework streaked overhead, blooming in the shape of a willow tree. "It’s… loud. But good."

He smiled. “That’s life, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer, but she leaned in, nestled into the crook of his arm. He curled his arm around her narrow shoulders as the sky continued to crack open above them.

The colors bled together, reds into silvers into ghostly whites that hung for a moment longer than they should have, as though the heavens didn’t want to let go.

And Temdras, for the first time in too long, let himself believe in tomorrow.

Even if the world still bore teeth. Monsters, most of them people.

There was still color. Still warmth. Still laughter.

Still A’nari.

And tonight, that was enough.

They returned home after dark—sticky with sugar and dust, the scent of spice and fried sweetness still clinging to their clothes. The walk back had been slower. The fair had left the streets hollowed out and still in comparison, as though joy had remained behind with it. But the man simply hummed a low, quiet tune.

A’nari dozed in his arms, her cheek resting just below his collarbone, breath warm and even. Sleek was curled like a ribbon of shadow across her lap, a faint twitch in his paws the only sign of dreaming.

Temdras carried them both like something sacred, steps smooth and rhythmic

But the moment they turned onto their street, he saw

A light was on in the window.

No candle. No lantern. That was Myrie’s kind of light—sharp and electric and unflinching, eyes like 2 embers. Her presence spilled across the threshold like a challenge. A blade between his ribs.

A’nari stirred as he paused. Sleek chittered once and burrowed deeper. Temdras shifted his grip and reached for the door.

It wasn’t locked.

The hinges creaked like they were warning him.

Inside, Myrie stood in the center of the living room, turned towards the door, backlit by the bare white light of the moon. One arm crossed hard against her ribs, the other hanging loose and wrong—her shoulder still not healing the way it should’ve. Burn scars climbed her throat like vines, tight and pink with memory.

She said nothing.

Neither did he. 

For a moment, nothing moved. Nothing breathed. They stood as they were—worn down, burned out, still somehow standing. Two people with too many things left unsaid and no room left to say them.

When Temdras spoke, it was quiet and thin. “Upstairs, little ghost.”

A’nari slowly blinked awake. Her arms unwrapped from around his neck as he crouched, setting her down gently. Sleek slipped from her lap and vanished like smoke behind her feet.

She didn’t run. Just turned, slow and obedient, and made her way to the stairs. Each groan of the old wood beneath her feet sounded louder than it should have. Her door shut with a soft click, and silence returned.

Then—like a blade pulled clean and brandished—Myrie spoke.

“You took her.”

He didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“No.”

“You know I’d have refused.”

“I do.”

Her jaw clenched. The dark, damaged skin at her throat twisted with the motion. Words swelled behind her tongue like steam building in a cracked pipe.

“You are reckless—”

“And you’re cruel—”

The air snapped like frost between them.

“Coward,” she hissed.

“Like you care!” he shouted.

She bristled, dry timber catching fire.

“You think this is easy for me? I’m the one keeping it all together, looking after A’nari, trying to keep us afloat while you vanish on a whim!” She rasps, finger stabbing into his ribs. “Every time I’m the one that has to pick up your pieces.”

Something hiccupped in his chest, up his throat and out like a laugh, or sigh. Cruel and twisted.

“You won’t let me take a single breath without being there, what am I supposed to do!?”

Her eyes flashed. “Then leave ! If you’re going to keep running, leave for good—”

“I won’t!” His voice boomed like thunder, cracked sharp as frost. She didn’t step back. But she wavered, minimally.

“You never wanted me here,” he said, voice low, ragged. “Not really. I’ve known that since I was a boy.”

“That’s not—”

“I was a mistake everyone had too much pity to correct-“ he struggled past barbs and thorns thick in his throat. “But she isn’t!” he bellowed, hand snapping upwards to A’nari’s room, shaking.

That broke the room.

“She’s mine,” his sister snapped, and it was all ugly, raw desperation.

“She needs to smile,” he interjected instead, his breathing ragged now. “She has to smile. Gods—if she stops, we’ll loose her too, just like we did Mother-”

“Do not dare-!” Myrie teetered, stepping into his space like a threat, not an inch of respite between them. Everything tilted at the name. Angles of the house sharp and uncomfortable, like the rough wood and its splinters managed to sting in his eyes. Myrie wanted to form words, it was clear on her face, the way her rage ground the words between her teeth, choking on their history.

They stood, two storms circling the same ruin.

“She’ll disappear,” Temdras resumes, low, tentative. His fire had met hers, two sides of the same coin, yet his fever died faster than hers. “She’ll disappear, one day.”

His chest heaved, once. Twice. “I’ll die before I let that happen.”

Something in Myrie shifted—like a brittle door unhinged, she exhaled in a groan. Haunting. Her mouth opened, then closed, single hand trembling.

And then—she just stopped.

Nothing like a soldier. Nothing like the oldest daughter. Not like his sister.

She made a sound so feral, so frightened, Temdras stepped back without meaning to. A strangled, breathless wail. Something old and awfully young that had been buried beneath armor and bone and bruised silence.

“I thought she was gone,” she forced, whisper so thin it was barely voiced. “I thought you were gone. Again.”

Gone like he always did. When things got hard. When this house felt too small for all the ghosts in it and he couldn’t breathe anymore.

Temdras stared. He had no defense for this battle. There wasn't a blade in existence he knew how to wield to make this go away.

“I never wanted to leave,” he said, soft. “I just didn’t know how to-…stay.”

They were as statues. Unmoving for the longest time. Something aged and bitter curled up on the rug between them both and breathed its last. A type of shame neither of them would name, some guilt they’d passed back and forth so long it had worn smooth and lost any meaning.

Myrie sank onto the couch, as though her bones had given out. She didn’t look at him after that. Didn’t utter a word. Just… deflated. She might be dismissing him, he thought. A quiet sanction to walk out that door, unhindered. To be free.

But she didn’t tell him to go.

So he didn’t.

Temdras climbed the stairs like they might buckle beneath him, each step slow and hesitant with sickness. His knuckles wrapped against the wood of the door ahead. A gentle sound: the first beat measured, then three in quick succession.

He paused. Silence. A silence so long it felt deliberate. Hesitant.

Then—two small knocks in reply.

He opened the door.

A’nari sat back down on her bed as his eyes found her, cross-legged, body small and monochrome in the wash of moonlight. She did not meet his eyes. Just stared past the window, staring into the distance, the weight of her silence pressing on the room as her fingers fumbled in her lap restlessly.

Sleek poked his nose out from under the blanket by her leg, nudged her hand, a high-pitched eep of concern.

Temdras knelt beside her. Slowly, he reached to his belt, unclipped a small piece of metal from a worn loop.

A medallion—aged, dark, cool against his palm. He gently took one of her hands and placed it in her palm.

Her fingers closed around it instinctively, looking at it belatedly.

“The-...Thistleblood crest,” she said, breathy, unsure of herself. Like she knew the shape of the words but not their meaning.

“My tag,” he said finally. “From before the war. Before I knew how to hold a sword properly. Before-... a lot of things.”

She traced the marks—the bear’s paw, the thorned ring, the crescent moon.

He waited for a bit. Then: “It’s yours now.”

Her mouth opened slightly. No words came, just a sound—barely a breath. Not quite a sob. Not quite a sigh.

“Promise me something?”, he echoed.

She looked up at him, blinking.

“When you feel lost… hold onto it." His voice cracked around the words, tiny, hairline fractures. “And I’ll find you. No matter where you are.”

Her hand closed tighter around the medal.

The moonlight painted her face in silver. The crest shimmering in her palm like starlight caught in metal.

“Alright,” she said.

He smiled. Small. Fragile. Generously, she returned it. His chest resumed moved.

She laid down with the medallion firmly in her small hands. Sleek climbed onto her stomach and curled up there like the guardian from one of her storybooks, and for a moment, Temdras' movements stutter as he contemplates if he should read to her. That's probably something older brother's should do. More than cryptic gifts and secret getaways.

He smoothes her blanket instead, using the action to smooth his own thoughts. Kind fingers brush a lock of stray starlight her cheek. A gentle kiss on her closed eye. A muttered wish for sweet dreams.

 He paused as he stood by the door for the last time. Walked out the door, closed it behind him with a gentle click.

But he did not leave.